The accordion player stood directly in the center of the bridge between two deserts. She was old, but the bridge was older. Her large, crisp full-brimmed hat and her flannel shirt, buttoned right up to the edge of her neck, were both stylish and practical—keeping her most sensitive parts protected from the sun. Her skin was sagging, but she was strong. She played the accordion hard. She stamped her left foot, keeping the beat with enough authority to make the bridge tremble. She lived for music and this music lived for wonders beneath dry valleys.
The second accordion player came to stand right next to her. He was shirtless and hatless, but wore thick gold sunglasses and blew his cigar smoke right into her mouth before he started playing. He placed his stool down. It shook, right up to the edge of the bridge, from her beat—but he sat down before it fell off. With the hot edges of his instrument resting on his fat, tan belly, he started to play along.
The child singer came soon after and offered each of the accordion players some water from her canteen. They declined and continued to play. She took back a swig, refreshed, then glued on her sideburns and shook her wig into place. Her white, studded jumpsuit was already on, sticking to her smooth body. It was fresh from the cleaners. Showtime.
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