The Drunken Spelunker's Guide to Plato by Kathy Giuffre

long time that year, but eventually the sky turned a hard steel color and the dogwoods dropped theirleaves and the crows began to sound mournful calling to each other from the edges of the meadow, which is how you know that it is autumn at last.
    Danny and I found a not-too-bad love seat at the dump and put it in front of our empty, ash-scattered fireplace and fully intended to spend our evenings cuddling before a roaring blaze. Danny went so far as to borrow a firewood ax from his cousin and to lean it up against the side of the house.
    We had no neighbors out in the woods and easily could have spent all day fornicating on the deck—or in the middle of the road, for that matter—without being disturbed by anyone. But the weather had turned raw and gritty and inhospitable to exposed skin. The fallen dead leaves were slippery and damp, clinging like slugs to the outdoor furniture so you were never quite sure what you were feeling when you accidently touched one. Inside the house, the light was a perpetual gloom and we kept the lamps lit all day long. Danny was gone most nights until late.

    Charlie Blue and I were sitting down at the end of the bar when Tom came in after closing up the bookstore and asked Rafi for a Natty BoHo.
    â€œWhen did you learn to play bass so well?” Tom asked Charlie.
    Charlie blushed and smiled and looked down at his beer. “Oh, I’ve just been picking at it some,” he said. “Just, you know, to kind of pass the time. I don’t really know how to play much.”
    â€œWhy don’t you start playing out more?” Tom asked him. “You could get together some folks to play with, I bet.”
    Charlie blushed some more and didn’t take his eyes off his beer. “Oh, I just play from time to time,” he said. “Just kind of onthe spur of the moment. I couldn’t go onto a stage or anything like that.”
    â€œYou did here.”
    â€œWell, it’s different here. I mean, it’s just us here, you know. Friends . . .”
    â€œI’d go see you play,” said Tom.
    â€œWe all would,” Rafi said, looking down the bar.
    â€œNot me,” said Stinky, who had been shouting out a string of wrong answers to Jeopardy! and was looking disgusted with the TV.
    â€œSee?” Rafi said. “It would be perfect.”
    Charlie grinned down into his beer.
    â€œThe problem in this town,” Stinky said, ignoring Rafi, “is that every two-bit circus pony thinks he’s the horse of the year. Some things are best left to be effectuated by the professionals. Who wants to listen to amateur hour? I mean, as a musician, you’re not exactly that hula hoop guy.”
    There was a pause while we all thought about it.
    â€œYo-Yo Ma?” Tom said.
    Stinky gave Tom a withering stare and pointedly turned back to Jeopardy! “Morons,” he muttered under his breath.
    â€œIgnore him,” I said.
    â€œHe’s got a point, though,” Charlie said. “I’m no professional musician. I’m no Billy Joe.”
    â€œLet me tell you,” Rafi said. “I’ve known Billy Joe for almost a thousand years now, and even Billy Joe didn’t used to be Billy Joe.”
    â€œWho’d he used to be?” Charlie asked.
    Stinky snorted with his back to us.
    â€œJust another kid with a secondhand guitar,” Rafi said.
    â€œStill is,” Stinky said to the room.
    â€œMaybe in some ways he still is,” Tom said. “But that’s the beauty of it.”
    â€œHow do you mean?” Charlie said.
    â€œI mean that we’re all in it together—just human animals here on earth together for a short time. If we can make some music and share it with each other, well, then I guess we’ve done some good in the world.”
    â€œOh, brother,” Stinky said to the TV screen.
    â€œI’ll tell you what,” Rafi said to Charlie. “Billy Joe is at the house right now, and I