Swing
Page 8
Practicing
YOU DREW THIS FOR SAM?
No, not for her.
You know what I mean, dude. WOW! This is not just
drawing. This is game-changing, paradigm-shifting-ish
stuff, Noah!
Floyd said paint her a world, or something like that.
Dang, you did the thing. What is this, some kind of post-
modern, collage mashup love letter?
You’re crazy, bro!
I’m serious. I don’t know what you call it, but it’s dope.
It’s mixed media.
I mean, I knew you could draw, but this is next level.
Who’s your influence?
Who’s my influence?
Yeah, every great artist has another artist who inspires them.
Picasso, I guess. Lately, I been looking at a lot of art by
Romare Bearden.
You know he played baseball.
He’s an artist.
Yeah, but before he was an artist . . . I think this is the
universe calling us, Noah.
Huh?
In his previous life, he was an amazing pitcher in the Negro
Leagues. He played for the Tigers and got recruited by the
Philadelphia Athletics, but he didn’t accept their offer.
Why?
They wanted him to pass as a white player.
Why?
’Cause America is crazy like that sometimes, especially like
fifty years ago. He never played professional ball again.
Instead—
He became one of the most talented collage artists of all
time. That’s pretty cool, Walt.
You ever been to any exhibits of his work?
A bunch. Online.
Not online, like in person?
We don’t have any museums around here.
There’s a bunch of museums.
Like two hours away.
Ever heard of a bus or a train? Or your new truck? C’mon,
Noah.
I can see all the Picasso and Bearden I want thanks to
Google.
Not the same as an exhibit.
I saw some art in person, when I was little. I think I went
to a children’s museum. I remember they had a lot of
naked animal sculptures.
Wait, aren’t all animals naked?
My point is, I’ve been to a few museums. But Google is
my friend.
Dude, you think Miles Davis just listened to recorded
music? No, he snuck into jazz clubs when he was fifteen.
He listened to jazz live. LIVE!
. . . .
You think Picasso googled for inspiration?
I doubt he had WIFI.
You get my point. If you want to be an artist, you need to
see art. Up close and personal. Originals. Hold it in your
third eye. Smell it.
Smell it, huh?
I’ve been to opening day of the Yankees every year for the
past twelve years. You know why?
’Cause your uncle got you tickets?
You’re exhausting. Your proclivity for not hugging life is
just exhausting.
So, like you were saying, you think this piece of art is
dope? I ask, holding up my masterpiece.
Very. You gonna show it to her?
NOPE! One step at a time. I was just messing around.
I thought you were gonna tell her today.
Maybe tomorrow.
Saddle up, Noah, it’s time to go surfing.
I’m guessing that is another metaphor, because we live a
hundred miles from any body of water.
The wave’s a-calling, my dude.
Yeah, well, so is school. We’re outta here in fifteen
minutes. Be ready.
A Clue?
As we pull up
to Starbucks,
Walt sees
this old musician
trumpeting a song,
and collecting money
in an old instrument case
that has an American flag
affixed to it.
Maybe he’s our flag guy?
I’ve seen him before.
Really? Where?
Kinda looks like Dizzy Gillespie. I saw him once outside
the thrift store, then I saw him near the batting cages.
Who, Dizzy?
No, him, he says, nodding toward the homeless guy with
the big cheeks blowing the horn.
Hey, Youngbloods, the man says, y’all want a song?
You know any Dizzy Gillespie? Walts asks.
Youngblood, that’s like asking Nelson Mandela if he knows
freedom.
December 5, 2013, anti-Apartheid icon, freedom fighter,
human rights activist, father of modern South Africa.
After twenty-seven years of wrongful imprisonment, after
walking out of prison a free man to thunderous applause,
after becoming president of South Africa, he succumbed to
tuberculosis, respiratory infection, and old age. And, BAM!
Amen, says the trumpet player, who then starts playing a
tune, a tribute.
Patriot
That’s Hugh Masekela, Walt says. “Grazing in the Grass.”
That’s the one, the old man says.
The name’s Swing. Nice to meet you.
Robert, says the man.
You from around here? I ask.
I’m from everywhere. I like to say my home is vast and
includes eight continents.
. . . .
The eighth one being the largest and the hardest to get to. I
sleep where my feet land.
Wait, didn’t I see you by the thrift store a month or so ago?
Ahhh, the thrift store. I found these new-old shades to keep
the sun out of my eyes, he says, lifting the frames so we
can see his big, bug eyes.
You get the flag there too? Walt asks, thinking he’s being
clever.
I collect a lot of stuff out here on the road. Somebody gave
it to me.
I’m just asking ’cause we’ve had some drama.
Oh yes, I heard. Flags stirring up a heap of something in
the people. Like I say, when you get lost, let the music find
you. A little bit of jazz might save this place.
I couldn’t agree more, Walt says, smiling and nodding in
agreement.
You get on stage, you gotta have respect for all the
musicians around you—sax, drums, keys, bass—even if
you don’t like ’em. You like their sound. What they bring.
So, you learn to work together. This world is big enough for
us all to play in one great orchestra.
That’s deep.
That’s Wynton Marsalis, Youngblood.
. . . .
I’m Noah, I say, to fill the awkward silence.
Do you know who gave you the flag? Walt asks. Did you
see the person?
I have seen someone. But I can’t say who. Could be you.
Could be me. Could be anybody.
Could be Herbie Hancock, Walt says, with a smirk.
What you think you know about Herbie Hancock? he says,
laughing big and wide, his gapped white teeth front and
center.
He’s in my top five, for sure.
You got Herbie on keyboard?
I got Oscar on keyboards. Miles on trumpet—
Bird on saxophone. Ella singin’—
And Herbie as bandleader.
Youngblood, you alright with me. As for the flags, I can’t
help you. Could be you. Could be me. Could be anyone.
What does that mean, “could be anyone”? I say.
Look, Youngblood, the flag means a lot of different things
to a lot of different folks. But the one thing it should mean
for everyone is freedom. Mind, body, and soul. Red, white,
and blue. America the beautiful. The greatest love story
yet to be. Remember this, love gotta always win, gotta be
sincere. Hate that which is evil, and hold fast to everything
that is good and righteous, ya hear me?
I hear you on that, Swing says, looking at me.
I stand there,
caught up in
his words,
wanting to say something,
but not knowing
what.
He clears his throat.
His eyes sparkle,
but his forehead crinkles
with a seriousness
that speaks volumes
all on its own.
He puts his lips
to trumpet,
puffs out
his cheeks,
and all the
patriotic notes come
spilling forth.
America the Beautiful!
The line
is too long
at Starbucks,
so Swing skips
his coffee.
In class, he wears
his old headphones
made sometime
in the 1900s.
Wears them proudly
like they’re the latest
Beats or Bose.
He’s napping
during study hall
with the volume
way too high.
Primer Two
Can’t skip my latte, Noah. Deadens my woohoo.
You’re awake?
Just resting my eyes.
Um-hum.
Listen to this, he says, putting the headphones on me.
What am I listening to?
Tell me what you hear.
Jazz music, I guess.
Listen to it. Really listen to it, Noah. Let it envelop you.
Seep into you. Then, tell me what you feel, my dude.
. . . .
Park of Love
I don’t know, I guess
I feel like I’m at a park,
running from slide to slide,
climbing ladders,
hanging upside down,
swinging on the big swings,
eating ice cream,
ending the day with a mad kiss
under the jungle gym.
That’s kind of how the song
makes me feel.
This is a song
about living it up
with your crush.
Right?
WRONG!
Walt says, laughing out loud.
Honest guess, though.
It’s a tune called
“Your Feet’s Too Big.”
It’s literally about
someone’s feet being too big.
Fats Waller made it famous.
Died of pneumonia December 15, 1943
going cross-country
on a Super Chief train.
VROOOOM, then BAM!
After the Lecture on Jazz
I see Cruz
and Sam
in the hallway,
entwined
in love.
She kisses him
loudly and
my eyes sting
with the noise of it.
I try to slide by
unnoticed.
But I can feel her
catching up
to me.
Noah, stop! she calls out. I need to talk with you. It’s
important.
I turn around. You okay?
I don’t know.
Did something happen?
Meet me for lunch.
In the cafeteria?
No.
Where?
Meet me at your car. We’re eating out.
But I brought my lunch.
Bring it with you then.
Where?
Pizza Inn.
Okay.
A Big Hiccup
We sit
across from each other
drinking
flat sodas,
eating
cheap buffet pizza
so dry,
it gives us both
hiccups.
I stare at her,
wonder
if she knows,
if Walt told her,
if she sees
into my sappy soul
and realizes I’m
a silly, lovelorn
sap.
She reaches
into her purse
and hands me
a manila envelope
like it’s top secret.
Why are you acting all Mission: Impossible, Sam?
Look at this, Noah. OMG, look at this, she whispers as I
open it.
Written at the top
in block letters
is:
To: Sam
From: X.
Heart Attack
Someone snuck it into my bag.
Someone? I ask.
Is Walt pranking me?
. . . .
Noah, is he?
C’mon, Sam, why would he do that? I say, wishing I’d
had the courage to own my cool, despite my fury.
Sounds like something Walt would do. It can’t be Cruz.
He’s not romantic like this. I mean, he’s sorta romantic.
But he’s never been romantic this way before. And, do not
tell him about this.
. . . .
Who do you think it might be? She shoots me the look I
can’t resist.
It takes every ounce of community theater experience
I’ve got, which is very little, to act like I’ve never seen it
before.
I don’t know, I respond.
How long is two thousand seasons?
Like a hundred or two hundred years? Have you known
anyone that long?
Stop being silly, Noah. I’m serious. We need to figure this
out. I’m feeling a certain kind of way.
Like bad?
Not bad. Like something else. It feels nice, I guess.
. . . .
Awww . . . you’re blushing. I did too, when I first read it.
I’m not blushing, I want to tell her. I’m pissed. I’M
PISSED! She pinches my cheek. Why would Walt do
this to me?
So . . .
No idea.
Could be a stalker.
Yeah.
She looks at me. Studies my face.
For a second, I worry
she knows what I know,
that everything isn’t copacetic.
Written
all over her face
is a smile
peeking through
the confusion,
a hint
of hope
that this
could be real.
It is, I want to tell her,
just not like this.
Not today. NOT NOW!
What is even realer is
someone’s gonna
pay dearly.
Please don’t tell anybody about this, Noah.
Okay.
I mean it. Not one person. Promise.
Promise.
Don’t lie.
What do you mean?
You know you’re gonna tell Walt. Y’all tell each other
everything. You’re like old church ladies.
. . . .
But no one else, okay?
I got it, I repeat as she finishes her pizza.
We get up,
and she walks away
on a cloud
of happy.
Truth
Never
<
br /> been
a
violent
person
but
right
now
I
feel
like
going
to
batting
practice
on
Walt’s
head.
I walk
up to him
in the hallway,
but before
I can commence
swinging, he says:
Before you say anything,
I did it
for your own good,
and you even said
it was time
to take
the training wheels off,
and every single word
was true, was it not,
and there should be
a statute
of limitations
on unrequited love.
When Your Best Friend Is Trying to Ruin Your Life
She doesn’t know who it’s from, so don’t worry! There’s still
time to make this love shine brighter.
. . . .
You think I did this to you? I did it FOR you, homeboy.
You needed help. You needed that push.
. . . .
I’m not gonna just let you sit there and watch the world go
by, while the girl of your dreams gets swept up in life.