There are certain things you expect to find on a foosball table.
A little white ball. Twenty-two plastic soccer players. Maybe a spilled beer.
You do not expect to find your keyboard player.
But this was Another Roadside Attraction, and expectations were something we generally tried to avoid.
We were playing Judge Roy Bean’s in Mobile, Alabama. I was the Captain, which meant I was theoretically in charge of a traveling circus masquerading as a rock-and-roll band.
Slims played guitar. He was our resident voice of reason, a man who took schedules seriously and would eventually become an actual judge. This surprised absolutely nobody.
Chola handled the bass.
Cupcake handled the drums, usually brilliantly, and handled complaints with equal proficiency. He was a highly sought-after drummer, and we were fortunate to have him. He was also kind enough to remind us of that fact.
Tom was our roadie and driver, entrusted with transporting this collection of questionable judgment across the United States.
And then there was Dunston.
Dunston played keyboards.
Dunston also had a complicated relationship with alcohol, although I’m not sure he considered it complicated. He seemed to have the arrangement pretty well figured out.
Somewhere between sets that evening, Dunston disappeared.
This was not necessarily cause for alarm. Musicians disappear during breaks all the time. Sometimes they return with drinks. Sometimes they return with women. Sometimes they return with stories that require legal representation.
But Dunston had achieved something altogether different.
He had fallen asleep on a foosball table.
Not beside it. Not underneath it. On top of it.
Now, I want you to consider the engineering involved.
A foosball table contains approximately twenty-two small plastic men attached to metal rods. These men are designed to kick a ball around, not provide orthopedic support to an unconscious keyboard player.
Yet there he was. Sleeping.
I have slept in vans, on floors, in questionable motels, and in places where the health department probably lacked jurisdiction.
But I have never looked at a foosball table and thought, Now there’s a comfortable mattress.
Apparently, Dunston saw possibilities the rest of us couldn’t.
And that’s the thing about rock and roll. You can spend years practicing your instrument, learning chord progressions, developing your sound, and trying to build a respectable musical career.
Then one evening in Mobile, Alabama, your keyboard player decides to take a nap on twenty-two plastic soccer players.
And suddenly that’s what everybody remembers.
I don’t recall who won the foosball game that night.
But I know who lost.
The little plastic men.
— The Captain
Leave a Reply