Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Eighty-one

I became conscious and stared at a ceiling. My ceiling. The ceiling of my bedroom. I thought about the night before, not knowing if it was a dream, real, or a wild acid trip. Since I've never done acid, the last alternative was out. That left dream or real. I once heard that men become what they dream. The problem is I don't dream. Thus, hard to determine what it is this man would become.

So it was all real. The Tourette's laden cab ride to Kate's, the strangeness of being at her apartment, the "container of love and understanding," the Four Season's swimming pool, Betsy the pharmacy technician's lips, Oprah, Lester Joplin—Shit, Lester. I associated Lester with the pain in my head, which confirmed it was definitely all real.

I guess my left arm falling asleep was the first clue that Kate was lying next to me. I'm not sure how I missed her, but she was there, lying next to me—nude. She rested comfortably on my left arm as the pins and needles caused the discomfort to change from my head to my arm. I gently slipped my arm out from under her head and neck, and surrendered to the pins and needles.

As the discomfort subsided, I realized I was in bed with a naked woman on the first day of the year 2000. Not a bad start to the New Year.

What would looking forward be without looking back? And other than the sore head and Kate lying next to me, I really didn't feel any different than the year before. I didn't feel like I'd changed much in the short time since Ben had passed, or even over the past year for that matter. I guess the fact that the woman in my bed made me feel like I wanted to stay, rather than ask her to leave, or make up an excuse for me to leave, meant I had accomplished something—transformed in some way. Albeit a small way.

I turned on the television to celebrate. Home Shopping Network. It was perfect.

Naturally, to spoil the moment, the harsh ring of the phone filled my apartment. Kate rustled from the ring but didn't wake. She rolled to the other side, turning her back to me as the covers slipped down revealing her bare shoulders and upper back. Her hair, her neck, and her back were a study of splendor. A Rembrandt waiting to happen. The light raked across her back, highlighting it subtly with warm yellows streaming from the morning sun.

The phone rang until the digital answering machine performed its job.

"Hey, douche bag, sorry I missed you last night. We only stayed for a couple hours." Only Max could spoil a truly magical moment. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Tracy is still depressed. The Prozac is spotty at best. Anyway, she took this whole millennium thing way too seriously." His voice went back to normal. "Sooooo, give me a call when you wake. I wanted to see if you were interested in getting high and watching the Rose Bowl. Oh, BTW, say hi to Kate."

I wasn't even going to think about how he might know she was there. But I did. It's like the old "pink elephant in the room" thing. Naturally, the only thing you think of is an elephant. Was Kate wired? Did she have one of those tracking devices that convicts wear on their ankles? Maybe I was jumping to conclusions, being a little paranoid. Or maybe what he really meant was that I should say hi to Kate the next time I see her—never implying that she was lying naked in bed with me. And just like that, the thought was gone.

The question of the millennium remained: What to do with the Ben tapes? What would be their destiny? As I thought about the tapes, I realized the concern and unease I had about their fate had vanished. I wasn't hung up on them anymore. I felt like I could enjoy them without feeling like I needed to do something with them—make history or money—and frankly it didn't matter if the world knew they were in my possession or not. I suddenly wasn't concerned about much of anything.

The burden of Ben, and the weight that I felt in making myself more like him, was gone. Maybe it was the knock on the head. Or maybe it was that I thought Kate and I made love last night (but I couldn't tell). I guess it didn't matter. All I could really be sure of was it was a new century, it was a New Year, it was a new day. Time to turn over a new something or other, live my life like it was the first day of the rest of the next heap of them ...

With Kate lying next to me in a deep and satisfied slumber, and the TV emitting the cathode rays of a ceramic Persian kitty cookie jar going for $12.95 (shipping included), I made a decision. Life was happening now, and while it's admirable to respect the past, and to trust in the future, for me it's best to fill life up with the music of the moment. "Like Dizzy Gillespie's cheeks," the four words Ben so graciously shared with me, would be all I needed to get me through the hard times of being an unmotivated, underachieving, piano-playing fool.

That and, of course, Kate, with her ever-weighty, insightful prose, her big, deep, penetrating eyes of truth, and that God damn crooked smile.