Archive for February, 2024
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART IV; A SHORT STORY
Sweats had been playing with the band for a few weeks when Joe approached him, as he was getting ready to head for home. “Hey, Sweats. Good session, man.”
As he packed up his instrument, Sweats said, “Thanks, Joe. I love playing with you guys. The best time I have is when I’m up here on the stage.”
Joe said, “I’ve got to tell you, kid. When I first laid eyes on you, I had my doubts. Shit, they were more than doubts, but you proved me wrong. Telling you honest, we all play better since you joined the group. Hell, Mac hired us to provide background music while folks sit out there and drown their sorrows. But you notice something about the people now?”
“No, sir,” Sweats said. “Can’t say I do.”
“They’re listening to us play, Sweats. When we start up, the room quiets down. You’re good and playing with you is making us better.”
Sweats responded, “Thanks, sir. I appreciate that.” But he was embarrassed by the praise, and deep inside, knew he still had a ways to go.
He made for the door, then turned and said, “Thanks, Joe, for the encouragement.”
As soon as he left the club, he broke into a heavy sweat. The excitement of playing with the band initially blocked out the fact that he would still have to walk the same dangerous streets he walked to school, but now at night. His mother’s words came back to him. He felt a new level of terror as he walked the streets past midnight. On the way home, men he knew by reputation had approached him. During the day, they were around but kept a low profile. Nighttime was the time they owned the streets, when the fears that gave Sweats his name became reality. The only time Sweats felt alive and safe was when he played his music. Feeling the frustration of his life, he shouted into the night, “I just want to play!” He was tired of his life bouncing between the deepest fear and greatest ecstasy.
What Sweats didn’t know was that his plea was heard.
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART III, A SHORT STORY
The four band members began filtering in at eight o’clock, nodded to their boss, and began setting up the stage.
Mac walked up to the stage.
“What’s up, boss?” asked Joe the piano player.
“Might have a sax player for y’all.”
Frank, the drummer, said, “That’s great! About time somebody saw your damn sign.” The other band members laughed as they nodded in agreement.
“Don’t get too worked up,” said Mac. “He’s just a kid. I’m sure he lied about his age. But there aren’t many musicians in this part of the city, and those that wouldn’t work in a dive like this. Hell, by this time of night, there ain’t many sober folks of any sort in this part of the city. He’ll be here at nine. We’ll see if he has anything.”
At nine sharp the door to the club opened and Sweats walked in carrying his sax in a beat-up case.
Joe took one look at Sweats and muttered, “Shit.”
Sweats walked to the stage.
“So they call you Sweats,” Joe said. “Does your mom know you’re here, little boy?”
Sweats’ forehead instantly grew a glistening sheen.
After studying Sweats’ face, Joe said, “I take that to be a no. Well, boy, I’m sure it’s going to be a waste of our good time, but we’ll give you a try.”
Sweats hurriedly took out his sax and scanned the sheet music handed to him, while Joe introduced the band. Pointing to each member, he said, “This here is Frank. He plays drums. Leroy, over there, plays brass and Fats plays bass.” The musicians looked Sweats up and down. He could see the ridicule in their eyes.
The band began to play the first set. Sweats was nervous at first and made some mistakes, causing Joe to wince. But halfway through the second piece, Sweats fell into his groove and took off. The rest of the band had to work to keep up with him. One by one, the band members stopped playing and listened. The conversation in the club died down. Only the sweet sound of Sweats playing his sax filled the club. Sweats was lost in the music. He was at a level the band members tried for but never attained. At that moment, his entire world consisted of his sax and the notes it produced. When Sweats was done, he was drenched; the club was silent. Slowly, the audience began to clap. The enthusiasm of the crowd picked up with shouts for more.
Joe handed Sweats more music and the band played until one. As they were packing up, Joe said, “See you at eight tomorrow night, kid. We play Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays. That okay with you?”
“That’s fine sir.” Sweats was getting ready to leave when Mac called out his name and motioned him to the bar. “Looks like you got yourself a job, kid. I got to tell ya’, kid, you fooled me big time.” He handed Sweats two twenty-dollar bills.
He had totally forgotten that he would be getting paid to play. However, his euphoria ended when he thought about going home and facing his mother. He knew she would be home before him, probably waiting for him now.
Sweats made his way home on the darkened streets to the apartment he shared with his mother. Entering quietly, he locked the door behind him. He put down his instrument in the hallway and walked into the tiny kitchen. His mother sat at the beat-up table drinking coffee.
“Where in the hell you been, boy?”
“I got the job, Mom,” Sweats said as he laid his pay on the table and pushed it across to her.
“What kind of job, and where you working?” she said as she looked down at the money.
“Playing my sax, Mom. I’m getting paid to play. Shit, I’d play for nothing if I had to, but they’re paying me.”
“Watch your mouth, boy”
“Sorry, Mom.”
“Listen, Jerome, the streets around here aren’t safe during the day, never mind at night.”
“I’ll be careful Mom. I’m playing with a band, and I love it.” As he said this, Sweats pushed the money closer to his mom. She looked at the money. Sweats knew they were barely making it.
“Oh, Baby,” said his mom.
Sweats knew he had her, again.
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART II, A SHORT STORY
Sweats dropped out of high school with his mother’s reluctant permission. He still poured sweat, but now it was the perspiration of passion and emotion while playing his sax, not from fear of his surroundings.
One day, while darting through the neighborhood on an errand, Sweats saw a sign hanging in the window of one of the local run-down clubs. JAZZ MUSICIAN WANTED, proclaimed the placard. Sweats went inside.
It was eleven o’clock in the morning and the place was mostly empty. There were a few customers sitting at the bar nursing their drinks, behavior born from hopeless lives. About a dozen tables were set up, and across from the bar, was a small stage. Behind the bar stood a man washing glasses and preparing for the day’s business. His name was Mac Shorter, a tough looking man who had evidently led an equally tough life. He was the bartender and owner.
Sweats approached him and said, “I’m here about the musician’s job.”
Mac looked up at Sweats, and asked, “How old are you, boy?”
Because of his height Sweats looked older than his sixteen years. “I’m eighteen,” he replied. Eighteen was the minimum age to work in a place that served liquor.
Mac was a keen observer. He rubbed his whiskered chin in disbelief. “What instrument you play?” he asked.
“Alto sax sir, and pretty damn good,” was Sweats response.
“I’ll be the judge of that. Come back with your instrument tonight, about nine o’clock, while the band’s here. We’ll see if you have anything.”
Sweats knew his mother would be working the night shift at the café.
“I’ll be back tonight, sir,” Sweats responded as he made for the door. He knew that tonight he would have to play like he had never played before.
As he was leaving, Mac yelled, “What’s your name, boy?”
“Sweats Connelly, sir.”
Sweats went home and practiced more intensely than ever. By the time he was done his fingers were stiff, but he knew he was right on for the audition. He left a note for his mother saying he would be out late and headed for the club.
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART I, A SHORT STORY
This story was accepted for publication by Toasted Cheese, a literary journal, in April 2010.
The Gig of a Lifetime
Sweats Connelly was having the time of his life. He nodded to the rest of the band and played his heart out. A glowing fog obscured the audience, but he knew they were there listening as he gave them his sweet music.
* * *
Jerome Connelly grew up under the care of his unwed mother on the hard streets of an unforgiving city. His skin was a rich ebony, and from the time of his birth, he was rail-thin with the delicate features of a father he never knew. His nickname was Sweats, a direct result of the mean streets he called home. His friends gave him the name because, even on the coldest winter’s day, Jerome would arrive at school drenched in sweat.
His friends would ask, “Hey man, why you always sweating?”
He would mumble something about running late, wipe his face, and head for class. He couldn’t tell his friends that he was sweating from fear. The walk to school was through streets where drugs were dealt, where people were shot for no reason, where life was cheap and held no promise.
First his friends, then everyone he knew began to call him Sweats Connelly. It wasn’t long before there was no one who called him Jerome, except for his mother.
Sweats began playing sax in his middle school band. He continued to play into his high school years, but alone for his own pleasure. With money earned doing odd jobs, he managed to buy a used alto sax, which quickly became his most prized possession and his only close friend. Hours spent playing in the safe solitude of his bedroom sharpened his skills. He was good, and with time to focus on his playing, he knew he could be a lot better. Now sixteen, Sweats felt he was wasting his time in class. He had discovered the meaning of his life and none of the classes he took furthered that purpose.
Sweats returned to the small apartment he called home one day after school and carefully closed and locked the door. His mother, Martha, suspecting that something was bothering her son for some time now, asked him, “What’s wrong Jerome? You just not yourself lately.”
“Mom, I can’t take this shit anymore.”
“You watch your tongue,” his mother warned.
“Okay, I can’t take school anymore. I ain’t learnin’ nothin’. I want to play my sax, that’s all. I’m good Mom, and someday I could make some real money.”
Jerome’s mother bristled when he talked about dropping out of school. “I want you to do something with your life, Jerome. Not be like the bums you see everywhere on these streets.”
Martha said to her son, “It’s against my better judgment, school is important…
“I know mom, but playing my sax is important to me. I promise to get my GED, but I need time to practice.
“Oh, Baby,” cooed Martha.
Sweats knew he had her.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY
wrote the following poem in remembrance of my grandmother.
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in 1982 in their anthology, Dreams of the Heroic Muse.
ROSES
Roses were her love,
Great flowing rainbows of pink, red and white.
Her children, small strangers would come
And each take home
A fist full of gaily colored affection.
Roses were her love,
And when rest had finally come from roses
Roses were hers,
Elegant creations of empty colors
Looking out on empty eyes.
Roses were her love,
And now her small garden
Has yet to discover
A rose.
I have a few different series of posts in progress: published and unpublished poems, published and unpublished short stories and views of how life has changed looking back from old age.
You will also come across the occasional essay.
Hope you enjoy these various posts.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: THE WANDERER
What follows is my first published poem, published by The Shore Publishing Co. in their anthology, Shore Poetry Anthology, in 1973.
THE WANDERER
Hair matted and long
Face overgrown with mustache and beard
He walks down the city streets alone
A broken man,
He stumbles about in the dead of night
With only a ragged coat to keep out the cold
And cheap wine his only refuge.
Perhaps he once dreamt
A dreamer of dreams
And a victim of fate,
For the greatest and lowliest man are of the same stock
Dreamers all,
The only difference being God’s frown
Or smile.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY
This poem was never published. I’m sure the
places where I usually sought publication would
not welcome it.
TWO LOVERS
She fondles the syringe
As she was once fondled
By a lover long ago
For this is her love now.
The product of her first love
Gently moves within,
The product of her new love
Scars arms and thighs.
Her child kicks,
Struggling for life,
She forgets the past
As the child is robbed of a future.
She sends her new love coursing her veins,
The child trembles then is still.
All is quiet as the night begins,
All is quiet,
As the endless night begins.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY
This poem was published in Quality American Poetry, 1975-1976, Book III.
The anthology was published by Valley Publications and edited by William Lloyd Griffin.
SUNDAY PARK BENCH
Alone,
Rumpled newspaper in hand
Sits the old man,
Cold morning air sends a chill
Through a heavy overcoat,
Sunday morning light filtering
Through burnished leaves of autumn
Kindling thoughts of Sundays long gone,
Waking next to his wife,
The sound of children filling the house;
Now children grown – wife gone,
Sunday mornings bring only rumpled papers
On a park bench,
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY CLOUDS
Clouds was published in 1974. The title of the anthology was, Quality American Poetry Book II. The title of this anthology, quite a stretch. The publisher was Valley Publications edited by William Lloyd Griffin.
CLOUDS
I reach for clouds
High, ever so high do I soar,
Clutching – grasping – then tumbling back.
Clouds are but wisps of vapor,
Phantoms in the sky,
Who can touch a cloud?
I try – fail – then try again;
At times mind joins clouds – soaring,
While I stay behind exposed to the cold – stumbling.
One day mind and soul shall soar skyward
And beyond;
Leaving behind a shell – falling,
Never again to rise,
And reach for a cloud.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY
MY ATTEPT AT WRITING POETRY
I think, in the remote passages of my brain, I have always wanted to be a writer. There was something about holding a pencil and recording ideas and stories I found appealing.
I eventually chose science as a career. But long before I knew science was the path I would follow, I began writing. My first attempt at writing was poetry and had my first poem published while in high school. I wrote a poem for acceptance in a high school poetry anthology. My friends thought it was a good poem, but my English teacher did not. She changed the end of the poem to something I thought ruined it, but it was published.
While in college and beyond I continued and continue to write poetry. I had quite a few poems published by little-known publishers in even lesser-known publications. One publisher published at least one poem of mine in a yearly anthology for fourteen years. While publishing poetry I adhered to a principle I continue to this day. I will never pay to have something I have written published.
I now write science fiction and horror and have for the last twenty-three years, and still, the occasional poem.
What follows will be a series of published poems.
Hope you find some enjoyment in them.
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