Nope. Got to redeem that bag. A promise is a promise, isn’t it? Who hocked the bag? We did. So who redeems it? We do.
Who do?
We do.
Man, this is the end. I’ve never felt this sharp since... since the morning I cut my razor while shaving.
Oh, dig that one! Oh, daddy-oh, beware! Beware of this cat with the razor-sharp claws.
Let’s hear some Kenton, cat. This dead friend Buddy has some real hip stuff here, maybe there’s hope for him yet. Even though he’s worried about a Milton exam. Milton, was it? Shakespeare? What difference does it make? He’s worried about his exam, man, now that’s a real big worry, all right, the biggest.
In Act V, Scene III of Omelet, what does I-Feel-Ya say to Get-Rude?
“Get thee to a nunnery!” he shouted aloud, and then he began laughing.
Kenton, here I cometh.
He went to the record player and then fished through the Kenton album, making his selections. He put the disks in place, turned the player up full, and then lay back full length on the couch, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Tam-pee-co,” the speaker blared,
“Tam-pee-co,
On the Gulf of
Meh-
hee-
co...”
He listened to the swinging lilt of June Christy’s voice, picking out the deep tenor saxophone of Vido Musso behind her, the wild trombone of Kai Winding, hearing the intricate brass figures when the trumpet section took over, hearing the screech horn in the background, becoming a part of the music. The record ended abruptly, and he heard the hum of the arm swinging back, the click of the second record dropping into place, the buzzing scratch as the record began spinning and the arm captured the first groove, and then “Artistry Jumps” began its insinuatingly sadistic bludgeoning.
There was something wild about Kenton, something like a lightning storm unleashed, the thunder growling, but mostly the lightning, bouncing with electric fury, illuminating the landscape of his mind. There was passion and lust in the music, and it crashed against his soul in waves of sound, crashed the way Dizzy Gillespie crashed, but more solidly, the same drive, with Gillespie perhaps a little more subtle in his bop intricacies, Kenton more concerned with the sheer overwhelming power of the sound bludgeon, but each concerned with the naked revelation of passion and lightning. The music thudded against his ears and his body, sinking into his blood stream and into the marrow of his bones.
He suddenly wanted his horn in his hands.
He swung his feet over the side of the couch, stood, and walked rapidly to where his case rested near the hall closet. He picked up the case and brought it to the couch, and his fingers trembled on the clasps as he opened it. He lifted the horn from its bed, and his fingers sought the valves, and he felt the compassionate tenderness flood over him. He wanted to play very badly now, and when he heard the sock chorus he was dismayed because he’d wanted to join in with the shrieking trumpets. He realized abruptly that he could turn the record back to any groove he wanted, come in on the change of key, or the sock, or wherever he wanted, and play straight through to the second ending, and he felt a gladness sweep over him again, as if he had discovered a basic truth about himself.
He shoved his mouthpiece onto the horn, opened the spit valve, and blew the horn clean of moisture. His hands were trembling, and his eyes were bright. At this moment he wanted more than anything in the world to play with the Kenton band. He lifted the player arm and then dropped it on the edge of the record, and he listened while the steady Kenton build-up began again.
He kept his horn to his mouth, flexing his lips against it, moving the horn away for a fraction of an inch every now and then so that he could run his tongue over the ring of muscle.
He was very excited now, waiting for his cue as if he were on stage someplace, listening to the slow crescendo of the music, waiting to begin blowing. The band was gaining steady momentum, building to the shrieking, screeching, socking, rocking, roaring sock chorus.
Not yet.
He wet his lips again.
A few more seconds... a few...
Now!
He began blowing.
He heard a strange sound in the room, a sound like a bleat or a moan from a wounded animal. He looked around him curiously, not turning his head, just moving his eyes, surprised. He kept blowing, but the sound persisted, a curiously wailing sound, like a baby crying, like a baby who needed his diaper changed. The sound was harsh and grating, and it clashed with the smooth, powerful, driving music Kenton was making. He could not hear himself over this other sound, and he wanted to shout to the baby to shut up — can’t you see I’m playing, can’t you see I’m playing again after all this time? Shut up, shut up!
And then he knew what was making the sound.
He took the trumpet from his lips.
He felt very empty and very alone, suddenly drained of all gladness. His eyes were wet. The Kenton band wound up the record, the disk above it dropped down to cover it, and he heard a new tune begin, but he could not identify the music, nor did he try to.
He had just heard himself playing, and the memory of the sound wrenched at his heart, filling him with a helpless misery he had never known before. It was as if he suddenly realized that everything was truly gone now, not only Carol, and not only his money or his clothes or his big ideas, and not only his self-respect, because all of those things could return if he really wanted them badly enough.
But his talent was gone, too, as if he’d never known how to play, as if he were just a... just a slob picking up the horn and putting it to his lips, not knowing how to fit his mouth to the mouthpiece, not knowing how to breathe or move his fingers. God, where had his armature gone? Where were his lungs? What had made that horrible sound? Oh, Jesus was that sound, that sound...
He threw the horn onto the couch, and then he snapped off the record player, and the room was very silent again, and he sat at the core of the silence, wetting his lips over and over.
The tears streamed down his face, and he felt himself trembling, but not with excited anticipation this time, trembling with a need for something, a need for someone to tell him everything would be all right again, he’d learn to blow again, he’d pass the audition with Laddy Fredericks, and they’d love him, all he needed was some brushing up, get the lip back in shape, shouldn’t Carol be here by now, where was Bud, Helen, Helen...
He stared around the room helplessly, his hands dangling between his knees, the tears in his eyes clouding his vision. He was alone, all alone. There was no one to reassure him, no one to help him now, not a friend in the world, not a...
He stopped crying, and he brought up his head and looked toward the closed closet door.
Slowly he began to nod.
He had a friend, after all. He had a very old friend.
17
Carol came into the apartment at eleven-twenty. He opened the door for her, and he smiled vapidly, and she looked at him curiously.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Huh?” he said. “Oh, sure. I was napping when you knocked.”
“Oh.” She paused, studying his face again. “You’re sure you’re all right?” He looked a little groggy, but that meant nothing, of course, especially if he’d been napping.
“I’m fine, honey,” he said. “Been waiting for you all morning.”
“But you said you were—”