A Different Drummer: Meet Phil and a guy who looks like Patton Oswalt

At last, episode five: Old Folks Hit Austin. Thanks to fine brisket, a full-length tour and lecture on Texas smoking techniques from Kirby at the Wagon Wheel in Ozona the day before, we arrived late to our apartment in Austin, but not too late.
Our Airbnb was three miles from town, but only three blocks from the Austin Beer Garden Brewery, a sprawling indoor-outdoor pizza and live-music gastropub. We walked over and had a monster pizza and few glasses of craft beer. Enthusiastic debates about whatever came up fueled our table until the big ceiling lights came on. We’d out-partied the kids once again. The place was closing around us. Youth!
The next day was our only day in Austin. We had to make the most of it, and we needed the exercise, so we walked three miles down Lamar to the bridges into town, and a bit further to 6th Street, lined with music, food, and drink pubs.
“We need to stop,” said all of us. “Somewhere. Anywhere.” We cut into a random club for lunch and a round of Bloody Marys.
While we waited, Patricia said, as if thinking aloud, “We left the apartment early this morning. It’s two o’clock now. We are going to stay downtown until maybe midnight meeting up with friends. When do we get a break? We’re old, after all.”
“Tomorrow,” said Gino, “while I’m driving. Remember, we’ve out-partied the kids twice now.”
Our next stop was Museum of the Weird. I shoveled out $12 per for four. Too much. A collection of novelty figurines, posters, and photographs, mostly of deformities that would have dazzled and amazed an audience in the 1950s, filled the back room of a novelty shop. At the end we saw a caveman frozen in ice, and a guy pounded a nail up his nose.
A homeless guy saw us phone gazing and suggested we visit the clubs on Rainey Street. We tipped him for the advice, and found a whole string of great night clubs with outside seating, all closed, except one, Bangers, a craft beer tap house.
After a round, I accidentally fell asleep at the end of our long bench against the wall during a vigorous debate about whatever came up. The waiter had to nudge me. “No sleeping in here, Sir.” He had no respect for my decrepit age and weary back story.
When we left Bangers, we made a group decision as geezers united to go sleep in the nearest park with the homeless. We found Palm Park, close to 6th. A man in seven overcoats sat at the only picnic table reading a paperback. Two guys mostly dressed were face down in the pavilion. The grassy slopes and shady trees were open. We spread out and lay half in the shade. The weather was sunny and warm, with a light breeze. We dozed off for an hour, napping in Palm Park on a calm Austin afternoon.
Rested, we strolled busy Austin streets, popping into shops, doing the tourist thing. In New Mexico, we visited with Gino’s cousin, Tommy. In Austin, in an hour, we would visit with my K-12 classmate Phil. Not only were we classmates for 12 years, but in high school, we both took Art I, II, and III together with “Leave them alone” Lester Shull as teacher. Art II and III were extremely small classes, less than a dozen of us. By Art III, Lester gave a September presentation of a string of projects he wanted us to finish by June, then left us alone all year.
Phil is a journalism teacher, a professional musician, and works in a guitar store where instruments go for $30,000 or more. He’s come to Benicia before, and performed one night at the Union Hotel. He can shred.
Phil texted me. “Tell me where you’ll be at 6:30 p.m. I’ll meet you.”
Around 4:30 p.m. we randomly cut into Shakespeare’s on 6th, mostly because they had a table in front near an open window. We made friends with the other patrons and the bartender, who looked like Patton Oswalt. A young girl played guitar on a small stage in back.
I rose for the restroom. Gino said, “On your way by, ask her if she knows any John Prine.” I did, and she did, one song.
She sang a different song first, until I was reseated and comfortable. Then she silenced the room with a searing rendition of “Angel from Montgomery,” a prisoner’s phrase that meant getting a pardon from the governor. “Wow,” said Gino when she finished, and applauded loudly.
We hung a while longer, and Phil showed up. He appeared out of the crowd on the sidewalk and hung a while on the railing, talking to us all. He came inside. The girl singing waved. He waved back. They knew each other. He knew Patton Oswald. Phil’s a regular social butterfly.
His wife Stacy came by as well to say hello. We yakked it up for a couple hours. Then Phil said, “I’m hungry. Who wants to eat the best tacos in town?” Of course, we all agreed, and left the bar.
“How far is it?” asked Patricia.
“It’s right here,” he said, and went in the next door and up some stairs. At a window we bought the best tacos for a few bucks each and sat and talked some more. In the end, Stacy gave us a ride home.
We slept hard and woke up early. Time to drive to Memphis, only 647 miles away. That’s where we will meet Lew, his wife, son, and daughter, running a blues club on Beale Street.