Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Twenty-two

Scared, nicked, mired, and covered with stickers from New York, Chicago, Kansas City, and New Orleans (a virtual travelogue of jazz history), Ben's large trunk sat next to my piano, just waiting to be opened and delved into. The trunk and all it represented was fascinating, and at the same time, something I wasn't ready to deal with—especially since the thing was locked, there was no key, and it looked like I'd have get off my lazy ass and somehow pry it open.

Several other things hung over my head as I sat before the eighty-six ivory keys which lie there innocently waiting for somebody, anybody, to touch them and make them sing like they've never sung before. That's the hard part. Playing the piano is easy, but making the fucking thing sing is another. It's like golf. The little dimpled ball sits quietly before you, inviting you to hit the shit out of it. Challenging you to hit it straight. It's just a ball, sitting motionless. What could be easier? Golf and piano benefit from the same adage: "The more you play, the better you play."

One of the many thoughts hanging so irksomely over my head was where and why was my 4:00 lesson so late.

Once that thought past, my mind grabbed the concern that always plagues me about not being anywhere professionally. Not being good enough. Not achieving what I thought I'd have achieved by now. Having my own trio, playing The Catalina in LA, the Blue Note in New York, the Jazz Showcase right here in Chicago.

Instead I fell into the trap of making money to survive, rather than making music to live. I feel like I'm riding a rollercoaster—up and down, around, with twists and curves—sometimes it's going along quiet and smoothly, sometimes it's scary, and sometimes, I even find it a little exciting. But the thing is, I can't get off the ride. I can't shake the routine. I see the Tilt-A-Whirl across the way, and that's where I want to be. Exciting all the time, more in control.

"An artist lives in a world of fantasy; the rest of us live in the real world," my father would prophetically say. Unfortunately, I was beginning to believe his words.

A harsh knock on the door saved me from my thoughts. Arnie was here for his lesson. "Door's open," I yelled across the room.

Arnie Schwartz. Sixteen, Jewish, and quite an obnoxious, arrogant kid. An ugly kid with a chip on his shoulder, but all the talent in the world. I'm always tempted to tell him how good he is, but I can never bring myself to give him that ammunition. I'd hate to see what he'd be like if I did. And besides which, I'm envious of the little bastard.

Because he's so hard to deal with, I've been tempted to quit working with him. Unfortunately, his mother refers me to great paying but unfulfilling jobs, and she actually tips me very well once she gets her allowance. So I put up with the little shit.

"What's with the old trunk? Ya' going somewhere?" Arnie said as he threw his coat and book bag in the general direction of the couch. He missed to the left by a good five feet.

"It was Ben Webster's."

"No shit?"

"No shit."

"Mom said the old man kicked. Too bad, he was pretty good at one time, wasn't he?"

My blood raced through my body like one of the Unser's through Indy. I clenched my fists, took a deep breath, and counted to ten.

"We'd better get started. You're fifteen minutes late, ya little shit."

"Don't blame me. The old lady got a phone call in the car and pulled over to talk. She can't drive and talk at the same time."

"Why does she have a car phone?"

"Her life mission: Keeping up with the Joneses."

As though on cue, my phone rang. I looked in its direction and hesitated. I wasn't all together sure if I should answer it. I've made it a rule not to be disturbed during a lesson. But Arnie was no ordinary lesson. And besides, he'd been there only two minutes, and already I was sick of him.

"That would be a phone." Arnie said. "How about answering it?"

"Warm up, I'll be right back. Who knows, it could be your mother calling from a stoplight."

I did a slight run/walk to the phone. Kind of a skip, but not really. I didn't want to charge to the phone, but at the same time I wanted to get there before the answering machine picked up. I got it right before the fourth ring.

"Hello."

"Hey, sweetie, you're home."

"Hey, Liz," I said, as if disappointed to hear her voice.

"I missed it, didn't I?"

"Yep. Listen, I'm in the middle of a lesson."

"Must be the Jewish kid. You never pick up during a lesson." There was a pause. "Anyway, I want to see you tonight."

"Oh, Liz, I don't know. I'm cranky, tired, depressed. I wouldn't make very good company." I sounded like a woman making excuses. At least I didn't use the "I'm staying home to wash my goldfish" story.

"Exactly. I want to take care of you. I'll bring over some food, or cook; whatever you want ... We'll just relax. No pressure. You just kick back. I'll bring over some King Wong, and some ..."

Her voice trailed off as the familiarity of Arnie's music distracted me. I couldn't put my finger on what he was playing or why it seemed so familiar, but it was beautiful.

I was done talking to Liz. If she wanted to come over, fine. It might actually be nice to sit around and do nothing. Although, for the most part, even sitting around and doing nothing with Liz can be a chore.

"I gotta go," I said.

"OK. Seven, I'll be over at seven."

I hung up and walked back to the piano, mesmerized like the Tasmanian Devil listening to Bugs Bunny play the violin. Arnie stopped.

"What the hell you staring at?"

"What was that?"

"Hell if I know. You wrote it. It was sitting up here."

He pulled the sheet music from the piano stand and handed it to me. It was eight bars of a melody I scribbled down late last night. I'd scribed "Somewhere Before" as the title, and thought of Kate when I wrote it. I guess you could say she inspired it. Which is serious. At least for a musician. You have to be careful what inspires you. And for me, since I haven't been moved to write for about five years, something inside has been stirred up.

There's nothing I can do. Kate's seeped deep into my subconscious. Into the place that acts on its own accord. Feeding me thoughts and feelings when it wants to. In this case allowing me to make music. New music. Beautiful new music.

What's happening?