He had tried to fill that time practicing, thinking, I will get it if I practice, I will find my horn, really find my horn. But he did not find what he wanted, and so he spent the afternoons shopping instead, using a large part of his salary on new clothes — clothes Bud would have beamed over. He’d bought two new sports jackets and some crazy argyles in Marshall Field’s, and then he’d drifted over to the college shops and gone to hell with himself there. He chose his clothes carefully, and he never bought cheap stuff, and there was excitement in his early buying sprees — until his wardrobe was stocked. He bought a few items after that, but he knew he was buying aimlessly, and the joy was lacking now, and so he stopped it.
On a day like this he supposed he should practice. Jerry had called off the rehearsal because the new arrangements weren’t ready, and that gave him a long afternoon to piddle with. But the thought of another unrewarding session alone with the horn filled him with an almost physical paralysis. And so he lay on the bed, feeling a strange need within him and knowing of no way to satisfy it.
When Dick MacGregor came into the room, Andy was neither pleased nor displeased. MacGregor was on first trombone. He was a good man, a big man with a freckle-spattered face and sparkling green eyes. Andy and he shared a kidding relationship, a relationship in which Andy’s exclusive line of banter centered around the fact that all you needed in order to be a trombone player was a pair of lungs and a long arm. MacGregor’s arms were long and, coupled with his wide paunch and beer-barrel stature, they gave him the appearance of an extremely intelligent, jovial orangutan.
MacGregor closed the door behind him and then went to sit by the window. Andy did not move from the bed.
“You goofing?” MacGregor asked.
“Mmm,” Andy said.
“Man, this rain is the eeriest,” MacGregor said, peering through the window.
“How so?”
“The eeriest dreariest, man,” MacGregor said, shaking his head. “Makes you want to crawl in somebody’s basement and hide there.”
“To each his own,” Andy said.
“We could’ve used a rehearsal today,” MacGregor said. “Hey, you dig the two broads moved in down the hall?”
“No,” Andy said.
“Acrobats or something. At one of the clubs. They’re built like lace-pantied tennis players. You know what I mean?”
“No,” Andy said.
“Nice rippling muscles on their calves and thighs. I go for that muscular type.”
“I understand there’s a wrestling match tonight at—”
“Don’t be wise,” MacGregor said.
“Only offering a suggestion,” Andy said, smiling.
MacGregor stared through the window. “Want to go down the hall and see it we can con them into a drink?”
“I’m too tired,” Andy said.
“Yeah. Man, this rain sure is a drag, ain’t it?”
“It sure is.”
“It’s blacker’n a satchel full of bowling balls out there,” MacGregor said.
“Yeah,” Andy said.
“Hey, are you holding?” MacGregor said suddenly.
“Am I what?”
“You got any junk?”
“What do you mean, junk?”
“Oh, come down,” MacGregor said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Andy answered.
“I got some in my room, anyway. I mean, I’m not hitting you up for a free ride.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Andy said.
“Mootah,” MacGregor said.
“That explains it, all right. What’s mootah?”
“Oh, come on, man, you’re dusting me.”
“I kid you not,” Andy said. “What’s mootah?”
“The kid’s from Squaresville,” MacGregor said to the open window. “Let it drop.”
“Okay,” Andy agreed. “Let it drop.”
The room was silent for several moments. MacGregor kept staring through the open window at the curtain of rain outside.
“The bleariest, dreariest,” MacGregor said. “Hey, you see that new movie at the State Lake?”
“No.”
“You want to drift over there this afternoon?”
“Not particularly.”
“Supposed to be a good show.”
“Maybe later,” Andy said.
“Yeah, okay,” MacGregor watched the rain. “Real muscular calves and thighs. They look like stuff, too. I’ve got a fifth in my room. You want to give it a swing?”
“I haven’t got the energy.”
“Well, what the hell you gonna do, man? Sit on your butt all day long?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. Just be careful they don’t mistake you for dead and start shovelin’ dirt all over you.”
“I read a book about a guy who got buried alive once,” Andy said. “It was called Vendetta. You ever read that one?”
“I ain’t much of a reader,” MacGregor said. “Is it in a pocket book yet?”
“I don’t think so. I got it from the library.”
“I only buy pocket books. I ain’t been to the library since I was twelve.”
“We used to go to the library a lot when I was back home. It was a kind of a meeting place.”
“We met at the poolroom,” MacGregor said.
“I mean with chicks,” Andy said.
“The chicks we knew all played pool.”
“Sounds like a gone crowd.”
“We had our kicks. Anyway, I don’t read much. Two things I read religiously are the first-trombone sheet and Down Beat.”
“You’re in a rut, man.”
“Sure, but it’s comfy. Listen, we going to sit around here and gas, we’re gonna need a little refreshment.”
“I got a jug here, if you want some.”
“Who’s talking about juice? Man, for a cat who blows the way you do, you sure are nowhere.”
“You mean the chicks?”
“I saw one of them in the hall the other day in a leotard. One of those black things that hug—”
“I know what a leotard is.”
“I wasn’t sure, man, not the way you’ve been talking. I’ll be right back.”
“You going for the chicks?”