Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Twenty

Kate appeared to be somewhat embarrassed to be standing with me in front of Alfredo, this old black guy on the street cranking out his version of The Flintstones theme song on the tenor sax. Alfredo's solo blew the hell out of the tune as it filled Clark Street with his sweet refrain.

As usual, I was focused on the music, engrossed in every note. I tapped my foot and snapped my fingers to every downbeat. Music is music, and everyone's a musician as far as I'm concerned.

"Kate, focus. What do you feel?"

"Besides self-conscious?"

"Fuck that. Your first music lesson. Close your eyes."

"But ..." She clung to her purse like a little girl.

"C'mon. No one will touch you or your precious purse. Close your eyes and focus on the notes."

She closed her eyes tightly.

"You don't have to strain to close them, just relax and focus."

As we showed interest and paid attention to Alfredo, other people began to gather. It's funny how safe people feel in numbers. So, Kate finally got into the flow. She bobbed her head a little, and when she really began to listen to the music, she couldn't help but tap her toe.

Alfredo finished, the crowd clapped, Kate smiled her crooked smile, and I left a couple bucks in his saxophone case.

"You going to the burial?" Kate asked.

"Yeah, I better get going. You going to your office?"

"I've got a couple deadlines." We were saying good-bye like we were a couple. Our eyes never really met, as a cloud of awkwardness hung over us. We checked to see what the other was doing, and we were about to confirm the next time we'd see each other.

"So, we'll talk about Ben Thursday night? You'll give me a couple hours?"

"Did I say a couple hours?"

"C'mon, Sam."

"You walking this way?" I asked as we began to walk in the direction of her office. She nodded and kept in stride.

"When you die, do you want to be buried or cremated?" I asked. The question had been weighing on my mind for most of the day.

"Whoa, kinda heavy for small talk."

"I don't think I care what they do with me when I'm dead. What does it matter if I'm buried six feet under in a dark blue suit, or spread across Lake Michigan in the form of a grayish white powdery residue. I won't know the difference."

"You been thinking about this for awhile?"

"Just since five this morning."

"Do you get up that early every morning?"

"Only when anxiety makes its way as my bedfellow."

"Oh. Well, we'll talk Thursday night. I really got to get going."

"Yeah, me too. I'll see ya later."

As I headed in the opposite direction, she yelled to me from up the street.

"Hey, Sam. If you want to talk before Thursday, give me a call." I simply waved and wondered what the hell was going on with us.