Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Seventy-four

There ended up being no time to listen to any more of the Ben tapes. Inspiration would have to string itself out from the morning's session with them. Frankly, I was in a bow tie quagmire at the moment, and wasn't quite sure how to deal with it. I was dressed, sans bow tie. I knew Max would have an extra bow tie, but what I didn't know was that he either wasn't home or was not answering the phone. I got on the phone and called Kate. I knew she'd have some insight. Besides, I had to tell her I was either going to be extremely early, or if I had to go out and find a fucking bow tie, somewhat late. Who the hell invented the bow tie anyway? And exactly what purpose did it serve, other than to make people look goofy, as though they had something unnatural sprouting from their necks.

Kate's machine picked up and I felt my stomach drop and my blood pressure rise. Where the fuck is everyone, I thought.

"... Hello ..." A real voice. Kate answered.

"Hey, Kate. It's Sam."

"Hey, there. I was just getting out of the shower ..."

"So you're cleaning yourself up for tonight's festivities. I'm impressed."

"Well, you're lucky actually. I only shower on dates that end in one. I thought you knew that ..."

"You've always got a snappy comeback, don't you?"

"I do what I can. But here's the thing, I'm wrapped in a towel, my hair's wet, and I'm really cold ... so what's up?"

"I'll get right to the point. I have no bow tie ..."

"Thanks for the update. Can I go now?"

"You don't get it. I'm in a tux, and I can't find my bow tie."

"... And what would you like from me?"

"A comment. A suggestion. Pearls of wisdom ... Do I need one? If so, where do I get one this late in the game? Or can I wear a normal tie?" I felt panicked.

"Slow down, Sam. It's not that big of a deal ..."

"Not that big of a deal? The invitation to the wedding says Black Tie. I assume I need a black tie—and the black tie that happens to go with this tux is a bow tie."

"Here's the thing. The longer we're on the phone, the longer it'll take me to get ready, and the later we'll be."

"Spoken like a true woman. Thanks for your concern ..." My anxiety was showing.

"What does that mean?" she said with a snap.

"It's just that I've got what I consider a very real and serious problem, here ..."

"Hang on ..." she said with a pang of distain.

As I hung on, it finally sunk in that Kate said she was cold, wet, and wrapped in a towel—I was suddenly distracted and preoccupied with what that meant.

She made it back to the phone.

"You're in luck. I've got a bow tie. So you can put it on when you pick me up."

"You've got a bow tie," I said with skepticism.

"Yeah, I've got a bow tie. A man's bow tie. Don't ask ... just thank me, and say good-bye."

She knew I was about to ask about the man's bow tie. Kinky costume? Past lover? Catering gig? I let it slide.

"So you're naked, huh?"

"Only in your dreams, Sam. Only in your dreams." And with that she hung up.

I only wish my dreams were filled with the nakedness of Kate, rather than the viciousness of snakes. And as I sat there for a moment, with her voice ringing in my ears, "Only in your dreams, Sam. Only in your dreams ..." The thought of Kate—her smooth skin, crooked smile, and, what I imagined, perfect breasts, all the way down to the detail of her nipples, stood before me. I had this strange knack of being able to predict what a woman's nipples looked like. I'm not exactly sure how I was blessed with this peculiar skill, but I discovered this talent one day my freshman year in college. I was sitting in a class in a small semicircle as we introduced ourselves before some discussion—And every time one of the women introduced themselves, an image of their nipples popped into my mind. It was as though I was creating my own slide show. It was the strangest thing. Granted it's an odd game that I've only had the nerve to share with Max, who naturally, thinks it cool. I've tested the theory on a limited basis, and have had about a 90 percent success rate. The failure comes when the breast has been augmented. Apparently, at times, the nipple is affected to a certain degree by professional augmentation.

With the dreamlike state fresh in mind, I moved over to the reel-to-reel, and got up the nerve to string up "Ben and Sam. Tape I." Might as well start at the beginning. There was no date on the box, and no particular notations, other than "Ben and Sam. Tape I." It seemed as though he was less detailed as time went on, because some of the earlier boxes were unbelievably detailed. I waited for the tape to play to figure out when and where it was recorded.

The music played and my memory came back instantly. It also helped to have the gentle banter, and at the same time, it was strange hearing Ben's voice again, but even stranger hearing me, and how quiet and obedient I was in the beginning of our relationship.

"... Come on, piano boy, it'll be all right. You ain't as bad as you thinks you are ..." Ben's encouragement was so empowering.

"Is it OK if I put my coffee here?" I had my priorities.

"Anywhere you want, except for the keys and the strings. Hey, Scratch, you cool?" Scratch was an engineer at the studio, which happened to have two piano's available in the same room. Scratch was behind the glass, "listening." I guess "Scratch, you cool" was a clandestine signal to him that we were about to start, and all the recording stuff should be ready.

"What's with all the mikes?" I asked innocently.

"Ignore that shit, son. They all set up for a payin' session at two." And with that he launched into what would become our first recorded song together: "Bags' Groove."