Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Sixty-three

I hadn't been to the Jazz Record Mart since Ben died. At least that's the excuse I gave Kate in order to walk her back to work, which happened to be in the same general direction of my mecca of quixotic music. "They're both in the same direction," I said, "so we might as well walk together ..."

Sometimes Kate will just look at me, crooked smile, eyelids batting for no particular reason, and I'll get this overwhelming sense of insecurity, like I don't know what she's thinking, but for some reason it's a judgment, and not a very good one at that.

"I'm going that way anyway ..." I added with uncertainty.

What I didn't know was Kate decided to join me. "Research," she offered. Then she took my hand, and instantly warmed the parts of my body that were exposed to the December wind. We cut behind the American Medical Association building on State and Grand, and walked over the lightly-snow-covered grass. We didn't speak until we hit Wabash, which is parallel to State.

"So we got New Year's squared away, right?" I began.

"Yeah ..."

"So let's move on to your conversation with Liz."

"What about it?"

"Well, you tell me? Why'd she call you instead of me? Why'd you tell her about the Ben tapes, and our ... disagreement?"

Kate dropped my hand. It suddenly got cold again. We stood outside our destination. Kate looked up at the sign that read Jazz Record Mart.

"Isn't it funny how the majority of music is now sold as CDs, but we still refer to these stores as record stores?" Kate said.

I opened the door for Kate.

"Focus, Kate. Focus."

As we entered, the sound system featured two drummers in battle. I looked over at the counter where the hand-scrawled sign, which read "Now Playing," was resting above a Buddy Rich versus Max Roach CD. I closed my eyes and tilted my head to the heavens while Rich and Roach slapped the skins. The music vibrated every bone in my body.

"Are you all right?" Kate asked.

"Yeah, just taking it all in."

"You might want to take it all in somewhere else. You're blocking the aisle," Kate said.

I came back to earth, and found myself in front of the T section of CDs: Terry, Thielemans, Tristano ...

Engrossed in the profusion of cover art, I left earth again, and my mind was transported to another time, another place. I was in a small smoke-filled club on the south side of Chicago. It was the early '50s, and everyone was dressed to the nines.

They were all there for the music—the booze too, but mainly the music. People seemed to be a lot more serious about the music in the '50s. They appreciated it. And a black man who played music was, for some disconcerting reason, respected more than a black man who didn't play music. I was about to sit in and play a set when I felt a vicious right jab to my arm.

I looked over in Kate's general direction, and she was talking.

"... I can't believe you're actually mad that Liz called me instead of you. You seem more jealous than anything. Liz called me because we're friends ... I can tell you why she didn't call you though. Or at least why she hasn't called you since Christmas."

"I embarrassed her, that's why."

"You know Liz a lot better than I do, but I don't think she's easily embarrassed, nor do I think she'd hold something like that against someone like you."