Hey Mister...

Driving through driving rain, Christopher Ryan has no idea where he’s going. He had only the vaguest idea about where he’s been…he’s sober despite half-hearted attempts to be otherwise…not at all able to pretend that he was feeling no pain. He’s driving…running…from no place in an unfocused hurry to get someplace else. Christopher likes to run.

I won’t be here forever, someone gentle had told him, but you know where to find me when you’re ready…

Ready? Ready for what? Christopher also likes to pretend that he didn’t understand when the questions demanded more than he wanted to give and the answers made him too uncomfortable. A plaintive song comes on the radio and Christopher resists the urge to change the station…

…hey mister, that’s me up on the jukebox,
I’m the one singing the sad song,
and I cry every time you slip in one more dime
and play me singing that sad one one more time…

Christopher allows himself a rueful smile as turns the car off the highway. He parks close by a gnarled old tree but he leaves the engine running and the radio going. He sits back and stares into the cold liquid darkness.

Beth…Elizabeth…her love is so bright and welcoming that it’s terrifying. Christopher shudders, knowing himself to be a fool and a coward, and wonders how the rain got through the roof and onto his cheeks.

…southern California, that’s as blue as boy can be,
blue as the deep blue sea,
won’t you listen to me know?
I need your golden gated cities like a hole in my head,
just like a hole in my head, I’m free…

Christopher looks back at the rain-swept highway…love will let you down, he thinks…the road never will…love is too fickle…it hurts too much…better to be a coward than a victim. Christopher takes a deep breath and nods. Not again. He looks at the highway again and steals himself to disappear into the dark night, safe from heartache…safe from love. Running away was something Christopher knew how to do all too well.

…I do believe I’m headed home,
hey mister, can’t you see that I’m dry as a bone?
I think I’ll spend some time alone,
unless you’ve found a way of squeezing
water from a stone…

“Not again,” Christopher mutters aloud. He puts the car in gear and pulls back onto the liquid highway.

…let the doctor and the lawyer
do as much as they can,
let the springtime begins,
let the boy become a man…

Christopher drives hard straight and true to what he knows, his fear notwithstanding, is the safest haven he could possibly find. The porch light is on. The rain gives way to a gentle drizzle. Christopher gets out of the car and trudges up to the door. Standing in the creamy golden glow of the porch light, he knocks three times and waits.

…I have wasted too much time
just to sing you this sad song,
I have been this lonesome picker
just a little too long…

After a seeming eternity, a light goes on inside and the door opens warily. Beth, stifling a yawn and ensconced in the warmth of her favorite terrycloth robe, stands there, a wary but unsurprised at once. Then a smile softens her face. “Hey mister,” she says with a wink, “it took you long enough…” She holds her arms open.

Christopher surges into her embrace and snuggles in tightly. “I do love you,” he sighs nuzzling his damp head against her shoulder.

Beth strokes his head and smiles patiently. “Silly man,” she coos soothingly, “I always knew that. You were the one who needed convincing.” She leads him into the house and closes the door behind them.

“Hey Mister, That’s Me Up on the Jukebox”
words and music by James Taylor
©1972 Blackwood Music (BMI)