Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Seven

I didn't make it over to Ben's much in the ten or so years that I'd known him. Mainly, I guess, because when we saw each other, we'd either meet at a club or the Jazz Record Mart or go out to eat somewhere. So at 3:00 in the afternoon, with the sun at my back, snow at my feet, and a Marlboro burning at my side, I stood in front of 2147 N. Kedzie. As I took a good look at where Ben woke each morning and retired each night, I was captivated by its limestone foundation, fancy turn-of-the-century porch lights, and vine-covered window panes. I suddenly felt like a stranger in Ben's life.

The walkway leading up the front door was clear of the recent snowstorm, and I couldn't help but wonder if Ben shoveled himself right into heaven. At least I think he'd be in heaven. It's funny to think of the seventy-two-year-old black man, with his ever-present shades—"Ma dark lids," as Ben called them—slightly hanging on the bridge of his nose and a cigarette hanging from his lip (most likely with an ash dangling at an inch and a half), moving like the Michelin Man because he's bundled as tightly as a six-year-old going out to play, as he shoveled about six inches of snow every half hour in the bitter cold.

As I walked slowly toward the door, I flicked my butt to the snow, listened for the fire to hit the ice, and thought about how each relationship in my life had it's own place and served it's own function. A wash of sadness fell over me, which only encouraged the vulnerability I was feeling at the moment to become more prevalent.

Each relationship I've had, or have, provided something different. At one point, Liz provoked the domestic instincts in me, as well as satisfying the animal nature of man. When I want to be dumb, not worry about what I say, what I wear, or how I smell, my buddy Max is always there. And of course Ben, who seemed to provide all the other stuff, the deeper paternal warmth, care, and concern. He wanted to see me succeed ... in the way he felt he hadn't. But more than anything, he wanted for me what I wanted for me. The only problem was I didn't know what I wanted for me.

And at the same time, I always felt I was there for Ben, allowing him to express his paternal needs. We never talked about stuff like that. It sounds kind of homolike, but I guess after a while our love for each other was implied. It's not something two men in a platonic relationship really ever feel comfortable talking about or exploring. But the fact that Ben had just died triggered all this shit, all these feelings, and I hoped before he died, Ben knew how I felt. Like the gratitude for taking me under his wing as a student of both music and life, the envy I had of his abilities and the ease with which they seemed to come to him, and certainly compassion for the fact he never reached his potential professionally.

For the most part, friends only share what's emotionally safe for them to share. So consequently, there are certain things you share with certain people, and only so much you tend to know about each other. But when the guard is down, and you learn something new, it makes the relationship that much more profound.

Being at Ben's house made our relationship a little deeper, a little richer. It's a shame in a way. I wish Ben had been there to share it with me. What a beautiful place.