Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Fifty-six

"Life is like Dizzy Gillespie's cheeks."

That's what Ben would say to me in times of musical uncertainty. Of course the first time he said that to me I stared at him blankly, wondering what two balloons for cheeks had to do with life, let alone my musical woes.

"Hey, Diz-man ... what you keepin' in those cheeks?" was the first thing Ben said to Dizzy Gillespie, upon meeting him. It wasn't a cordial overture like, "Hey, Mr. Gillespie, I enjoy your music," or even "Hey, Diz-man, you're one cool cat. I'd love to jam with you." It was, "Hey, Diz-man ... what you keepin' in those cheeks?"

"That's where I keeps the music, my man, that's where I keeps the music," Gillespie replied.

So the saying was born: "Life is like Dizzy Gillespie's cheeks."

Ben's story was truly one of the most charming stories he had ever told me. He really associated music with life. And any chance Ben had to metaphorically tie the two together, he would. To Ben, there was music in everything, from the rhythm of the train hitting the tracks, to loose change rattling in a front pocket, to the squeak of a cab's windshield wiper slapping back and forth. At times I'd catch him listening to the "melody of the wind," as he called it. So naturally, through my association with Ben, I felt myself become more focused and aware of my musical environment. Another thing I miss about not having Ben around.

Kate's voice rang in my ears. "You're not Ben, Sam." She was right though. I wasn't Ben. And I realized, for the longest time, I was trying to be Ben. Trying to live his life. Wanting to follow his musical path. Go through his "artistic" pain. But Ben lived in a different time, in a different place, and was an entirely different person. There was no way what he did or didn't do would have any barring on my success.

Ben was a firm believer in allowing the music to lead one where it would, trusting that if you lose your way, the music would guide you back. And I had lost my way. It seemed when Ben was alive, I held myself back. I was always conscious of not allowing him to think I was a sell-out. I guess I was protecting him from nothing, because all along, in my mind, things I did and gigs I played were all about the music. Of course there were some things, like weddings and Bar Mitzvahs—stuff that I did as favors—but who hasn't?

Max and Tracy left shortly after Jerry Springer and Miss Illinois, which left Kate behind to watch the rest of my show alone. Of course Marge and Jerry the barfly were there until the bitter end ... except the bitter end probably peaked for these guys long before the night started.

There was a different vibe as Kate and I left Andy's that night. We ... or I should say, I, felt more comfortable as we left together. Actually kinda proud to be leaving with her. Unfortunately, there was no one around to see how proud I felt. And it was I this time that worked my way from her elbow to her hand as I grabbed hold, and we walked down Clark Street, under the early morning darkness. The quietness added to the unique late-night/early-morning scent of fresh snow, wet streets, and chili-cheese fries.

"Wow, you smell like ... chili-cheese fries," Kate said.

"Good enough to eat?"

"Don't press your luck."

"Are you sure?" I said.

We stopped in front of Jan's, the source of the gastronomic aroma. The picture of the chili-cheese fries in the window, as well as the rest of the late '70s menu, was probably taken by Jan herself with a Kodak Instamatic.

"Well?" I encouraged.

"We'd be fools to pass up this delicacy," Kate said.

"Excellent. After you," I said.