As dusk ends and night settles in, the Troubadour begins to pace. Show time is at 10, and he feels sick for he is certain that he is a fraud, and that tonite, his Grand Facade will crack & crumble & bury him right on stage. Such an elaborate and ornamental design only multiplies the degree of catastrophe when it suddenly topples over, and as such, he curses himself for his vain architectural ambitions. Eight o'clock, and the Troubadour silently sips beer, with the dazed non-awareness of the condemned, unable to converse except for disjointed & directionless fragments of speech. He so wants to escape, but there is one thing that keeps the Troubadour from fleeing the scene and hailing a taxi out of there: the Rewards of Maintaining his Artifice - Where people will treat him like he is superior - Where they laugh at his jokes even when they contain no humor - Where Women find him irresistable and Men are riddled with envy - Where his opinions influence and motivate - Where he puts his pants on, both legs at once - and, most important, during that short time while he is performing & entertaining, he will believe in his heart that he is true and real. But this Shangri-la seems so distant from him in his present state of catatonic fright; deep down, he is sure of his fraudulence.

Drunk, the Troubadour takes to the bandstand with sweaty palms. His gaze is outward but he doesn't see his audience. He can barely even see his own guitar, tracing the rubbery neck down to a mishapen and unresponsive hand - cold and clammy. The first tune he plays is the easiest, and five beats in, there is music and he manages to lose himself, along with his dread, and strum smoothly with eyes shut, and a-n-n-u-n-c-i-a-t-e. By the end of the song, he may well have been in his own bedroom for all he knew, as he has removed himself completely, like an opium daydream, his trance broken only by the rising crackle of clapping when the final chord dissolves. He can now see his audience, and they can see his Magnificent Artifice, tall and untarnished. He is in control for the rest of his set and is dissapointed when he runs out of songs to play, leaving the bandstand reluctantly, the focal point of warm smiles and applause.

The Troubadour heads directly for the bar, graciously fielding complements along the way. His hand trembles as he raises a free pint to his lips. His body is shaking - adrenaline rushes through his system. There is a man talking to him about guitars and fingerpicking, another argues Beck vs. Springsteen vs. Dylan. All the while the Troubadour notices a girl down the bar, with an empty glass that he summons the barkeep to fill - watching for her reaction, which unfortunately, is obstructed by a man excitedly discussing Gibson Hummingbirds vs. Buick Skylarks. As the music afficionados begin to filter away, off to watch the next band set up, the bartender places a full pint in front of the Troubadour... "Complements of the Lady."

She is a mixture of new and old - blond bobbed hair with streaks of magenta - White skin of porcelain - lips, deep red lacquered, pierced by a silver ringlet - Eyes, large, larger, green, welcoming - an antique oval watch on a delicate wrist, silver - A Green wool skirt, as was common in the 1940s, hi boots like those common in the 1960s - the fragrance of Rose.

She is from the South, and her Wind Done Gone accent delights the Troubadour, especially whenever she says "y'all". She, in turn teases him on the fact that he is nothing more than a mannerless Yankee "who tawks like dis", and soon the Civil War re-errupts in a skirmish of lovely sarcasm.

She is an art student and the Troubadour eagerly questions her as to the names of her professors, a few of which he recognizes as former benefactors & financeers of such things as spontaneous trips to Tokyo(images of Charlie, 8 miles high, in his JAL Kimono, grinning like a fool as he saunters shoeless through First Class.)and 48 hour parties by the ocean, all of which occured when she was only a sixth-grader.

She collects old photographs and wants to show them to the Troubadour. In an instant, they are on York Street, striding past ivy covered walls. Pause at Grove Street and the Old Cemetery with the Egyptian Revival gateway and the carved words, The Dead Shall Be Raised. Peering through the iron bars - the Elms whisper - sounds of the Halloween Gale - sights of sinuous lines - songs of Rimbaud and the organized debauchery of young libertines occuring among the bones of Eli Whitney and Roger Sherman.

The view down Temple - a Christmas Tree on the Green - one million multicolored lights, and as they near Orange Street, it is unclear who leads who. The Troubadour is familiar with the neighborhood on Orange, and the stately Victorian Houses of which it is comprised. As they ascend the steps to the porch, he realizes that he has been here before, on that very same porch, on warm & violet autumn evenings. He remembers the dark banister and the green walls leading up to her apartment on the top floor, half furnished with a marble pedestal table and glass Art Nouveau lamp, and half furnished with plastic crates and faux steamer trunks from Walmart. "Shabby Chic", she says, handing the Troubadour a coffee cup containing a martini.

In a large brown album... There is an albumen photograph of the New Haven Men's Club from 1883, an empty room with two stodgy coots sitting in wicker chairs next to spittoons - there are scenes of Double Beach, in the hometown of the Troubadour, during the Taft Administration, the entire beach crowded by men like penguins, in identical dark suits and boater hats - women with bustles and parasols. Toward the back of the album, there is sepia toned erotica from France.

The Troubadour looks up from the photographs and asks his hostess if she would have invited him to her home had he not been a musician performing that night.

"Probably not... though, your jokin' sure is better than your singin'."

She laughs heartily, sending her smile right through the Troubadour's facade. She then plays a T-Rex album and they dance to Jeepster in mock variations of the Frug and Jerk amid the amber light thrown by the Tiffany lamp.