Flotsam & Jetsam | A (Steve) Miller’s Tale

— a semi-regular humor column by Maurice Austin —

At least the Seattle PI didn’t dub Steve Miller’s Friday Harbor estate, recently listed for sale at $16.8 million, a “find”. But the PI regularly describes many other multi-million-dollar estates as “finds”…which seems odd, because to me, a “find” would mean something even I could afford, alas the likes of which are likely beneath their note. A “find” on the island anymore is a double-wide for less than $168,000—not a compound sporting a couple more zeros, or three-and-a-half more bathrooms.

Miller’s estate would definitely be a convenient buy for someone who is looking for a place to tie up a yacht without having to worry about whether to go ashore via helicopter from the fore pad, or from the aft pad….

But listen: I have a Steve Miller tale. Nowhere near as saucy as “The Miller’s Tale” in Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, but a Miller tale nonetheless:

While working for a catering company years ago, we got the contract to do the Steve Miller/ Taj Mahal concert at Mt. Baker Theater in Bellingham, and though I was only setting up (a catering roadie–not front staff) Taj drifted over and grabbed a bottle of water, and asked my name–maybe because I seemed to be the only one doing anything, while the “front” staff stood around.

Working concerts can be like that: the venue gave us something like 15 minutes to set the common room, and 10 minutes to set up the dressing rooms per contract rider requirements. I was the guy hauling in tables, covering them with tablecloths, setting out the beverages, lighting chaffers, etc, while the staff and catering crew waited, watching the band’s crew pile in with equipment.

So I’m icing sodas in a tub under the table, and here comes this guy and asks my name….I mean, I’m trying to be “behind” the scenes, getting the drink and food stations ready for service staff. They’re in blacks and whites; I’m in dishwasher attire: funky hat and bleach-stained black tee and black jeans and combat boots and sweating. Didn’t know at first it was Taj Mahal; didn’t realize the guy chatting with a couple others behind him was Steve Miller.

“Hey man–thanks. What’s your name?”

“Maurice,” I say, and Taj hitches an eyebrow while his hand is still in mine. He turns. Miller heard it, all right, and turns, too.

Taj slips his hand out of mine.

“Heh, heh, alright, yeah,” he says, and he turns away from me, and he must’ve gave Miller an eye, because Miller gives me this look, like this “you’re one of those crazies” looks, and here I am, about to drive the van back to the shop, then come back again five hours later, at a stupid time of night, and tear it all down, and take it back to the shop, and unload it and wash it all before walking the mile and a half home for a few hours’ sleep before my next load-out.

Miller’s got this crook in the edge of his smile, and he kind of shakes his head a notch as he looks away, and I felt right then like launching myself over the table, screaming “Wait! Really!” while ripping out my driver’s license, but instead they drift off, while I’m scooping ice over beverages, and was that a shared sad and mutual slight shake of their heads, cast in my direction?

Guess it’s not really much of a story…just seems funny, in retrospect, that after being teased relentlessly with those Steve Miller lines in my youth, I had a chance to meet the originator of my torment, and had nothing.

Tease this “Maurice” about “pompatus of love” and make guitar-like “Wha Whaa!” noises all you will. Hurts not more than Miller’s own dismissive smile, his own nodding disbelieving indifference to this real-life space cowboy, dutifully setting the scene behind the scene.

Of course, your Miller-age may vary….