Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Forty-one

I found one big problem when examining my body that hadn't occurred to me until I sat on the hard plastic train seat of the Chicago Transit Authority. A zit or a boil, or possibly an ingrown hair (not that I have an immense amount of hair in a certain area), had magically appeared overnight on my butt. The worst of it was that the ... "inflammation" was located on the bone under my right butt cheek. So when I sat down, it naturally got a lot of pressure and, as a result, hurt like hell. This didn't bode well for sitting for four hours on a hard piano seat. I would need to secure a pillow, a blanket, or some sort of cushioning for the seat.

With Grand Street only a stop away, I had to stand ... what was I thinking, sitting the whole time anyway? As my inflammation throbbed with pain, I had a weird thought of sex and Kate and the inflammation. Not that having sex with Kate would be weird—on the contrary—but the thought went something like this: Kate gets back from her tour of duty in Michigan, we're finally undisturbed, uninterrupted, and at my place. We're feeling cozy and giddy, and about to look in Ben's trunk—it never seems like I'll get that thing open—and a flood of passion overwhelms us. And when the clothes that keep the passion pent up are peeled off, my inflammation not only starts to throb, but there's a little ooze or some sort of moisture that becomes evident. I can't let her know, so I start to move strangely and end up in a compromising position here, a compromising position there, just so she won't go near or touch or see the nemesis that has become the inflammation.

The conductor yelled, "Grand. Grand and State ..." over the PA, and broke me out of my inflammation/sex thoughts. I had to do something about that fucking inflammation. I'd need to stop at Walgreens during the telethon and pick up something, anything, to dry up and heal my problem. There had to be something for an "inflammation" of this sort. I couldn't go on having thoughts like this any longer.

11:41 a.m. I was late. I entered the venue on Ohio, where it said "Office/delivery check-in." On the way in I was greeted by a guy who physically looked like a cross between Jim Baker and a fat Al Pacino playing Donnie Brasco, and occupationally, like a deliveryman, and I told him who I was and why I was there.

"Do I look like I give a shit?" he said in a strong Chicago accent, complete with harsh As, and overpronouncedOs.

"I'm sorry I'm late, sir. I'm just trying to get where I'm suppose to be."

"Listen, Mack. Again, I don't give one shit about your telethon, or your piano skills. I'm just delivering the beer."

"Oh, so you don't work here ..."

He smiled a smart-ass smile, and said, "No, a-hole, I don't work here." And left.

As he went out the front door, a short woman, who was prematurely gray, came out of the back room. She was rushed, had a clipboard, and looked like the type of person who thrived on pressure. The kind of person who thought if you act really, really busy, you can be bossy without apology. The kind of person they call "type A."

"Delivery?" she said to me.

"What? No. I'm here to play the piano."

"You're the late piano player?"

"I guess I am."

A dramatic pause occurred as she stopped and dropped her bifocals-on-a-string deep into her oversized cleavage.

"Well, Mr ..." She looked on her clipboard for my last name, or some information that might clue her in to what was going on.

"... Greene." I helped her out.

"Yes. Well, Mr. Greene, it's now 11:46. We've lost Mr. Springer to makeup and hair, so there'll be no rehearsal with him. I'll give you the music he'll perform, and you'll have to work out your cues, or whatever it is you people do when you rehearse. But you'll need to rehearse with the little Miss whatever-she-is before the show."