The musician at the deserted bar gets up to do his usual Sunday set from six p.m. to midnight. In his early 70s, he’s been doing this for the last 50 years, only 24 at this bar, however. He strums his Fender—a gift from his rich brother—with his gnarled hands, nods as a tourist passes in front and pushes a sweaty five-spot into the cognac glass atop his amp. He begins with a song called “Veranda,” a piece composed while in Mexico on a fishing trip when it rained for three straight days without a touch of let-up. He thought it might be the one. People used to come up after the final notes and ask him if it was a Jackson Browne song, an obscure one, then laugh when he told them it was his. G-chords, C-chords, the arthritis is there, but he makes his way through, always has. He has riffs to play, toes to tap, bridges to strum and sometimes sleep under. Tonight’s my last, he thinks. Tonight’s all I need. It can be my Broadway, my Hollywood Bowl. I’ll hear some applause and then walk off, leave my guitar behind, too. It will be easy to travel without its bulk, but then, as always, every time, a song, an idea, a flash, a beat, a trill. And he hums. Thinks of lyrics. Like this it continues—always has.