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THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART VIII; A SHORT STORY
It was late Friday night, sometimes early Saturday morning, and Mac was closing up his club he would pause and listen. Lately, he always made sure he was alone when he locked. For those nights were special. Just before he turned the key in the door he would stand there, with the door slightly ajar, and listen. From afar, he could hear the sweet sound of Sweats playing his sax. But it wasn’t just Sweats playing. There was also a tenor sax, drums and more. The music was the sweetest Mac had ever heard. Mac lived for closing on those nights.
Hope you enjoyed the story. There will be more posts coming. Short stories, poem, both published and nonpublished along with some thoughts and observations. Hope you stay tuned.
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART VII; A SHORT STORY
The following Friday night the air was the same – electric. Everyone in the band was smiling, joking and having the time of their lives. They were “on” again, their boss, Mac, knew it and the audience knew it. Halfway through the evening, during a piano solo, Sweats once again scanned the crowd. He blinked his eyes in disbelief. There sat Miles Davis again, out in front. Beside him was someone Sweats also recognized. The man wiped his brow with a white handkerchief. Sweats could easily hear his gravelly voice. It was Satchmo. Louis Armstrong was watching Jerome Connelly play. Sweats was numb with excitement and fear. He had no doubt that he was looking at two dead men. They were his idols, but they were dead. When it came time for Sweats’ sax solo, he flubbed the piece. His playing was terrible. There was no way he could concentrate on playing his sax with Miles Davis and Louis Armstrong in the crowd.
When the night’s work was over, Leroy walked over to Sweats and said, “Don’t worry kid. No one is on all the time.”
There was no way he could tell Leroy why he was off. He avoided all contact with Joe. Sweats walked home doubting his sanity.
Another Friday night and Sweats was living up to his name. He usually calmed down after he arrived at the club. But now, even the club wasn’t his sanctuary. There were dead men watching him play and he couldn’t tell anyone about it. He always found solace in his music. Now even that was gone. If dead men kept showing up to hear him, his only sanctuary would be destroyed.
The band began to play. Sweats didn’t dare look to the front of the audience but couldn’t help himself. There, at Miles’ table, sat Louis Armstrong, along with Duke Ellington and one of the greatest jazz drummers of all time, Gene Krupa. Sweats could tell they were enjoying the music. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he played his heart out. They were part of the audience and deserved to be entertained. He never mentioned the patrons of the ghost table again. He just played as well as he could for them.
The next Friday was the last Sweats ever played with the band. The ghost table had a new member. It was John Coltrane. He sat deathly still, just staring at Sweats, his gaze never wavering. When the band was done for the night, the ghost crew was still there. Sweats was totally unnerved. John Coltrane was motioning him to the table.
As Sweats left the stage, the lights of the club dimmed, and a milk-white haze enveloped all but the ghost table. Sweats sat down in the only empty seat.
In a quiet voice, no more than a whisper, Coltrane said, “We’ve been following you Sweats, not only your music, but also your life. We want you to join our group. It will be the gig of a lifetime. We have an audience that spent their whole existence loving jazz, living it. Say yes, and the fears, the streets you dread will be gone forever.
Sweats agreed and was never seen again.
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART VI; A SHORT STORY
When Sweats arrived home, his mother was waiting for him. She waited every night he worked with a hot meal. As he sat eating, she said, “You know, honey. I was reluctant to let you quit high school, but then you got your job, and the extra money is helping out. And you seem to be happier than I’ve ever seen you. You’re a man now, and I’m proud of you.”
Sweats sat quietly eating, thinking. How could he tell his mother that his life was still a nightmare while he lived in this neighborhood? How could he tell her that all he wanted was to play his music? Nothing else mattered.
There was an uneasy quiet as his mother watched him eat. Sweats decided to tell her what happened at the club. “Mom, tonight I thought I saw Miles Davis in the audience. Joe said that he’s dead. Is that true?” He knew his mother loved jazz, had been to the club a couple of times to hear the band play. Then she would walk him home, talking about his music and how proud she was of him.
“That’s true, baby. Miles died a few years ago. It had to be someone who just looked like him.”
Sweats just nodded and went on eating. He was sure it was Miles.
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART V, A SHORT STORY
The following Friday night, the band was setting up when Joe turned to Sweats and said, “Can you feel it, Sweats? The air is electric. We’re going to be right on tonight.”
Sweats looked at Frank, Fats and Leroy, who nodded in agreement. As soon as he walked into the club that night, he had felt it too. He just didn’t know what “it” was.
As soon as the band began to play, Sweats knew that Joe was right. All five members of the band found their groove and inhabited their own musical heaven. During Frank’s drum solo, Sweats looked out at the audience. They were clearly enjoying the band. His eyes drifted to a table in front. There, sitting alone was a man he recognized. The man smiled broadly as his head bobbed back and forth and his hands rapped on the table, keeping time with the music.
After the performance was finished, backs were slapped, and high-fives passed around the band. Frank said to Joe, “Man, were we on tonight, or what?”
Joe said, “Shit, man. We were beyond on. We were on holy ground!”
Frank, Fats and Leroy walked to the bar to celebrate. After they left, Sweats approached Joe and asked, “Say Joe, did you happen to get a good look at the audience tonight?”
“Sure, kid. I gave them a look. There were some sweet women out there. That what you talking about?”
“No,” answered Sweats. “There was a man sitting out front. I recognized him. I can’t believe he came to hear us play.”
Joe asked, “You mean a friend of yours came to give us a listen. He sure caught us on a good night.”
“No, Joe. It wasn’t a friend of mine. Sitting there in the front row was Miles Davis.”
“Shit, kid, you must be crazy.”
Sweats insisted, “No, Joe. I’m sure it was Miles Davis. I recognized him from his CD cover.”
Joe stepped back and looked at Sweats, then said, “I don’t know who you saw, but it wasn’t my man Miles. He passed away about two years ago.”
“But, Joe, I’m sure…”
“Go home and get some rest. And next week, if you see Satchmo in the crowd, let me know.”
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.
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