"Why not?" called Josh, who was fiddling with the trunk. He finally managed to get it open. "I go here all the time."
"You do?" I took another look at the place. What could possibly be so great about a run-down dive bar? "But I mean, how?" I asked. "You're not old enough. What, do you have a fake ID?" Of course, he did, I realized. Guys like Josh always know how to sneak into buildings and always have fake IDs. That’s just the way things are.
Josh laughed. "You've really led a sheltered life, Mel."
I glared. "Maybe, but I'm not going into that place if we're going to get busted. There are plenty of other things we could be doing."
He gave me his lopsided smile. "What, like play mini-golf? Look," he said, "just don't order any alcohol. If you don't do that, you'll be fine."
It wasn't like I was planning to drink anyway, but I still wasn't sure. "I'm old friends with the owners of this place," Josh explained. I now noticed that he had his trumpet with him. He nodded toward the entranceway. "Just stick with me and you'll be fine, okay? Stop worrying!"
"Okay," I said. I shrugged and walked in with him.
###
The inside of the bar wasn't much better looking than the outside. The lights were low, but even in the dim setting, I could see that the paint was peeling and there were chunks of plaster missing from the ceiling. Meanwhile, the tables all sat on an angle as if someone had gone around and sawed off part of each leg. Though no one was smoking inside, thanks to New York’s law, the thick odor of what seemed to be about 50 years of cigarettes still hung in the air. I went to put my stuff down at one of the ramshackle tables, but Josh stopped me.
"Come on," he said, beckoning me to join him. There are some people I want you to meet."
Josh led me past the bar and pool tables to the back where there was a tiny makeshift stage. On it sat a piano, a drum set and a little stand that held a sax, clarinet and flute. By one of the tables nearby sat three guys playing cards. They looked to be in their 50s, maybe even their 60s, but all were dressed like Josh in suit jackets and ties. He took me over to them.
"Hey, it's the Joshster!" exclaimed the tallest guy, who had wrinkles and a big nose. He stood up to hug Josh, his dark eyes twinkling. "It's been several weeks. We've missed you."
"I've been kind of busy," Josh said, indicating me with a wink and a smile.
"Yes, I see," said the second man, who was African-American and looked to be a few years younger than Wrinkled Guy. "Who's your lady friend?" He flashed me a smile that lit up his whole face. I immediately liked him.
"Melinda Rhodes, this is Chuck Davis" – Wrinkled Guy waved --"and Marty Johnson" --the African-American man smiled. "And that's Dave Douglas." The balding, overweight guy, who seemed to be the quietest out of them, gave me a nod and a grunt. "My mom used to work here," Josh explained to me. "These guys are old friends of the family."
"Nice to meet you." I tried to picture Lily as a cocktail waitress in a skimpy outfit, but couldn't.
"Mel here is a friend from band," Josh said. He wore a proud expression. "She's an awesome flute player. The best in our school." I blushed, pleased by Josh's praise.
"That's great," said Marty, nodding at me. "Do you play professionally?"
"No," I answered. "Do you?"
The men burst into laughter. I raised an eyebrow at them.
"Come now, Joshy," said Chuck, "You brought this pretty girl all the way down here and didn't even tell her why?"
My already red cheeks deepened in color at Chuck's compliment. It's not like men call me "pretty" that often.
"No time like the present for her to find out," Josh said. He led me to a seat in the bar.
###
I waited for a while, sipping a Diet Coke as I sat. Now that it was getting later, the bar was quickly filling up with people, most of them in groups. I felt pretty self-conscious since I was obviously underage and well, don't really look like someone who'd frequent a bar. But no one seemed to care. A couple of ladies with bleached-blonde hair sat down next to me and ordered up a round of beers. They didn't even seem to notice that I was at the table with them.
A few minutes later, Chuck walked to the front of the small stage. He fumbled at the mic and it made a loud squealing sound. One of the women at my table put her hands to her ears.
"Uh, sorry 'bout that," called Chuck as he adjusted the microphone. He spoke into it again. "Um, testing ... testing, 1 ...2 ..3." His buddies rolled their eyes. "Okay, it seems to be working," he called. He then cleared his throat and tried again. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, spreading his arms wide. "Thank you so much for coming out here tonight. We hope you eat good, drink good ... and tip great." The crowd laughed. "And now it's time for Chuck Davis and the B-Sharps ... and back by popular demand is Mr. Josh Kowalski!"
Everyone cheered as my jaw hit the ground. I figured we'd be seeing some kind of musical act, but I had no idea that Josh would be the main attraction.
The already dim lights lowered to almost total darkness; a few seconds later, the stage lights came on, bathing the entire room in soft blues and reds. Suddenly the Dew Drop Inn changed form and I could no longer see the decay in the ceilings and walls or the mis-matched nature of the chairs and tables. Instead the place glowed with a warmth I hadn't appreciated before. I took a more careful look around, this time taking in the rows of old photographs and art-deco jukebox. The bar wasn't merely old; it was full of history, full of people's stories. No wonder Josh loved it. He knew it was a "classic."
And then the B-Sharps began their set. I soon understood why Chuck and Marty had laughed when I'd asked them about their musical careers. Chuck was a master pianist, gliding over the keys as if they were made of water. His hands moved so quickly from one position to the next that I briefly wondered if he had more than one pair. Marty, meanwhile, treated his saxophone as if it were physically attached to him. Whenever he played a long note, he'd lean way back, pulling the instrument with him; when he zoomed through the fast passages, his whole body swayed as if he were dancing. From time to time, he'd also change to flute or clarinet, making the transitions so seamlessly that he appeared to be performing magic.
Doug, on the other hand, alerted us to his every move, banging and pounding the drums as if he were conjuring up a thunderstorm. I now understood why he was so quiet. He didn't need to speak since he was so loud on stage.
But it was Josh who got most of my attention. In his day-to-day life, he was almost always in motion —- snapping his fingers, drumming lightly against his steering wheel -- but all of his quirks came together when he played. He held his trumpet high above his head, the red and blue lights dancing off its bell. And when he blew through it, the warm tones enveloped me like a protective blanket. Throughout the entire set, he tapped his feet and bobbed his head in time to the music, though the sounds the escaped from his instrument weren't bound to any particular meter or scale. His improvised melodies spun the notes out into space in a way that defied their form and function, but at the same time his melodies made me feel a sense of nostalgia for something I couldn't quite place.
###
The quartet played for about 45 minutes, and I found myself enjoying each number more than the last. I was jolted out of what had felt like a daydream when they suddenly stopped for a break. As the audience burst into applause, Josh came to the edge of the stage and motioned for everyone to quiet down. I wondered what was going on.
"You guys are a great crowd tonight!" he announced. Everyone cheered. "It feels so great to be back after all these weeks. And to make up for the lost time, I've got a special treat for you. The sweet sounds of flutist Melinda Rhodes!"
Wait a second, did he just call me? Surely it had to be someone else with my name. But when I looked around, no one else budged. Josh peered into the audience, searching.
"Mel?" he called into the microphone. "You out there?"
Somehow I managed to make my legs stand up, but I still didn't move. Josh locked eyes with me and broke int
o a grin. "Come up here, Melinda," he said. "Don't be afraid."
"Yeah, go up there, Melinda," one of the blondes at my table repeated loudly. "Go see what the cutie wants."
I thought I was about to faint, but I made my way to the stage. Josh crouched down, ready to greet me.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"It'll be okay," he insisted. He motioned to the rest of the band. "Let's go, they're waiting."
My mouth fell open. "What..?" I realized what he was getting at. "Oh, no," I told him. "I don't play jazz! If I go up there, I'll make a complete fool of myself."
"No you won't," he insisted. "It's easy. I'll show you."
"But ... I don't even have my flute!"
He shrugged. "You can use Marty's."
"But ... but... but," I sputtered like a broken-down car.
"Come on, Melinda," the blonde called out again. I turned around and glared at her, but she was unfazed —- or really drunk. "Go on, honey," she slurred. "I know you can do it."
"Yeah, come on, Mel," Josh said, chuckling. He grabbed the mic. "Everyone, let's help my friend out here."
"Mel, Mel, Mel, Mel," a low chant began.
"Mel, Mel, Mel!" Josh chimed in. He signaled to the crowd, encouraging everyone to join in.
"MEL, MEL, MEL, MEL!" everyone yelled. I sighed and climbed up onto the stage, figuring that since I was already thoroughly humiliated, nothing could be worse. The bar erupted into hoots and hollers.
"Yeah, Mel!" a guy in the back cried. "Wooooo!"
As I looked out into the crowd, which now seemed to be made up of about a million people, I wondered if this was really a dream, you know, like the kind where you show up to school naked and then find out that you have to give a report.
But this was no dream. Dreams don't smell like rancid beer.
###
The noise died down as Josh handed me Marty's flute. I took it, but the instrument felt unfamiliar in my hands. "Now just do what I do," Josh murmured to me, as he led me to a seat. "Chuck's going to play an opening riff on the keyboard. After eight measures, Marty will come in, and then I will. Next it'll be your turn."
I groaned, seriously questioning my sanity and Josh's. Yet I actually sat down and held the flute to my lips. "The song starts in F and transitions to G and then C at the bridge," Josh informed me. "Just stay in those keys as best you can. And remember, there are no wrong notes. It's entirely in your hands."
That didn't make me feel much better, but I brightened as Chuck and Dave began the jaunty melody. This was one of those tunes that just repeats itself over and over again, so by the time Josh and Marty were playing their parts, I had it stuck in my head. Josh pulled back his trumpet to smile at me as I —- somewhat successfully —- followed along. I've always been able to play along with the radio, so this was a little like that. Only when I played by ear, I usually didn't have hordes of people watching me and waiting for me to mess up.
I was beginning to have fun as we repeated the verse, but Josh wasn't going to let me off so easily. "Now improvise," he instructed. Marty and Chuck were busy switching off verses of their own.
"How?" I whispered.
"Just do it," he said.
I took a deep breath and envisioned each scale in my head. I then began to randomly choke out notes. At first, I'm sure I sounded like a dying bird, but after a few measures, improvising became easier. I added in some more complicated runs and trills, being careful to keep in time with Chuck and Dave. I didn't sound nearly as accomplished as Josh or Marty but my solo was well, passable. The urge to vomit left me.
After what seemed like forever, my turn came to an end and Chuck finished up the tune with a round of arpeggios and flourishes. Josh motioned for me to stand up and take a bow. I was shocked when the crowd went wild, jumping out of their seats and cheering. Josh was applauding, too.
###
We left the club around eleven-thirty, though given how long my solo had been, I was sure it was more like four in the morning. I waved goodbye to Chuck and Marty, winding through the crowd in a daze. Once we got to the parking lot, I broke out of my haze and shoved Josh as hard as I could.
"You ass!" I shouted. He doubled over with laughter. "Why the hell did you do that to me? I nearly died out there!"
"You didn't die," he said in between giggles. "They loved you out there. You were a hit."
"I thought I was going to pee in my pants."
He wiped a tear from his eye. "Then maybe you wouldn't have been such a hit. But really," he said, getting more serious, "you did a great job. I was impressed."
I blushed and ran my hand through my hair. "It was very cool being up on stage," I admitted.
"Isn't it?" he agreed, his eyes shining. "Those guys are the best. And we had a great crowd, too. It's always so much better when you have a good audience."
"I couldn't believe they were all chanting for me. I mean, who chants for a flute player?"
"They wanted to see if you’re really talented," he reasoned, "and you proved that you are."
"There are much better ways I could've done that," I replied.
Josh smirked. "Like what? Playing in recitals your whole life? That's nice and everything, but it's so tame. Wasn't this so much better, Mel?" he asked, leaning in close. I shivered. "Wasn't it nice playing without the constraints of sheet music... getting the chance to be free?"
I nodded. "It was. It was kind of like being in control and out of control at the same time."
"That's it exactly!" he exclaimed.
I pointed a finger at him. "But if I ever do this again --and that's a big 'if' -- please give me some warning. I like being prepared."
Josh rolled his eyes. "What fun is that?"
CHAPTER 10
As November approached, my schoolwork piled up. Since the holidays were now right around the corner, every teacher rushed to cram in assignments. I'd hardly gotten any sleep, and by the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I was a mess.
"Last night I dreamt about molecules," I complained to Josh on our now-routine ride to school. "I was being chased by big complex carbohydrates that wanted to be broken down."
"You really need to get some rest," he replied, peering into my bloodshot eyes. "You're exhausted. You're gonna kill yourself."
"It's just for a few more days. Once Thanksgiving comes, I'll have plenty of time to practice and paint ... and sleep." Though I was looking forward to spending more time in my nice, comfy bed, I was also anxious to finish my paintings. By now I'd done six of my latest series, each with a different "scene" in what should've been the white of the eye. I didn't care what Lana said; I thought they looked cool. And I liked having them surround my bed. It was as if they were watching over and protecting me.
"So that's the exciting weekend you have planned?" Josh said. "No big turkey dinner or watching football games?"
I made a face. "Are you kidding me? My dad'll probably spend most of his day at the hospital and my mom will be with my grandfather. Then when they come home, my mom will probably serve up some kind of disgusting health food and then they'll find something to lecture me about." I sighed. "Not fun." Truth be told, I wasn't even sure I was going to show my face at dinner this year. Last year, she and my dad got into a huge argument about his mother; they then forgot to take the turkey out of the oven and it burned to a crisp. This year, Mom already sat me down to discuss the menu and which items she thought I could eat. "You can't have gravy," she told me, "or the creamed spinach or pumpkin pie. I know it's a special occasion but it's during the holidays that people gain the most weight. Stick to the white meat turkey and the peas and carrots." Yeah, this was not exactly going to be the all-American dinner they show on TV. Those families never have to resort to eating dry turkey and canned veggies. Yum!
"Well, you're lucky that you're at least getting to do something for the holiday," Josh said, sounding wistful. "My mom has to work at the diner that night so it's going to be me, a big bag of chips and a Twilight Zone marathon." He hum
med a few measures of the Twilight Zone theme. "Who knows?" he said in his best imitation of a horror movie voice, "Maybe I'll be sucked into another dimension! Bwahaha."
"Stop," I said, laughing. I had an idea. "Know what? You should come to our house."
He snorted. "After the description you just gave me? How can I resist?"
"Oh come on," I said, ignoring his sarcasm. "It'll be fun. With you there, my parents will be on their best behavior and I might even be able to sneak in some real food."
Josh's eyes widened. "I just can't believe that I'm finally going to meet the legendary Hank and Lydia."
"If you tell them that, they'll love you," I said. I knew that I was setting myself up for aggravation by bringing Josh. Mom would want to know if he's my boyfriend and then wouldn't understand when I explained that we're just friends. My dad would probably just grunt, annoyed that he had to make small talk with a stranger. But I hated the thought of Josh sitting at home alone when he could be near me. Introducing him to my parents would most likely suck, but having him over would give me something to look forward to.
"I guess it's about time you met them," I said. "Though I'm warning you, my folks are weird. Don't expect them to be like your mom, who's you know, all welcoming. Mine will probably treat you like a freak or a criminal until you can prove otherwise. Prepare to enter the vortex of suckitude!" I held out my arms for effect.
Josh cracked up. "See now, that really does sound like The Twilight Zone."
###
As I predicted, my parents were not pleased to be getting a dinner guest.
"Mel, I have so much to do this weekend," my mom complained as we sat chopping vegetables. In order to get into their good graces, I'd picked up some groceries on the way home and got right to work preparing the food. "I have to go see my father; I also volunteered to help serve the holiday lunch at his home. I don't have time to prepare a feast." She furiously hacked at the carrots, gripping her knife so tightly her knuckles turned white.
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