Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Two

Why is it when Ben died I was the one who felt dead? Emotionally, spiritually, I had nothing to give. I was in a daze. Suddenly walking in a cloud of nothingness. I felt a constant burn in my stomach, like a hot iron pressing against the sides. I didn't want to eat, but when I did, everything tasted like what I imagined cardboard would taste like.

The peculiar thing about dying is it always happens at an odd hour. So, naturally, when the phone rings at 3:00 in the morning or 11:58 at night, you can assume somebody somewhere has just died.

This time it was 2:22 in the morning. I had just gotten home from the gig at Hip's Pocket and had settled down to see if there were any bargains on the Home Shopping Network. I was in a mellow state of mind until the phone rang, so loud it seemed to grab my whole being and shake it until the blood stirred in my body like paint in a can on one of those mechanical mixers at the hardware store.

"Yeah, hello?"

"Sam?" It was Ben's daughter, Lisa.

"Oh, hey, Lisa. Insomnia?" I asked.

"I've got some bad news, Sam," Lisa said in a quiet, thoughtful voice.

Thoughts flew through my mind at light speed until I landed on one: Ben's dead. I began to perspire, my stomach churned a noxious acid, my hands began to shake, and the Sonny and Cher salt and pepper shaker set featured on the Home Shopping Network was no longer of interest to me.

"Yeah?" I said with an uncharacteristic quiver in my voice.

"Ben died of a heart attack tonight." A weepy sadness took over her voice. I wished she were in front of me so I could comfort her ... or maybe I wanted her to comfort me.

My eyes began to well up with an unfamiliar moisture. I could no longer make out what was on the TV. I turned it off. My chin met my chest as I gently closed my eyes. For a moment I left my body and shot up to heaven to look for Ben. A tear rolled down my face, stinging my lip with its salty flavor.

"Sam?"

"Shit. I'm sorry, Lisa. What can I do?" Our conversation had become nothing more than a collection of words. A description of an event. I felt numb.

"I'm not sure, Sam. You're the first person I've called."

"What about your mom?"

"I thought he'd want you to be the first to know."

"Jesus, Lisa. I just saw him. He did seem a little out of it, but I just thought it was because it was a late night. Seventy-two years old ... I guess that's old for a jazz musician."

It started to sink in. Ben was dead. I'd never see him again. Scenes of our times together passed before me like a cheesy movie. Scenes like the first time we met, backstage at the Jazz Showcase. He yelled at me for bringing him the wrong drink. And the time he yelled at me for displaying sloppy fingering technique on a Bud Powell tune. Then there's the time we played dueling pianos for hours and all I'd wanted to do was stop but was afraid he'd yell at me for not keeping up with his "old black ass." I suddenly got scared. I felt lost.

"Now that I think about it, Sam, I imagine the press might want to talk to someone about Ben's career, and all that nonsense. Since you know more about that stuff than anyone, would you?"

"I got it covered. Anything else?"

"No, I think I'm all right for now."

"Promise to call me if you need anything else?"

"I promise. And Sam, thanks for being there."

"That's all right, Lisa. Get some sleep."

We hung up. With only the moonlight guiding me, I walked over to the piano and sat down. I wanted to put my emotions into music but couldn't. I guess, in a way, it was my moment of silence for Ben. That is until I began to cry like a baby.