John Denver Imagine: Singing Together

Fairy Lights

There was no better place to be on a summer night. It was twilight, technically, but the time was right for the weekly live concert in the museum patio.

If he had wanted to be recognized, John would have left his hair down and glasses–granny style–on. But he wanted to remain unseen. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, which he thought would divert people's attention but it only made their eyes linger on him even longer than without. He did sit in the back of the rows of folding chairs that were positioned facing a meager amplifying system consisting of only a microphone and a stool. The performers provided the music stand, if needed.

The patio was in front of the museum, leading to it's modern glass doors that opened up to contrastingly older artifacts. Flowers sprouted, and were gently closing their petals for the night, in between the loose stone bricks and layers of dirt rested in the indents between them. The patio was enclosed by a decaying barn on three sides, although the night sky was in full view as the roof had fallen down years before. The museum was an art museum, solely holding the art of a famous local artist, the pieces entered posthumously. Every summer Tuesday, they let a different kind of artist showcase their talent in an open mic set up.

Fairy lights twinkled alongside the stars, although they swayed whenever a breeze entered the patio, almost mocking the stars. The stars mocked right back, for they made their own, silent journey through space.

John, the hat man, was early. He didn't want to perform, he was there for the listening and was too tired from performing his own concerts, but he arrived early to hear the chatter of the people. The friendly part of his brain wanted him to join in, but the introverted part made him sit out. He was too tired, he reminded himself.

He was seated next to a girl, younger than him but not by much, who wore her dark hair in loose pigtails and wore a flowered poncho. Against his tired mind's plea, he asked her what she would be playing.

"I'm going to play my guitar," She responded, gesturing to the beat up guitar case by her feet.

John smiled, making sure his hat obscured most of her view of his face, but she wasn't looking much at him anyways. She seemed fidgety, and nervous.

"What songs will you play?" He urged on.

"Oh, a Beatles song or two, and one I've been working on for the past month."

"I'm excited to hear it."

"What are you playing?"

John shifted in his seat. He forgot the performers only sat in the back.

"I'm not playing anything tonight," he said.

"Oh," she paused. "Are you here seeing someone?"

"Well, no, but I like to hear the different voices of people from around here. See, I'm on the road a lot, and I like to catch these concerts whenever I can."

The girl turned and looked at him, peering under his hat. He quickly turned away, and the first performer tapped the mic.

After a few performers played an array of different songs, the girl stood up and pushed her way down the row, guitar in hand. She played the Beatles' songs as promised, and introduced her original song as being "John Denver inspired".

John–John Denver, that is– blushed, and clapped excitedly as she finished. He could hear her passion in her voice, he liked how she closed her eyes when she got really into the music.

She returned to her seat by way of the opposite side that John was sitting on, and nearly stumbled into his lap. Against his better judgement, John decided to reveal that he was the famous folk singer. He gave her a thumbs up and pulled off his hat in common greeting. Her saw her eyes light up and motioned for her to follow him. The night had progressed enough for the spotlight on the microphone to take away from them off to the side.

"I knew it! I KNEW it was you! You didn't fool me for a second!" the girl flicked his hat for emphasis.

"I thought so," he laughed. "That's why I don't normally talk to people if I don't want to be seen."

"Does it really tire you, being recognized all the time?" She asked.

"I'm mostly used to it, but it's nice to occasionally hide who I am if I can. I couldn't resist saying something to you, though, you sounded brilliant!" He said, bouncing on his heels and speaking in his usual, excitable tone. The girl brought him into a big hug and thanked him, obviously touched by his words of praise. They broke apart and he laughed his usual, airy laugh.

"What's your name?" he said.

"Aimee. Spelled the French way," She responded, bright eyed.

"Would you like to sing with me? With my guitar pickin' and your voice, I think we've got something!"

Aimee looked stunned, by immediately agreed to sing a song tonight, tacking it in as a finale to the performances. Unofficial as per the open mic night ways.

They agreed to play Rocky Mountain High; Aimee theorized she knew that one well enough to not go into a stunned memory loss that she was playing with The John Denver. She would take the melody, and John would play guitar and keep a steady harmony going.

A gentle breeze came through the area, seeming to push them towards the "stage" when the museum curator asked if anyone else would like to perform. They made their way to the stool, and John took it while Aimee stood by him with her arm on his shoulder. A few people whistled and a hushed silence came over the small crowd as they realized it was John. He and Aimee had had no time to rehearse but were both confident in the other.

John bent down, picked one of the small flowers, placed it in Aimee's hair, and they started. John opened with the simple guitar introduction to Rocky Mountain High and Aimee went through the verses with ease, John coming in at the chorus.

The crowd, albeit small, was able to clap and cheer as if they were an entire auditorium full of people. Aimee grabbed John's hand and they took a bow, thanking the audience.

John, still holding Aimee's hand, ran off away from the crowd, the patio, and the fairy lights. He took her to the nearby bridge on the opposite side of the museum.

"Just to be safe," he beamed, putting up his finger to bring attention to the small buzz of voices in the direction they just came.

"I understand," Aimee laughed.

"I love how I'm famous for what I do, making people happy, but I need time away sometimes. But, I guess I just love it too much!"

Aimee laid her guitar beside her, far enough away from the edge of the bridge. "I'm glad I came tonight, then."

They talked into the night, about music and nature and fairy lights, until John almost fell into the water after dozing off. By then, though, they decided to keep this up. John would keep his performances here on the down low through various disguises til the end (although they knew no one would keep it that quiet).