Tit-for-Tat
By Michael P. Ferrari
Inspired by a true story.
Musical Legend Bill Withers
Who would I like to meet?
Nobody.
Why, you ask?
Because I’ve already met Bill Withers.
Bill Withers. You may know him as “Musical Legend Bill Withers.” Writer of such soul-stitching songs as “Use Me” and “No Sunshine When She’s Gone.”
Yeah. That Bill Withers.
I met him about a year ago at the Great American Pub in Conshohocken, PA.
When I saw him, I said, “Holy Shit! You’re musical legend Bill Withers!”
And in a flat tone, he responded, “That’s right, white boy.”
We got to talking, and it turned out that Bill Withers and I had a good bit in common. Over a few whiskeys, Bill confided in me. He told me his life story, which he refers to as “Tit-for-Tat: The Bill Withers Story.”
His story astounded me.
His tales made my mind go blind.
I found myself immersed in his tales of swashbuckling sword fights.
I found myself charmed by his stories of crooning for famous world leaders.
I wept over his tragedies of love lost.
The stories flowed as quickly as the libations, and I found myself twisted within these extraordinary yarns that spun the fabric of his life.
After regaling for hours, Bill Withers stopped, excused himself from the table and invited me along as he ran out to his ‘89 Chevy Lumina parked around the corner. The Big Gulp cups and Whopper wrappers were rested upon the car’s floor and clothe upholstery like some artistic scream of Fung-Shui.
He showed me the object that we went out to retrieve–his Bill Withers Box.
The Bill Withers Box was an archive of Bill Withers artifacts he saved over the years, including such items as his Bill Withers hair pick, his Bill Withers credit card receipts, even a half-written love note to his long-estranged Bill Withers wife.
After he stunned me with this collection of Bill Withers Americana, he simply put the box down, threw back a shot of Southern Comfort (that somehow materialize from his yellow utility belt) and pressed the box forward into my chest, saying nothing more than “Here.”
I asked why he would give me such a cherished collection of trinkets, and he answered simply with “Because your Bill Withers’ friend.”
He left with a hearty handshake, and walked over the bridge, out of town and out of my life.
I don’t think he ever came back for his car.
I still have the Bill Withers Box, tucked away in a safe crevice within my closet, pulling it out as an occasional reminder of the most profound night of my life.
So, when you ask me, “Who I’d like to meet,” I have no choice but to simply throw a snide laugh in your direction and tell you, “I don’t need to meet anyone. I’ve already met Bill Withers.”
…I wonder if anyone on eBay would want this stuff…
