Tours de Farce: Reason To Believe
She doesn’t know where he came from, or why he chose to stop in the little dried-up farming community that she calls home, located smack-dab between No Where Land and Dullsville. But come this way he did, that one day so long ago, and he brought hope, faith and joy along with him.
But more importantly, he brought the tours.
It was a rainless day like many others when he rolled into town driving a one-horse wagon filled with turnstiles, ticket kiosks and Neal McCoy t-shirts. The people gathered around as he slowed to a stop in the center of town, his wagon wheels churning up the grime of ten droughts past. She closes her eyes and she still sees him standing on that wagon, exhorting the crowd to believe in wonders that cannot possibly be, to dream of events that can not possibly happen.
And then, well, then came the moment everybody remembers. The stranger removed his hat, looked up into the arid sky and raised his arms as if to embrace the sun. And he called out, well, shouted out, actually, strange phrases and even stranger names. “Bill Graham! Don Law! Barry Fey!” he proclaimed to the heavens. “Woodstock! Live Aid! US Festival!” he cried out to the skies. “Service charges! Internet presales! Convenience fees!” he bellowed to the parched air above.
And that’s when it happened. In the scorched air where there was nothing there was suddenly something. Signed contracts and written agreements fell out of that bone-dry sky and onto the people thirsting for entertainment. The minister’s boy grabbed a nightclub date for Tony Levin, the sheriff, a two night run at the local amphitheatre for Norah Jones, while the local barber / undertaker plucked three arena dates for Dixie Chicks, as easy as, well, truth be told, there ain’t nuttin’ easier than when a firm concert date falls right into your hands.
But that was ten long and dry years ago. He’s moved on to other towns, other dustbowls that require a quick entertainment fix, perhaps a one-off for Berlin or a couple of dates for Michael W. Smith and Third Day. Yet, every day around this time she stands in that prairie under a mercilessly dry and barren sky, and watches the horizon for his return. Yes, every day she stands there amidst the dust devils and those dry, gritty winds, waiting for him to come back.
But if it wasn’t for the great weather, she’d have split years ago.