Looking up a sagging set of wooden stairs at an elderly man, blade thin except for the small planet of his belly beneath a sleeveless tee shirt. Gray pony tail dry as sisal twine. Says he needs eight cases, Pure replacement cartridges, had his water tested last month, got a good lead reading. Gem of a morning we agree, things will heat up this afternoon for sure. Says friend of his will be over later. They still plug in and jam. Play in any bands I ask? Sure, played in lots of ‘em! Ever hear of Black Powder? Drop Forge? Blues Insurgents? I hope I haven’t disappointed him too much. I figure there’s a better than even chance he’s jammed with someone from Grand Funk Railroad, but think better of asking. Pulling away from the curb accelerating past dilapidated houses sandwiched between overgrown lots, I wonder who’s left to complain about the noise.