Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Forty-four

Thanks to Doni's suggestion, calling Max wasn't as urgent as previously noted. Though I still needed to extend my gratitude for such a successful gig, what became more immediate, besides solving my inflammation problem, was to somehow get a hold of Liz and figure out our Helena Storm thing.

Sometimes, it amazes me at how lame I can be. How shortsighted and narrow in thought my problem solving ability is. There I was, standing again at the corner of Clark and Ontario, when I realized I was only a block or so away from the Jazz Showcase. The significance of this realization was that I didn't need any coins for calls, or to worry about having to go to the bathroom in some strange place, or to be bored waiting for Liz.

There was food, there was warmth, and there was always music. But what there wasn't was any Neutrogena oil-controlling pads or Crest toothpaste to dry up my little problem.

I walked by a pay phone on my way to the Jazz Showcase and, knowing that I was about to use a phone for free, taunted it. Actually, picked it up, and listened to the operator say, "Please deposit thirty-five cents for the first three minutes."

"Thirty-five cents for three minutes? I'm about to talk for as long as I want, for nothing." I slammed the receiver into its place. I noticed a big, stale, hardened piece of gum lodged in the coin slot. I couldn't have made a call even if I'd needed to.

By the time I arrived at the Jazz Showcase, it was 1:20, an hour after I left the telethon, and about an hour and half before the festivities at Helena Storm's began.

While approaching the front door, a strange, ghostly feeling came over me ... A strange, and ghostly feeling that said, "It's dark inside, it's Christmas day, and the world is void of humans." It's like this terrifying dream I once had as a kid, where there was some supernatural catastrophe or act of terrorism, (too tough to remember those kinds of details), but, bottom line was, I was the only one left. Only me. Little boy Sam, walking through rubble—concrete of fallen buildings, and the ruins of the world—by myself, with no one to talk to or be with. Needless to say, it provoked great anxiety, as I awoke in a cold sweat and popped straight up to the darkness of 3:00 a.m. When I analyze that dream, it feels like it talks to the other side of death—What happens when you live, and everyone else dies? Just as scary.

Although there wasn't much to see, other than life-size cut-outs of Charlie "Bird" Parker, and John Coltrane standing in the window playing their saxophones, performance posters, and ads taped to the walls and the windows, I peeked inside anyway but couldn't see anyone or anything but Christmas darkness. I banged on the door. I even yelped a little, but to no avail. The place was as dead as Ben. Of course, then I was consumed with the notion of bad karma as I thought back to the phone I taunted not five minutes ago.

I went around the side of the building, past the parking lot, to the delivery/artist entrance—just to see. Next to the entrance sat two large dumpsters, which smelled like ... well, the best way to describe it was ... garbage. Even on Christmas day the thing smelled like shit. So, as I approached the door, I noticed it was cracked open a bit. Salvation. Once inside, I felt like I was in the middle of a murder mystery, and Colombo, Agatha Christie, or Kojak were about to pop out any moment. It was dark and dank, and I heard what sounded like footsteps upstairs where a couple offices and a small private dinning room were.

"Hello? Joel? Tom? Is anyone here?" My voice echoed, and reverberated in the snare drum sitting on the stage. Just then, I heard a set of footsteps quickly pounding down the stairs until they landed on the floor behind me.

"Hey! Who let you in?"

I didn't recognize the guy, and wasn't sure I was going to due to the ski mask he had pulled over his head. Along with a certain "nervous vibe," he carried two large garbage bags filled with ... something.