Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Twenty-five

Why am I now holding Kate's business card? And why in the hell do I have the urgent need to talk to or see her while the scent of Liz is still floating in the air with King Wong's number sixteen?

Before I knew it, I was pacing back and forth, the room illuminated by nothing more than the TV flickering scenes from Die Hard. That's all the light I really needed to read Kate's card, which had her home number scribbled on the back.

Hey, what's Dennis Franz doing in Die Hard? A question not engaging enough to distract me from my own neurosis. The number had been dialed ...

Three rings, shit, she's probably asleep. Four rings, damn, I should hang up. Click. Answering machine kicks in. "You've reached Kate's phone. Leave it at the beep."

Straightforward. Not terribly inventive. When the answering machine craze first hit, I had a lot of fun with it. Sort of a form of entertainment. Sort of an expression of creativity. Sometimes I'd write a funny song or attempt impressions, that sort of thing, but when it got to be I was spending an embarrassing amount of time rehearsing, recording, and rerecording answering machine messages, I got hold of myself and stopped. Not to mention every time someone dialed my number by accident or a telemarketer called, he or she'd tell their friends to call because the message was so entertaining. Out of hand.

"... Um, Kate. It's, Sam. Anyway, just wanted to ask you something ... no big ..."

"Sam, hey. What's up?"

A real live voice. Now what?

"Shit, I'm sorry. Is it too late? Did I wake you? You sound kinda ... sexy, actually." Her voice took on a husky Kathleen Turner quality.

"No, no, and thanks. I'm blessed with this voice most mornings and late evenings."

"Have you thought of a promising career in phone sex?"

"Many times."

"Well, let me know if you ever need to rehearse."

Awkward silent pause.

"So what's up, Sam?"

Damn, I wish she hadn't asked. I wished we could just banter back and forth and make small talk all night.

"I'm going to the Fish Market and wanted to know if you'd like to join me?"

"Excuse me?"

"The Fish Market, I'm going to hang out and play a little. Ben and I use to go there a lot and I thought you might like to go."

"I don't mean to be rude, and maybe it's just late, but what the hell are you talking about?"

"Of course ... I'm assuming you know that the Fish Market is an area on the South Side where people gather when the sun goes down, and sing and dance and play the blues until the sun comes back up. Sorry."

"And you're going now?"

Why had I called? I should've just ignored my impulse to call and should've jumped in a cab and gone. This is what happens when females enter my world. Things start to get complicated. Explaining things, making sure they understand. Where's the freedom? Where's the spontaneity?

"Yep."

"Sounds intriguing. What time might you be by?"

"Ten minutes."

"OK. I'll meet you in the lobby."

"Kate."

"Yeah?"

"Did you want to tell me your address or should I drive around Chicago yelling your name?"

"1616 N. Lake Shore. Like I said, I'll wait in the lobby."

Well, that went pretty smoothly.