Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Sixty-nine

The big slushy storm added to the congestion and general confusion of the drivers making their way up and down the magnificent mile. There was a ton of rush hour energy, along with a ton of rush hour honking, as I tried to make sense of the syncopation of the rush hour rumpus.

I wasn't scheduled to play at Andy's, but I thought I'd walk over and have a chat with him. It had been a while since Andy and I had really talked. As a matter of fact, I realized we never really talk. But it might be time to start. At that point, I needed someone to talk to. Especially about this black cloud of uncertainty hanging over my head, affectionately called, the Ben tapes. I thought about asking my friends at the Jazz Showcase, or Helena, or her father, Ivory, or some of the Cats at the Fish Market, but it seemed more like an imposition than anything else. Besides, I still felt uncomfortable telling anyone the tapes even existed. I didn't know what to expect from people, but I had this real fear of overreaction—mainly sounding something like, "Do you know what you've got here? Jesus Christ, why aren't you selling these tapes to a label? You've got to market them, you could make a fortune." Or was I afraid of no reaction? Afraid that no one would react the way Kate seemed to? Afraid that people wouldn't find the tapes particularly interesting?

In a daze from thinking too much, and uncomfortable from still having wet prune feet, I stepped into Andy's Place, and couldn't believe my fucking eyes (or ears, for that matter). There, sitting at the piano, and painfully banging out something that sounded like it could be "Honeysuckle Rose" or possibly "A Spoon Full of Sugar," from Mary Poppins, was Jerry Springer. Ever since that ill-fated telethon, this guy seemed to haunt my life. It's like somehow, my guardian angel snatched Ben Webster from my life, and gave me this goofball. In my estimation, not a real fair or favorable trade.

Smitty was behind the bar, back from his yearly hiatus to Ireland, and doing his cocktail aerobics for no one in particular, since no one in particular, other than the hack at the piano, was in the bar. It's not that Smitty was Irish or anything, but as long as I'd known him, he'd been infatuated with the varied worlds created by Irish authors like Samuel Beckett, Flann O'Brien, Brendan Behan, William Butler Yeats, James Joyce, and Oscar Wilde, and always had a fresh novel with him, usually sitting on the bar, so he could strike up a conversation with anyone who was interested. Author de jour was Irish playwright Sean O'Casey and his offering, The Plough and the Stars, which according to the back cover, "... enraged by it's depiction, the Irish people started a riot." Smitty said going to Ireland allowed him to do three things: drink, drink and drive (as in golfing), and drink and drive (as in the rolling green countryside).

"Sammy, how's it hanging? Long time, no see. What's new?"

"Apparently, the entertainment ..."

Smitty plugged his ears and made a dog howling noise.

I sat down at the bar, and a perfectly poured, perfectly placed beer appeared directly in front of me, so I didn't have to move my hand too far to pick it up.

"How was your trip?" I tried to be cordial but was totally preoccupied with Springer.

"Incredible, just like every year ..."

"Why don't you just move there?" I said as I took a sip of the perfect beer while looking at Springer out of the corner of my eyes.

"Then I'd have nowhere to go for a month every year."

"What's with Springer on the piano?"

"I'm not sure, I think he worked something out with Andy. He really sucks, doesn't he?"

"Where is the old man?"

"Who you calling an old man?" Andy appeared out of nowhere, giving me a pseudo hammer lock.