Gregg Allman

An elderly man exuding the unmistakable vibe of homelessness sat on a rock facing Coos Bay. Fifty feet away, wind whipped up whitecaps on the water.

Elmer and I walked toward his direction on a weekday afternoon.

We passed ten feet away from him. He was the spitting image of late stage Greg Allman. He wore cowboy boots, cowboy hat, and a black and red motorcycle jacket. Greg took no notice of me.

Music blasted from Greg’s phone. It sounded like a heartbreak country song. I didn’t recognize it. Greg accompanied the tune on a harmonica, but his harmonica was the wrong key and dissonance resulted. That hardly mattered. Greg was blowing the hell out of the harmonica. That’s what mattered.

Elmer was baffled by the sound of the harmonica and reared up and down. I felt tempted to stop and ask Greg the name of the song, but refrained. You don’t interrupt a homeless man blowing the hell out of a harmonica while he’s playing along to a heartbreak country song on the edge of Coos Bay and relishing the moment of heartbreak the song obviously represented for him.

The husky and I performed our beach shtick. On the return leg, the song was still blasting and Greg still playing along.

Greg nodded to me and stopped playing.

“What song is that?” I said.

He told me and the name no longer sticks. It was a track I’d never heard.

We struck up a conversation about harmonicas and I shared my eccentric history with the instrument. He dug the story.

“Hey, I love your dog!” Greg said.

“He’s a good dude,” I said.

“Thanks for talking to me brother.”

I love when homeless people call me brother. Housed people never do.

“You keep on with your dream brother,” said Greg. “Whatever it was at 15. (My only one was to become a writer.) You start living it today!”

“I will brother!” I said.

Elmer and I went on our way. Behind us, I heard the sound of a harmonica drifting this way and that on the shifting winds of Coos Bay. What music!