Oblivion Spin
The November night is bitterly autumn: cold, leavestrewn, scarcely an evening separating day from night. A wind blows off the Detroit River. Clouds sweep across the sky in ribbed strips of cirrus. The stars hold their place, faint and distant, pinpointing the vastness of space above the streetlight–glare of the city. The moon, halved and lopsided, is framed between the buildings looming over Woodward Avenue. Scraps of paper cartwheel in the gutter: candy wrappers, sections of newspaper, handbills advertising tonight's concert at the Fox Theatre. It is Saturday night, the sidewalks of Woodward are busy with fast walking, huddled couples, panhandlers, cops walking their beats, parking lot attendants directing traffic with their flashlights topped with glowing orange cones.
People come from all over for the show at the Fox. From across the river and surrounding counties, beckoned by radio announcements and the marquee above the entrance of the theatre, blazing over Woodward:
WOLF KEARNEY
ONE NITE ONLY
Searchlights across the street slowly revolve, spotting nothing. The parking lots fill with cars. Fans arrive. The lobby of the Fox is busy with the gathering of tickets, selling of T–shirts and programs and drinks; the air loud with dozens of conversations. The lights are up in the theatre. Spotlights glare at the stage, neatly set with a drum kit, keyboards, guitars on stands. Ushers in burgundy blazers check ticket stubs and lead people to their seats from the curtained doorways of the concourse.
Wolf Kearney sits in his dressing room, sipping from a bottle of water. Adjusts his small oval eyeglasses, runs his fingers through his short black hair. The band is outside the door, drinking beer, smoking, laughing. Wolf stares in the air, his dark eyes distracted, half–frowning. He is tired and irritated tonight; restless and not sure why.