Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Thirty-nine

By the time I walked in my front door, it was officially Christmas Eve day. My digital answering machine indicated two messages waiting for me. I was certain one of them was from Liz, and didn't have the energy to guess whothe other one was from.

The fucking telethon was the subject of the first message, left by Max at 9:17 p.m. I was to arrive at the MedinahTemple (which is this large auditorium built in the '30s, complete with swastika graphic elements built into the tile design at each of its entrances) at noon, play for three hours in the house band, as well as accompany a couple solos—one by the host, Jerry Springer, and one by Miss Illinois. There would be a short rehearsal at 11:30 a.m. And I was not to be late.

Although it was a telethon, the good news was they had a budget for talent (which they were assuming I was), and I would be paid in cash after the gig. Although Max didn't reveal the amount, I was counting on just enough for a cab ride and a good dinner. It was TV, and I was justifying my appearance as giving me yet another opportunity to be exposed to the public. At least that's what I told myself. And besides, I find being able to tell people I'll be on TV a pretty cool thing. It's just that I didn't have anyone in particular to tell who would give a shit.

Surprisingly, the next message, which wasn't really a message, but more like overhearing a conversation, and then someone hanging up, was from Kate. It went something like this. "... Who are you talking to? Kate, are you listening to me? Hang up the phone ... Kate, hang up the ..." Click. Dial tone.

The conversation/message was too odd not to call Kate back. I searched for her number—But the problem was I wasn't sure what I did with her damn number. Everything's a blank after I gave it to Liz. I couldn't call Liz to get Kate's number ... especially after our encounter at Andy's. But if I couldn't find the fucking thing, I might have to. Shit, what did I do with it?

My pants pockets were empty; my jacket pockets had nothing other than mint wrappers from Andy's, twelve cents, and my wallet. My wallet. Did I put the slip of paper in my wallet? Shit. Nothing but a couple bucks and some ATM receipts. What the hell did I write the number on? My pants pockets were still empty as I frantically searched the living room, the kitchen, and, for no other reason than I had nowhere else to look, my bedroom. Nothing. Although, I did find a sock and the missing Bill Evans biography I thought I lent Andy, under my bed. Why didn't I look there before?

Noxious acid danced the tango in my stomach and, at times, shared itself with my esophagus as I panicked not knowing where the fuck I put Kate's numbers. Would I have been so diligent as to record them in my address book? I thought not, but maybe for some reason, which would make sense, I put the slip of paper in the address book.

I pulled the address book from the desk drawer. The clock on the desk read 12:22. If my mind served me correctly, Kate said her mom turned off the ringer after ten, and that, should I want to call when I got home, I shouldn't worry about time. Although the thought temporarily relieved some of my urgency to call, I still scrambled through the pile of miscellaneous scraps of paper, matchbook covers, and various other objects that I found convenient to write on at the time of obtaining numbers, but found nothing but the original card with her Chicago number on it.

Of course I could've left her a message on her home machine, but she may not check her messages from her mom's. But then I thought, if she's a diligent writer, she'd just about have to. Best case scenario, she'd get the message the next day (or actually today) sometime, most likely in the morning, and then get back to me.

That would solve two things. One, I wouldn't have to call Liz. And two ... I wouldn't have to call Liz. I thought there were two things, maybe just one.

On the downside: one, I may not be home should Kate call me back, and two, her call was so strange, I had this weird feeling, besides the acid in my stomach, that she really needed to talk.