During the summer that I was 18, I was working with the Teamsters, mostly at McCormick Place. But occasionally I loaded and unloaded trucks at an outdoor venue outside of Chicago, too.
This was the case when the Pat Metheny Group came to town that year. It was hot and muggy and I was exhausted and parched from hauling and loading gear (without any mechanical aid). But, during break time, I got a chance to meet the band. I had a chance to talk to Pat and Lyle. When I shook Lyle's hand, I remember his fingers wrapping around mine, almost cartoonishly long.
Incredibly nice and appreciative of the work I was doing on that hot, sweaty night, he grabbed this 18-year-old kid a Corona out of the band's own stash, cracked it open, and handed it to me, thanking me for busting my ass.
It was a moment. I remember it fondly and always will.
Thanks for the music, Lyle. And thanks for the tastiest, most-refreshing beer I have ever had.
Rest in peace.
