by A. Sparrow
She had quit her job a week earlier than planned. After 20-odd sleepless and hellish hours of busted air conditioners, obese seatmates, and psychotic, ranting Jesus Lovers, she had finally dozed off, missing at least three stops where she could have corrected her course—Denver, Loveland and Fort Collins.
She remembered waking on a dark and deserted stretch of I-25 North. A sign read Laramie 15 miles, I-80 Cheyenne 7. She had panicked. This couldn’t be happening. Cheyenne was a good 90 miles from Boulder. She slumped in her seat and checked her purse to see if she had enough cash for another bus ticket back to Boulder, and the answer was—just.
When she got off in Cheyenne, the waiting area and ticket desk were closed. The next bus south wasn’t due to roll till about five a.m..
There was an all night diner kitty-corner to the station but there was no way she could haul all her stuff across the street, so she made a fortress of her bass and suitcases and hunkered down for the night. At least she was well-rested from her nap.
A battered, white hulk of a Mercedes convertible arrived—the kind of car some people buy on its last legs just to say they owned a Mercedes. A thirtyish Native American woman drove it, and she disgorged a middle-aged black man with a shoulder bag and two rectangular, black cases.
He had a milk chocolate complexion and hair tufted and twisted, gray peppered with black. He glanced at Aerie, checked his watch, and did a double take at her.
Her first thought was: ‘creepy old man’, the way he kept looking over at her and the Prescott. Then she spotted his instrument cases and thought: ‘creepy old trumpet player.’ As the people who had gotten off Denver bus got picked up, the gaggle thinned down to Aerie, the creep and some cowboy-looking fellow with pack loaded with rope and pitons.
Aerie had stiffened as the creep sidled over to her down the walk.
“You play that thing, little girl?”
“Yup.”
“Bluegrass?”
“Nope.”
“Jazz?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, take that thing out. What the heck. Let’s jam.”
“Here? Now?”
“Why not? Who’s gonna care? He turned to the cowboy rock-climber. “You care?”
“Go for it.”
He opened up his cases. One held a trumpet, the other, a sax. Playing both was unusual in jazz, but not unheard of. Benny Carter did it in the 40s. Ira Sullivan and Hermeto Pascoal still do it. And she had heard about some other guy on the current scene, famous for his versatility on multiple instruments, though not famous enough to remember his name.
And so they played: ‘Stella by Starlight,’ ‘‘Round Midnight,’ ‘Green Dolphin Street.’ They traded melodies and leads, just her bass and his tenor sax in the dusty, chaparral-scented wind. Aerie’s bass got swallowed by the open spaces around the isolated bus station, but the Prescott had plenty of punch and bite to be heard.
“That’s one hell of an axe you got,” said the creep.
“I know,” said Aerie, proudly.
The creep shifted between sax and trumpet, playing graceful, understated solos, never too busy, but with startling leaps of harmony. The cowboy whistled and applauded every solo, until his ride finally showed and hauled him away.
“You play … real nice,” said the creep. “You not only got the chops … but the instincts. And that’s rare, chick or no chick.”
“I’m afraid instincts are all I have going for me,” said Aerie. “I don’t read very well.”
“You do fine, with what you got. Do you play regular?”
“What do you mean?”
“You got a steady gig?”
“I’m a college student. In Boulder.”
“You wanna play in Vegas?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m starting a month-long stand at a brand new Wynn casino just opening up. We’re gonna be the house band at the night club, and … we ain’t got no bass. I mean, we do. This guy who plays a Fender is supposed to sit in. But the last thing this world needs is another Fender guy playing that slappy chickabugga shit. I need someone who can stay in the groove and walk it. And I tell you, people would dig the sight of a little girl standing up to a big, old bass.”
“Uh, thanks, but I don’t think so. I’m starting classes in a couple of weeks.”
“Music major?”
“Um, no. Pre-Med. My parents—”
“Do you know who I am, little girl?”
Aerie stood there, blinking. Come to think of it, his face looked familiar.
“Course you haven’t. You’re talking to the best damn jazz man nobody’s ever heard of.”
“Hollis … Brooks?”
He looked stunned, lost for words. “That’s right.”
Hollis was second-tier, by no means a celebrity—at that time at least—but he was certainly well-traveled and well-recorded. He showed up in discographies everywhere from London to Hong Kong. Name any contemporary jazz musician and chances were Hollis had played with them.
“Come to Vegas with me,” said Hollis, his face gleaming in the streetlight. “Take a semester off.”
“Right,” said Aerie, imagining how her parents would react if she pulled such a stunt.
“I mean it. It pays real good. We’ll have big players, I mean real big players, sitting in with us from time to time.”
“Like … who?”
“Like Paul Motian. Dexter Gordon.”
“Get out!”
“S’true,” said Hollis. “They all come through Vegas from time to time. And they all know me. We’ll be the welcoming committee.”
“But why me?”
“I like your chops. Simple, but dead on. And you’d look really good on stage. You’d be a real hook for us.”
“A what?”
“Not a hooker, a hook.”
“A gimmick?”
“You’re more than a gimmick. You can play. People come in, they see this chick bass player, they say what the hell is this, and they stick around to see you.”
“There’s plenty of great female bass players out there. I mean … Esperanza Spaulding—”
“When does school start?”
“August 23.”
“You got time. Come out to Vegas for a week. We start on Sunday.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Just a week and we’ll ship you back, unless ….”
“That’s crazy. You want me to just show up and play? No rehearsal. I’m moving into the dorm on the nineteenth.”
“No problem. We do standards until you’re up to speed. You got fake books?”
“I have a couple of the ‘Real Books.’”
“Fake books. Yeah. That’s all you need. You’ll have your own room, buffet pass. Two sets a night. It’ll be a gas. Turns out you gotta go back to Colorado, that’s fine. It buys me time to find another bass player.”
Aerie was speechless. Hollis looked straight into her eyes, with that near-telepathic, penetrating gaze he had.
“Pre-Med, huh? Do you wanna be a doctor?”
“No.”
“Shit, then. Follow your dreams girl. You wouldn’t haul that thing around with you if you didn’t love the music. Am I right?”
“Well, yeah, but ….”
A pair of headlights broke Aerie out of her reverie. Plenty of cars came down this road, but this one crept along, stopping in front of every house, and then took about nine steps to parallel park that should only have taken three.
Aerie hovered in limbo, netbook warm in her lap, waiting to resume daydreams on the verge of becoming night dreams. She was too sleepy to get up and put on her PJs. She pulled a blanket down from the backrest and settled in. The sofa would do just fine.
Quick little steps clapped up her front walk. The porch light was off. A silhouette appeared, hovering confused between the doors of the duplex. Her doorbell rang.
Aerie dragged herself off the couch and over to the door. She flicked on the light.
&
nbsp; “Can Aerie come out and play?”
“Sari?”
Chapter 15: Hare
Sari wore a feathered hat, a green felt jacket with wide, floppy lapels, tights that made it seem she wore no pants. She carried herself with verve, as if she thought she looked quite stylish, but her clothes made Aerie think of hobbits or Robin Hood’s merry men. Her gleaming black locks did look stunning against the green.
“Aaron already told me,” said Aerie.
“Told you what?” said Sari, crinkling her eyes.
“About his daughter. That the Production is cancelled.”
“Feh! That’s not why I’m here.”
“Then why—”
“You live … here?” Sari peeked inside Aerie’s living room and sniffed. She was cradling a waxed paper deli container filled with something hot and pungent.
Aerie picked up some orange peel that had lain on the carpet since breakfast and snuck it into her pocket.
“Where do you want me to live?”
“An accomplished and traveled and experienced musician like yourself. I don’t know. Cayuga Heights, maybe?”
“How do you know that I’ve traveled?”
“The Google search. What else? Pages and pages of Aerie Walker, Aerie Walker. Jazz, jazz, jazz. Tokyo, New York, Nassau.”
“You didn’t find my address on Google, did you? Because I never—”
“The Moosewood told me,” said Sari. “I stopped by; they said you were out sick. I tell them want to check on you and this woman, this Reggie, she helps me. This is for you, by the way.” She shoved the container she had been holding into Aerie’s hands, her expression barely containing its disgust. “Some kind of pumpkin or zucchini soup, I believe. Come. Put this soup away, dump it down the drain, whatever, and I’ll take you to get something a little more special. I am assuming you are not actually sick?”
“Um. Nah, I’m okay.”
“Put on some clothes,” said Sari. “Something fashionable, preferably. They don’t allow jeans where we are going.”
“Where are we going?”
“Fineline Bistro.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Heaven sends us good meat, the devil sends us cooks.”
“What?”
“That is their motto. You’re not actually vegetarian are you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Good.”
Aerie put on some black slacks and a white blouse that left Sari shaking your head as she watched from the bedroom door. “These things in your closet. Pitiful. A middle-schooler’s wardrobe. Worse—a tomboy middle-schooler.”
“I’m not … really into fashion.”
“Nooo!” said Sari, in mock surprise. “I need to take you shopping in Toronto. But not today, we have dinner to eat, matters to discuss.”
“What exactly are we discussing?”
“Music,” said Sari. “What else? What else do we have in common besides our vaginas? But not now. Over dinner. I’m famished.”
They went out and climbed into her Saab. The night was clear and cooling off rapidly. A jaundiced and bloated moon hung low over the heights.
Sari started the car and lurched out of the space. Her feet were heavy on the accelerator as well as the breaks. She was a contradiction on wheels, both sluggish and aggressive, wary and impulsive. She came to a stop sign with plenty of time to make a turn before the oncoming traffic, but waited too long, and surged out, cutting off a van.
“I want to thank you taking over some of my taxi duties,” said Sari. “The ride to Aaron’s house is so much more pleasant now, without Ron despoiling my car. Malachi is not so bad. I like Malachi. But he comes as a package deal with Ronald, who stinks, literally stinks like he never washes and he thinks insulting everyone is the proper way to make small talk.”
“I don’t mind them,” said Aerie. “They were actually very helpful to me.”
They passed the Chanticleer pub and its neon rooster. Aerie spotted a familiar figure standing on the corner, hands in pockets, mandolin case leaning against light post. Her face lit up as the Saab zipped past.
“Hey! That’s Eleni.”
Sari slammed on her brakes and twisted around to look.
“She’s waiting where she waits for her ride. Did not anyone one notify her about Aaron?”
“Ron said … that you did.”
“Phah! Do I have to do everything? For everyone?”
Eleni trotted up to the car. Aerie rolled down the window. “Hey guys! Running late? Or did you forget me?”
“There is to be no Production,” said Sari.
“Oh?”
“Aaron’s daughter had a car accident,” said Aerie. “He left town this morning.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.”
“Ah! Ah! I see a parking space. Eleni, we will be right with you.”
“Let me get out!” Aerie scrambled out the door. She stood with Eleni in front of a dive called Pete’s, watching Sari dart across the traffic, nearly clipping a bicyclist, and crosswise into a space that could barely accommodate her Saab.
“How long were you waiting?” said Aerie.
“Oh, I don’t know. About an hour.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I had nothing better to do. Me and my bodacious social life.”
After a struggle, the Saab shuddered to a halt, its back end jutting out into the road, impeding one lane of traffic.
“So what are you guys up to?” said Eleni.
“I have no idea,” said Aerie, glancing across the street at the gang of skater punks on the end of the Commons. The pair who had helped her was still there, but the group seemed to have accrued a few more friends.
Sari came skipping across the street, jangling her keys. “Come. Let’s eat.”
***
The restaurant seemed too chic for Ithaca, all exposed brick and fiery paint, brushed aluminum tables. It seemed excised and transplanted out of an actual city, a refuge for urban exiles in the hinterlands.
One look at Sari and the maître d’ smiled and led them immediately to a table by the window even though there was a line and they had no reservation. The waitress came by and chatted amiably with Sari about some gallery showing. She wore a buzz cut, thick glasses and some big, dangly hoop earrings. As she distributed the menus, Sari snatched them up and handed them back.
“Since this is my treat, I will do the ordering. Appletinis all around. For tapas, the rabbit wings and crab fritters, and the angel hair pasta for everyone.”
“Rabbit … wings?”
“Actually, the front paws. Battered and fried. For good luck.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“It’s scrumptious. Comes with a celery salad and Stilton aioli.”
Aerie took a deep breath.
“Now for business. With Aaron gone, yes there is no paycheck, but we have an opportunity. We can have our own public performance. To play in front of real, live people.”
“A gig?” said Aerie.
“Of course. I have another band, you realize. We can’t tour and rarely play out, because of Aaron’s bloody contract. You know what stipulation I’m talking about?”
“No.”
“That we can’t leave town without his permission, and are always on call, two hours notice any time of day or night.”
“I … didn’t realize that.”
“You signed the thing. Did you not read it?”
“I don’t know. I can’t stand reading legalese,” said Aerie, shrugging. “So if we leave town … what’s he gonna do, sue us?”
“Worse. He could terminate us,” said Eleni.
“It constrains my ambitions, to say the least,” said Sari. “My main band, Vida, had to gig without me last month when they played Ottawa and Toronto. Now Aaron, I must say, does not abuse this stipulation. My main band, Vida, has played Syracuse, Watkins Glen, for example. But when Aaron takes a holiday—”
“Holiday?” said Aerie.
Sari’s lips tightened. “When he goes away … we need to take advantage of this opportunity to perform. Thus, I have arranged for a gig, right here in Ithaca.”
“For … your other band … Vida?”
“For both bands,” said Sari. “A joint performance. You … we … the collective, believe it or not, would be the draw. I’m not sure if you realize the level of hype … no, not hype … mystique … that has built up around us here in Ithaca.”
“Nope. I had no idea,” said Aerie. The appletinis arrived. Tart. Dry. Not bad at all, she thought.
Eleni shifted in her seat. “It really is weird. People talk about us like we’re some kind of secret super-group, wood-shedding for a world tour or whatever.”
“Based on what?” said Aerie.
“Based on every unaffiliated musician for hundreds of miles auditioning for Aaron and failing,” said Sari. “We are the special ones. The crème-de-la-crème. The survivors.”
“Hmm,” said Aerie. “Mystique, huh?”
“And you now, with your background in big time jazz. We simply have to use your name in the marketing.”
“Big time? Not quite. Not even third tier. More like a hanger-on.”
“Oh? Then how is it I find your name mentioned in the Downbeat magazine? How many Ithaca musicians have enjoyed such a distinction?”
The cognitive dissonance rattling around Aerie’s skull wouldn’t go away. “Let me make sure I understand you correctly. You want us to perform the same stuff that Aaron makes us play, stuff that happens to make me sick to my stomach … in public? As your opening act?”
“Correct.”
“Sari, that’s insane. Who would want to listen to this crap?”
“You’d be surprised,” said Sari. “In my circles, anyway, people are quite curious. Not just other musicians, but the arts community in general. The cognoscenti.”
“Even the skaters would come, I bet,” said Eleni. “Not to mention the Goths and the Punks.”
“They might think they want to hear us, but … once we start playing, who’s gonna stick around? If you want people to hear Vida, Vida should go first.”
“You want Vida … to open … for the collective?” Sari’s eyes acquired a glaze. “That’s not how it works. You open. We … Vida … the main act, headline. You all are the sideshow that draws the curious. We give the people what they want to hear—the collective—and then we give them what they don’t know they should want—Vida—but they will want once they hear Vida play. Sublime, I tell you, and I’m saying this like a proud mother, mind you. It’s not solely due to my talents.”
