The Last Concert Café had been built in the late forties, and the modern glass and chrome city of Houston had popped up around it, leaving it as an untouched time capsule right at the base of the interstate off-ramp. There wasn’t a sign out front, and you had to knock twice on the red arched door to be let in. I brushed my fingertips over the hedge in the planter between the two doors, waiting for the lump in my throat to shrink down. Local musicians were booked on weeknights, and Zak played here sometimes to earn extra money. Music did for Zak what folding paper did for me. If I were going to get through to Zak, this was probably the right place and time. Taking a deep breath, I knocked twice and waited until a guy opened the door. In decent weather, bands would play on the patio, which is where I found Zak. He was riffing away on his bright red electric guitar while a bassist and drummer played along. He didn’t notice as I took a seat at a wooden picnic table near the stage. Eyes closed, he hammered out a song from the seventies, drawing out chords and creating his own syncopation.
