A Bar, a Band, and a Great Example of Emotional Intelligence

One Friday afternoon, my housemate Bill was reading our college newspaper and saw that a band was playing at a local bar. Even though she was still a month shy of eighteen -- maybe because she was a month shy of eighteen -- my girlfriend Cheryl said she really, really, really wanted to go. (Back then, "eighteen and over" was more of a suggestion than a rule. Often the only ID you needed to show was Abe Lincoln's face.)

We had never heard of the band, but since none of us had ever been to a bar, much less a bar with live music, we decided to go.

We were naive enough to think we should get there around eight o'clock to get good seats. We didn't realize "early" in nightclub terms meant ten or eleven, so except for the guy at the door and a bored bartender we were the only people there.

The band started to play not long after we arrived. They were okay. Not good, not great, just okay. They played two songs. We clapped after each even though Top Forty covers weren't our thing. The singer introduced the rest of the band and asked if we had any requests.

Bill said, "Play a few songs you really like to play." At the time I thought it was a stupid thing to say. Later I realized it was the perfect thing to say.

After four or five more songs, the three of us exchanged meaningful glances. Cheryl knew I wasn't having fun and wondered if I wanted to leave. I could tell Bill was bored and wondered if he wanted to leave. Bill wondered if Cheryl and I wanted to leave.

We looked at each other... and without speaking came to the same conclusion. We wouldn't leave. We couldn't leave. We were the only people there. How would the band feel if we left?

How would we feel about ourselves if we stood up, turned our backs, and walked out?

So we stayed.

I sometimes wonder about the members of that band. If it was hard to perform for a crowd of three. If they hoped for a better turnout. If they were disappointed, maybe even embarrassed.

I wonder if they had better nights. Magical nights, where the music flowed, and the crowd cheered, and they got to feel like stars, if only for a few shining moments. I wonder about those things.

But there is one thing I don't wonder about at all.

I haven't seen Cheryl and Bill for nearly forty years. (In fact, I lived with Bill for two years and can't remember his last name.)

But I still remember them as two compassionate souls who couldn't turn their backs on five people -- five people they didn't know, and would never see again -- and leave them in an empty bar playing music for no one.

Sometimes one gesture really can define a person, and that one gesture is what I remember most about Cheryl and Bill.