3 An offer of help

“Hello, Alma.”

“Hello, Quang.”

Quang sits down next to me in the coffeeshop. Francisco is with him. Francisco is our friend. I am surprised to see Francisco because he usually works at night. He is an architect, so that is a little strange. Even more strange is that he dreams of buildings that are upside down. Or are they inside out? Maybe both, but I have never heard of an architect who works at night.

During the day, Francisco plays music in a park not far from here. That’s his “slash”: architect/musician. My slash is baker/songwriter. Quang’s slash is painter/ … Many people in Portland have a “slash” … except Quang.

Francisco inspires me. He is an amazing musician. He can play many different instruments—sometimes more than one at a time! I offer Francisco my ukulele. I want him to play something. He waves it off and pulls a harmonica out of his pocket.

Do you know what a harmonica is? Another name for it is a “mouth organ” which, in my opinion, is not nearly as pleasing as “harmonica.” I think that’s because I see the word “harmony” inside the word “harmonica.”

A harmonica is a small musical instrument. You play it by holding it to your mouth. You blow and suck air through the instrument. You can move it from side to side between your lips in order to change the notes.

Francisco winks at me. I smile. I look at Quang. He nods. We begin. I start with a few chords on my ukulele. Then Francisco provides some melody on his harmonica, except that he likes to improvise. That means that he adds or changes notes here and there instead of following the music exactly.

It’s easy to improvise on a harmonica. Each note already has overtones and undertones. I mean, that’s the definition of the word “harmony”—“different musical notes that are sung or played at the same time, making a pleasant sound.” A ukulele, on the other hand, can play more than one note together, but it’s different. They are never at the same exact time. One string always makes a sound a little before the next. Furthermore, a musician can slide from note to note on a harmonica; they can sound connected. On a ukulele, the notes are more independent, like two people who are dating, but not married.

Francisco finishes the improvisation, and then Quang joins us. We are playing a popular song from the 1970s, so several people in the coffee shop recognize it. The song was written by a man named Bill Withers. Quang sings the chorus of the song softly:

Lean on me
When you’re not strong,
And I’ll be your friend.
I’ll help you carry on
For it won’t be long
Till I’m gonna need somebody to lean on.

To make the point, Quang leans on me, and I hold him up.

Then we get to the part of the song where the musical instruments stop. We all clap in rhythm instead. A handsome young man from another table stands up and sings a capella, which means without instruments:

You just call on me, brother, when you need a hand.
We all need somebody to lean on.
I just might have a problem that you’ll understand.
We all need somebody to lean on.

The four of us finish the song together, and we learn later that this man’s name is Onry. He has an amazing voice. He is an opera singer. I recognize him from the television. He was on the news. He has the longest scarf that I have ever seen. He was walking in the park near the university and heard one of the students practicing the national anthem for the upcoming university graduation ceremony.  So he asked if he could join her, and they sang the anthem together. A few months later, they recorded a Christmas song together in beautiful harmony.

Harmony is such a peculiar thing, isn’t it? Although each person sings a different note, they sound good together when it’s the right notes. People can even have different notes at different times that work well together if the rhythm is right. And then think of all the different instruments that make a band or orchestra … Music blows my mind.

Onry says hello and goodbye in one breath. Quang gets up to buy him a cup of coffee on the way out.

“That Quang is a nice guy,” observes Francisco.

“Yes,” I say. “Quang is a nice guy.”

“You two have been dating a long time.”

“10 years,” I add while tightening the strings of my ukulele from plunk to plink.

“He must love you very much.”

I stop. My lips pinch. My nose scrunches. My eyes squint. Francisco notices my odd expression.

“What is it?” he asks.

I’m not sure I should say anything.

“Well?” he adds.

“I want to write a song for Quang. I want the song to show how much I love him.”

“That’s a great idea!” says Francisco.

“But I don’t know how to do that,” I say.

“What do you mean? You wrote songs before. Use your ukulele. Or here, try my harmonica.”

“No, I mean, I don’t know how to write a song about love. I don’t know if I am even in love because I don’t think I know what love is.”

As soon as I say those words, I immediately regret it. There are so many songs that use those exact same words. And Francisco is the type of person who starts singing suddenly, without stopping to think about it. Music is his life.

But Francisco remains quiet. He is thinking.

And that worries me.

Quang looks at me from across the coffee shop and smiles.

I raise my ukulele and pluck its four strings one at a time. I mouth the words: My dog has fleas.

Francisco rolls his eyes, leans over, and whispers in my ear: “Let me help you.”