Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4

by Vol 4 (v1. 2) (epub)

  We did a few stands in France about that time—Listen to them holler!—and a couple of England and Sweden—getting better, too—and after a breather, we cut out across the States again.

  It didn't happen fast, but it happened sure. Something was sounding flat all of a sudden, like—wrong, in a way:

  During an engagement in El Paso, we had What the Cats Dragged In lined up. You all know Cats—the rhythm section still, with the horns yelling for a hundred bars, then that fast and solid beat, that high trip and trumpet solo? Sonny had the ups on a wild riff and was coming on down, when he stopped. Stood still, with the horn to his lips; and we waited.

  "Come on, wrap it up—you want a drum now? What's the story, Sonny?"

  Then he started to blow. The notes came out the same almost, but not quite the same. They danced out of the horn strop-razor sharp and sliced up high and blasted low and the cats all fell out. "Do it! Go! Go, man! Oooo, I'm out of the boat, don't pull me back! Sing out, man!"

  The solo lasted almost seven minutes. When it was time for us to wind it up, we just about forgot.

  The crowd went wild. They stomped and screamed and whistled. But they couldn't get Sonny to play anymore. He pulled the horn away from his mouth—I mean that's the way it looked, as if he was yanking it away with all his strength—and for a second he looked surprised, like he'd been goosed. Then his lips pulled back into a smile.

  It was the damndest smile!

  Freddie went over to him at the break. "Man, that was the craziest. How many tongues you got?"

  But Sonny didn't answer him.

  Things went along all right for a little. We played a few dances in the cities, some radio stuff, cut a few platters. Easy walking style.

  Sonny played Sonny—plenty great enough. And we forgot about what happened in El Paso. So what? So he cuts loose once—can't a man do that if he feels the urge? Every jazz man brings that kind of light at least once.

  We worked through the sticks and were finally set for a New York opening when Sonny came in and gave us the news.

  It was a gasser. Lux got sore. Mr. "T" shook his head.

  "Why? How come, Top?"

  He had us booked for the corn-belt. The old-time route, exactly, even the old places, back when we were playing razzmatazz and feeling our way.

  "You trust me?" Sonny asked. "You trust my judgment?"

  "Come off it, Top; you know we do. Just tell us how come. Man, New York's what we been working for—"

  "That's just it," Sonny said. "We aren't ready."

  That brought us down. How did we know—we hadn't even thought about it.

  "We need to get back to the real material. When we play in New York, it's not anything anybody's liable to forget in a hurry. And that's why I think we ought to take a refresher course. About five weeks. All right?"

  Well, we fussed some and fumed some, but not much, and in the end we agreed to it. Sonny knew his stuff, that's what we figured.

  "Then it's settled."

  And we lit out.

  Played mostly the old stuff dressed up—Big Gig, Only Us Chickens, and the rest—or head-arrangements with a lot of trumpet. Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky …

  When we hit Louisiana for a two-nighter at the Tropics, the same thing happened that did back in Texas. Sonny blew wild for eight minutes on a solo that broke the glasses and cracked the ceiling and cleared the dance floor like a tornado. Nothing off the stem, either—but like it was practice, sort of, or exercise. A solo out of nothing, that didn't even try to hang on to a shred of the melody.

  "Man, it's great, but let us know when it's gonna happen, hear!"

  About then Sonny turned down the flame on Rose-Ann. He was polite enough, and a stranger wouldn't have noticed, but we did, and Rose-Ann did—and it was tough for her to keep it all down under, hidden. All those questions, all those memories and fears.

  He stopped going out and took to hanging around his rooms a lot. Once in a while he'd start playing: one time we listened to that horn all night.

  Finally—it was still somewhere in Louisiana—when Sonny was reaching with his trumpet so high he didn't get any more sound out of it than a dog-whistle, and the front cats were laughing up a storm, I went over and put it to him flatfooted.

  His eyes were big, and he looked like he was trying to say something and couldn't. He looked scared.

  "Sonny … look, boy, what are you after? Tell a friend, man, don't lock it up."

  But he didn't answer me. He couldn't.

  He was coughing too hard.

  Here's the way we doped it: Sonny had worshiped Spoof, like a god or something. Now some of Spoof was rubbing off, and he didn't know it.

  Freddie was elected. Freddie talks pretty good most of the time.

  "Get off the train, Jack. Ol' Massuh's gone now, dead and buried. Mean, what he was after ain't to be had. Mean, he wanted it all and then some—and all is all, there isn't any more. You play the greatest, Sonny—go on, ask anybody. Just fine. So get off the train …"

  And Sonny laughed, and agreed and promised. I mean in words. His eyes played another number, though.

  Sometimes he snapped out of it, it looked like, and he was fine then—tired and hungry, but with it. And we'd think, He's okay. Then it would happen all over again—only worse. Every time, worse.

  And it got so Sonny even talked like Spoof half the time: "Broom off, man, leave me alone, will you? Can't you see I'm busy, got things to do? Get away!" And walked like Spoof—that slow, walk-in-your-sleep shuffle. And did little things—like scratching his belly and leaving his shoes unlaced and rehearsing in his undershirt.

  He started to smoke weed in Alabama.

  In Tennessee he took the first drink anybody ever saw him take.

  And always with that horn—cussing it, yelling at it, getting sore because it wouldn't do what he wanted it to.

  We had to leave him alone, finally. "I'll handle it … I-understand, I think … Just go away, it'll be all right …"

  Nobody could help him. Nobody at all.

  Especially not Rose-Ann.

  End of the corn-belt route, the way Sonny had it booked, was the Copper Club. We hadn't been back there since the night we planted Spoof—and we didn't feel very good about it.

  But a contract isn't anything else.

  So we took rooms at the only hotel there ever was in the town. You make a guess which room Sonny took. And we played some cards and bruised our chops and tried to sleep and couldn't. We tossed around in the beds, listening, waiting for the horn to begin. But it didn't. All night long, it didn't.

  We found out why, oh yes …

  Next day we all walked around just about everywhere except in the direction of the cemetery. Why kick up misery? Why make it any harder?

  Sonny stayed in his room until ten before opening, and we began to worry. But he got in under the wire.

  The Copper Club was packed. Yokels and farmers and high school stuff, a jazz "connoisseur" here and there—to the beams. Freddie had set up the stands with the music notes all in order, and in a few minutes we had our positions.

  Sonny came out wired for sound. He looked—powerful; and that's a hard way for a five-foot four-inch bald-headed white man to look. At any time. Rose-Ann threw me a glance and I threw it back, and collected it from the rest. Something bad. Something real bad. Soon.

  Sonny didn't look any which way. He waited for the applause to die down, then he did a quick One-Two-Three-Four and we swung into The Jimjam Man, our theme.

  I mean to say, that crowd was with us all the way—they smelled something.

  Sonny did the thumb-and-little-finger signal and we started Only Us Chickens. Bud Meunier did the intro on his bass, then Henry took over on the piano. He played one hand racing the other. The front cats hollered "Go! Go!" and Henry went. His left hand crawled on down over the keys and scrambled and didn't fuzz once or slip once and then walked away, cocky and proud, like a mouse full of cheese from an unsprung trap.

  "Hooo-
boy! Play, Henry, play!"

  Sonny watched and smiled. "Bring it on out," he said, gentled, quiet, pleased. "Keep bringin' it out."

  Henry did that counterpoint business that you're not supposed to be able to do unless you have two right arms and four extra fingers, and he got that boiler puffing, and he got it shaking, and he screamed his Henry Walker "WoooooOOOOO!" and he finished. I came in on the tubs and beat them up till I couldn't see for the sweat, hit the cymbal and waited.

  Mr. "T," Lux, and Jimmy fiddle-faddled like a coop of capons talking about their operation for a while. Rose-Ann chanted: "Only us chickens in the hen-house, Daddy, Only us chickens here, Only us chickens in the hen-house, Daddy, Ooo-bob-a-roo, Ooo-bob-a-roo …"

  Then it was horn time. Time for the big solo.

  Sonny lifted the trumpet—One! Two!—He got it into sight—Three!

  We all stopped dead. I mean we stopped.

  That wasn't Sonny's horn. This one was dented-in and beat-up and the tip-end was nicked. It didn't shine, not a bit.

  Lux leaned over—you could have fit a coffee cup into his mouth. "Jesus God," he said. "Am I seeing right?"

  I looked close and said: "Man, I hope not."

  But why kid? We'd seen that trumpet a million times.

  It was Spoof's.

  Rose-Ann was trembling. Just like me, she remembered how we'd buried the horn with Spoof. And she remembered how quiet it had been in Sonny's room last night …

  I started to think real hophead thoughts, like—where did Sonny get hold of a shovel that late? And how could he expect a horn to play that's been under the ground for two years? And—

  That blast got into our ears like long knives.

  Spoof's own trademark!

  Sonny looked caught, like he didn't know what to do at first, like he was hypnotized, scared, almighty scared. But as the sound came out, rolling out, sharp and clean and clear—new-trumpet sound—his expression changed. His eyes changed: they danced a little and opened wide.

  Then he closed them, and blew that horn. Lord God of the Fishes, how he blew it! How he loved it and caressed it and pushed it up, higher and higher and higher. High C? Bottom of the barrel. He took off, and he walked all over the rules and stamped them flat.

  The melody got lost, first off. Everything got lost, then, while that horn flew. It wasn't only jazz; it was the heart of jazz, and the insides, pulled out with the roots and held up for everybody to see; it was blues that told the story of all the lonely cats and all the ugly whores who ever lived, blues that spoke up for the loser lamping sunshine out of iron-gray bars and every hophead hooked and gone, for the bindlestiffs and the city slickers, for the country boys in Georgia shacks and the High Yellow hipsters in Chicago slums and the bootblacks on the corners and the fruits in New Orleans, a blues that spoke for all the lonely, sad, and anxious downers who could never speak themselves …

  And then, when it had said all this, it stopped, and there was a quiet so quiet that Sonny could have shouted:

  "It's okay, Spoof. It's all right now. You'll get it said, all of it—I'll help you. God, Spoof, you showed me how, you planned it—I'll do my best!"

  And he laid back his head and fastened the horn and pulled in air and blew some more. Not sad, now, not blues—but not anything else you could call by a name. Except … jazz. It was jazz.

  Hate blew out of that horn, then. Hate and fury and mad and fight, like screams and snarls, like little razors shooting at you, millions of them, cutting, cutting deep …

  And Sonny only stopping to wipe his lip and whisper in the silent room full of people: "You're saying it, Spoof! You are!"

  God Almighty Himself must have heard that trumpet, then; slapping and hitting and hurting with notes that don't exist and never existed. Man! Life took a real beating! Life got groined and sliced and belly-punched, and the horn, it didn't stop until everything had all spilled out, every bit of the hate and mad that's built up in a man's heart.

  Rose-Ann walked over to me and dug her nails into my hand as she listened to Sonny …

  "Come on now, Spoof! Come on! We can do it! Let's play the rest and play it right. You know it's got to be said, you know it does. Come on, you and me together!"

  And the horn took off with a big yellow blast and started to laugh. I mean it laughed! Hooted and hollered and jumped around, dancing, singing, strutting through those notes that never were there. Happy music? Joyful music? It was chicken dinner and an empty stomach; it was big-butted women and big white beds; it was country walking and windy days and fresh-born crying and—Oh, there just doesn't happen to be any happiness that didn't come out of that horn.

  Sonny hit the last high note—the Spoof blast—but so high you could just barely hear it.

  Then Sonny dropped the horn. It fell onto the floor and bounced and lay still.

  And nobody breathed. For a long, long time.

  Rose-Ann let go of my hand, at last. She walked across the platform, slowly, and picked up the trumpet and handed it to Sonny.

  He knew what she meant.

  We all did. It was over now, over and done …

  Lux plucked out the intro. Jimmy Fritch picked it up and kept the melody.

  Then we all joined in, slow and quiet, quiet as we could. With Sonny—I'm talking about Sonny—putting out the kind of sound he'd always wanted to.

  And Rose-Ann sang it, clear as a mountain wind—not just from her heart, but from her belly and her guts and every living part of her.

  For The Ol' Massuh, just for him. Spoof's own song:

  Black Country.

  The End

  © 1954 by Charles Beaumont. Reprinted by permission of Don Congdon Associates, Inc. Originally published in Playboy Magazine, September 1954.

  The White King's Dream

  Elizabeth A. Lynn

  The straps across her shoulders were cutting through the thin cloth gown. I'm cold, she thought. "Okay, Louise, time to wake up now," said a voice warm as honey—but I am awake, Luisa thought, and wondered why she could not see the light that she could feel falling on her eyes.

  "Baby, I'll move you into the sun while I change those dirty sheets. You messed the bed again, Louise. I know you can't help it, but I sure wish you wouldn't do it." At least I can hear, Luisa thought. She heard the voice, and a crying sound, quite close. The sheets were clammy under her. She smelled a stale and sour smell. The straps fell away. Something lifted her.

  She was afraid.

  She was set in a hard chair. The straps came back. The chair was metal and cold. Now she was sitting in the sunlight. She wanted to say thank you but her mouth would not move. The close crying sound increased. It was herself; she was crying. The stale sour scent was her own. Helen. Day shift. Every day began like this, except the days when it rained. Helen still came, then, to change her bedclothes, wash her, feed her, shove pills down her shriveled throat; but there was no sunlight to sit in when it rained, and they would never open the windows so that she could smell the rain. All she smelled was her own melting flesh. In Lord Byron there was a fat man crying to get out, and in me there is a skeleton wailing for release.

  "Baby, why you screwing up your face like that? Are you too hot?" No, Luisa wanted to scream, no, but Helen's inexorable hands pulled her out of the warmth and dumped her into her cold, barren bed. "Breakfast in a while, Louise. You just put your head back into the pillow and dream, now."

  Even dreams are dreams, Luisa thought. Y los sueños, sueños son. Dreams no longer meant sleep, and what good was sleep when she had to wake from it again? Sleep just meant the night shift, and then the day shift, the sun looking through the windows, busy old fool, unruly sun. Breakfast, she thought with loathing. They fed her with a tube down her throat. Sometimes they put a tube like an arm into her and pumped air through her, making her breathe. She hated tubes. Is that Freudian, she wondered, to hate tubes? She wanted to be back in the sunlight, in the warm. She began to cry again, a cat-mewl of sound. Helen might hear it; Helen listened, someti
mes, and might understand; and might put her back into the sun.

  "They just like babies," Helen said. "They're over ninety, most of them, and they can't hardly talk, but they can cry. If you watch their eyes you can figure out what it is they want—I can, anyways. You'll get the hang of it."

  I don't give a damn, thought Mark Wald. But he nodded. The odors of feces and ammonia fought in the halls. He hated the geriatrics homes, but it was the only place he could get work anymore; the hospitals wouldn't hire him. The best thing about this place is that the lockers are in the basement and I can go down there to do my drinking in private, the way a man should drink. Unhurried snorts. He would read—he had the latest paperback thriller in his locker now—and drink, slowly, decently. No one would notice on the graveyard shift. During the day there were five aides, three orderlies, two RNs on duty. Graveyard shift there were two orderlies, two aides, one RN, no baths to give or beds to make or people to feed. Stay up all night riding herd on a bunch of whimpering zombies—then go home and sleep till way past noon. Helen was still talking about the patients as if it mattered what they had once done or been. They were zombies now. This one had been a doctor. This one a lawyer. He pretended to listen as she stuck her head into every room.

  "Honey, what is it?"

  The old lady in the bed had a blind, wrinkled face like a sun-struck turtle. She whimpered. "You wet? No, you not wet. Straps too tight?" She loosened the posey straps that held the thin gawk of a woman in bed. "This is Louise; she was a teacher in a college." The sounds went on. Helen laid a broad black hand on the woman's forehead and reached for her pulse with the other. "Your pulse's okay. You cold? I could put you back in the sun."

  The crying stopped.

  "That's it, right? Okay, baby, we'll put you in the chair. This is Mark, here, he's a new night shift worker." She was taking off the cloth restraints as she talked. Mark pulled the wheelchair over to the bed. Together they let down the high sides of the bed, helped Luisa to a sitting position, picked her up, and put her in the chair. Her long fingernails scratched lightly against Mark's neck. He shuddered.