Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Forty-three

Being fired is just part of the business. Ben had been fired plenty of times, I'm sure of it, but probably never by a fifteen-year-old. So I kept telling myself, I wasn't really fired by a fifteen-year-old; there was just not enough work to go around for the number of employees. You could say we were overstaffed. So, as I went to leave, I found myself walking by and admiring the more fortunate, and employed, Lee Grove Big Band. As it turned out, the only problem was I wandered on stage while in admiration—showcasing my ass to whatever live audience was tuned into the telethon at that moment. Hopefully, none of them noticed any sign of my inflammation.

A large stagehand helped me on my way with more force and aggression than I appreciated. I finally noticed a sign that explained the telethon, but because of the speed with which I was being whisked (the guy was really strong), and the plethora of sponsors and logos on the sign, the only thing I was left with was United Airlines, Cellular One, and First Chicago Bank, among others, but I still didn't get what the actual cause was.

"Thanks, pal, I think I can remember how to walk from here."

"Get out of here, a-hole." With that, I got a squeeze on the arm and a push on the back.

"OK, then. Merry Christmas to you, too."

Jerry Springer witnessed the whole thing as he waited for the Lee Grove Band to finish up their number.

"Leaving so soon, piano man?"

"Yeah, I know, I've worn out my welcome."

"Nice working with you, anyway." Jerry Springer waved, and then shot me the "You're the man," finger point.

"Hey, if you ever feel like singing, come by Andy's Place, and I'll play with you ..." Jerry Springer found some humor in my comment, because he could hardly contain his laughter as he spoke.

"Great title for one of my shows. 'Pianists who play with their singers.'"

I, on the other hand, found it pretty lame.

It was only 12:18. Now what? Do I go home? Do I go to Helena Storm's, and arrive early? Where the hell did Liz and I decide to meet? Do I need to call her? I better check my messages ... For the moment, taking in the December sun as I leaned against the building next to Medinah, called Tree Studios, was incredibly satisfying. I needed a plan, though. It seemed like I always needed a plan. Whether I followed the plan, and whether the plan turned out successful or not, was another matter, but at the moment, I needed a plan.

Actually, leaning against the building, I realized I needed something more than a plan. I needed something to calm my pulsating inflammation. I needed a Walgreens, and about two blocks away, on the corner of Ontario and Clark, kitty corner to the rock 'n' roll McDonalds, which was the highest grossing McDonalds in the country, there was a Walgreens—inflammation salvation.

I passed what amounted to a perpetuation of what makes our big cities more carnival-like, and less cultural—a place called The Rainforest Cafe. Like Planet Hollywood, which was within spitting distance, The Rainforest Cafe followed the hypothesis that the larger and more obnoxious the animal on the facade of the building, the more people will notice the building, thus drawing them in to eat overpriced, mediocre food.

These thoughts distracted me enough to get me to the door of inflammation salvation, where I was greeted by a vendor peddling Streetwise, the local homeless news publication. The man was dressed in a new FUBU ski jacket, the latest Nike basketball shoes, a knit cap, and fingerless gloves. He looked like a miniature Ving Rhames and spoke with a whinny Spike Lee voice.

"Hey, bro', stay current with all the news dat fits ... git yoursef a Streetwise ... A dollar gits ya what ya needs to know ..."

"Maybe on the way, out, I'm in kind of a hurry," I said with an empathetic smile.