“Let’s take a long break,” Andy said.
“Oh, come on,” Tony said, “cut it out, Andy. We’re trying to get something accomplished here.”
“Couldn’t you get a place with steam heat?”
“This is the best I could do. Come on, ‘I Dreamt I Dwelt.’ That’s thirty-one.”
“Mukluk, the Black Banner,” Andy said, smiling.
“Since when are Eskimos black?” Ox asked, irritated, wanting to get on with the rehearsal.
“You’re right,” Andy said. “This is Swahili Banner.”
“Okay, get it all out of your system,” Tony said patiently, “and then maybe we can rehearse. Any other names, Little One?”
“That’s all for now,” Andy said.
“Andy’s feeling his oats,” Bud said. “He’s got a date tomorrow.”
“Can we rehearse now?” Tony said wearily.
“Let’s rehearse,” Andy said, smiling.
They took the “Harlem” number, and the sax section gave it everything they had, but Andy was still not blowing. He was blowing, of course, but he was not providing the brass spark the band needed, and in a driving number like “I Dreamt I Dwelt in Harlem,” the result was disastrous. Tony called a halt before they got to the change of key.
“Hey, look, Andy,” he said, “how about joining us?”
“I’m blowing,” Andy said. “I’m just cold, that’s all.”
“Then take a few laps, will you?”
“I’m not that cold.”
“Then start blowing the way you know how to blow.”
“I’m blowing the best I can. I know my part, anyway.”
“The saxes know their parts, too,” Tony said. “But this happens to be a band rehearsal.”
“Oh,” Andy said. “I thought it was a polar expedition.”
“All right, kid around if you want to,” Tony said. “We’ve got a job to play three weeks from now, though. I hope you know that.”
“I’ll make out all right,” Andy said.
“You want to take ‘Trumpet Blues’? You think that’ll put you in the mood?”
“Take anything you like,” Andy said, enjoying all the attention that had suddenly been focused on him, feeling the social equal of the boys, feeling almost a little superior to them.
“All right,” Tony said. “‘Trumpet Blues.’ That’s twenty-seven.” Ordinarily he’d have lingered on the “Harlem” number, playing it and replaying it until all the kinks were ironed out. But he seemed to sense that nothing would be accomplished that day until Andy snapped out of it, and so he’d offered “Trumpet Blues” as something of a bribe, hoping Andy would come alive during the number and continue to stay alive for the remainder of the rehearsal.
Andy did not come alive. He still regarded the entire setup as a convulsively comic fiasco. The idea of everyone’s sitting around and rehearsing in overcoats and mufflers was too much for him to bear. It was all so terribly funny, and he felt so wonderfully witty, and he also, curiously, felt good-looking and cocky, but most of all he felt amused. And in keeping with the humorous slant of the occasion, he played “Trumpet Blues” as humorously as he knew how. His musical humor was a spontaneous combination of: A. Guy Lombardo; B. German brauhaus; C. Hillbilly. The result was devastatingly comic. “Trumpet Blues” was a swinging tune when it was played properly. The boys all knew Andy could play it as properly as the best. But Andy was being comical, and so he played with a sort of oom-pah lilt, interspersed with staccato rat-ta-tah passages, sounding alternately like a high-society shmaltz trumpeter, a burgher playing a tuba, and a hick struggling with a Civil War bugle. Ox was the first to break. He spit out his laughter and his mouthpiece simultaneously, his horn making a funny ounnk sound when he finally exploded. Mike followed suit almost instantly, collapsing in gales of uncontrolled laughter. Andy kept right on playing.
Ta-a-a-raaaah-ta-tah, ta-rah-ta...
“All right, all right,” Tony yelled, taking his horn from his mouth. Bud and Frank stopped playing, and Andy kept up his staccato riveting for two additional bars before coming to a halt.
“What the hell are you doing, Andy?” Tony said.
“What do you mean?” Andy asked innocently, smiling.
“Look, if you feel like clowning around, sit out a few minutes, will you? Now I’m not kidding. I want to rehearse today.”
“Okay,” Andy said, seemingly sobered. “I’ll play straight.”
“I’m freezing my ass off, too,” Bud said. He exhaled his breath, and a plume of vapor trailed from his mouth. “Look at that, will you?”
“Let’s take ‘I Dreamt I Dwelt’ again,” Tony said, a little annoyed now. “And for Christ’s sake let’s take it right this time.”
“Just a second,” Frank said. He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a pair of fur-lined gloves which he pulled on promptly. “My hands are ready to drop off.”
“You lucky bastard,” Mike said. “I wish I could put on gloves.”
“You just play the wrong instrument, boy,” Frank said, smiling. He picked up his sticks again and said, “Okay, let’s go.”
Tony called off the beat, and the band went into the number. Andy played it straight during the trumpet chorus, and it seemed like smooth sailing until the arrangement came to the sax chorus, during which Andy had a long rest. The saxes played their chorus, and when Andy came back in again, something sounded terribly wrong. He was hitting the notes sloppily, faking a lot of notes, and simply missing a good many of those he should have been playing. Tony glanced curiously over his shoulder and then pulled his horn angrily from his mouth, standing up and whirling, glaring heatedly at Andy.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted.
“What’s the matter?” Andy asked, smiling.
Bud turned on the piano stool, wondering what was wrong. He saw what was wrong then, and he understood the sloppy playing Andy had been doing. Andy was wearing thick woolen gloves, gloves he’d apparently put on during his trumpet rest.
“Look, Andy,” Tony said, “I’m through kidding around. Now take off them goddamn gloves.”
“Frank has gloves on,” Andy said perversely.
“Frank doesn’t have to worry about fingering.”
“Well, my hands are cold,” Andy said. “Hell, Mukluk, we’re not all Eskimos.” He had expected a laugh, and he smiled in anticipation. When no laugh came, he glanced quickly at Bud, and the smile turned pasty on his mouth. Bud was sitting quite solemnly at the piano.
“And let’s knock off the name-calling, too,” Tony said, his anger rising.
Andy was still high on the crest of his amused feeling. “Now, now,” he said, striving for a smile from Bud or a chuckle from Frank. “You worry too much, Mukluk. Honestly.”
“I said knock it off!” Tony shouted.