Ladies and Gentlemen...The Redeemers

by Michael Scott Miller

  On Charlie’s first day at the Woodlands, he had what one might call beginner’s luck, hitting the daily double and two exactas over the course of the day. He loved the excitement -- the hustle of people to the ticket counters, everyone gathering near the finish line to watch, the screams of encouragement and frustration. And of course it was really fun to walk home with a couple hundred more dollars than he’d started the day with.

  Predictably, the luck ran out pretty quickly, and Charlie gave back the couple hundred dollars and more over the next few months. His personal decline gained momentum as he started trying to recoup the losses by placing progressively larger bets. He continued to play saxophone at Maggie’s four nights a week, but most weeks, he’d lost his paycheck before the week was out. He was able to get by for a while since he was living at home, but that arrangement was not to last indefinitely.

  Several months later and deeper into the abyss, Charlie’s obsession starting affecting his concentration at the club. The other band members, well aware of the goings on, tried to help but without success.

  Eventually, Charlie became convinced that the races were fixed against him. Unable to rationally call it quits, he decided that the answer lay in Las Vegas, where he could win back what he’d lost by playing cards, a game where his fortune wouldn’t be open to any external manipulation. He managed to stay on at Maggie’s for a few more months, stayed away from the track, and saved up enough money to make the journey to Nevada.

  Once in Las Vegas, Charlie found a job doing landscape work for a company that maintained the grounds at several of the casinos. The work was grueling, laboring in the dirt and weeds under the hot Las Vegas sun, but it paid Charlie enough money to get a small studio apartment. He also managed to hook up with a small jazz band that played a bar called the Gin Joint on Friday and Saturday nights. The performing wasn’t very satisfying, and the pay was only fifty dollars a night, but it offered a little extra income and an outlet for the saxophone, his only passion other than gambling.

  Charlie learned to count cards and began playing blackjack regularly at Stardust. Because of his counting skill, he held his own pretty well for a while. But eventually the odds caught up with him. He kept raising his stakes, and most often, by the end of the week, he was back to zero cash and anxiously awaiting his next paycheck.

  Charlie’s three troublesome years in Las Vegas mercifully neared the end one spring, when he found himself two months late with the rent and threatened with eviction by his landlord. Worse yet, he was close to maxing out the ten-thousand-dollar credit line that his two jobs and frequent gaming had earned him at the casino.

  Near the end of June, Charlie got the inevitable eviction notice from the landlord. He also now owed the casino the full ten thousand dollars he had managed to lose at the tables. Desolate, alone, and needing to get out of town, Charlie telephoned his cousin Randy in San Francisco. Charlie didn’t want to go back home and face his mother, and besides, he thought the Pacific Coast might be a refreshing change.

  Randy and Charlie had been close as children, and even though they kept in touch less regularly as adults, Randy had been happy to hear from Charlie. Randy was in no position to give Charlie much financial support, but after listening to Charlie’s predicament, he agreed to wire the bus money for Charlie to make the trip.

  Once in San Francisco, Randy agreed to take Charlie in to his apartment if he ultimately contributed toward the rent. Randy worked as the night doorman at one of the city’s high-rise apartment buildings, which afforded him a modest apartment in the Hayes Valley section of the city. Thankful to have a roof over his head, Charlie agreed to Randy’s terms and moved in.

  Not having had much luck on the receiving end of gambling, Charlie came up with a new scheme. He remembered watching games of three-card monte being played on the sidewalks of his neighborhood as a kid and decided to teach himself the technique. He spent days and days practicing the card movements, getting quicker and quicker, and ultimately took to the subway corridors. He kept his saxophone with him to play during breaks from the game, which provided the sole real fulfillment in his life.

  * * *

  Bert was in awe as Charlie let out the final wail of his saxophone and thrust it downward to conclude the five-minute impromptu jam. “Wow!” he exclaimed, beaming. “You’re way better on the sax than you are at cards.”

  Charlie laughed. “Been doing it a lot longer. It’s a lot more satisfying too. Unfortunately, it doesn’t pay the bills as well.”

  “Your luck is about to change, my friend,” responded Bert. He went on to tell Charlie his vision of the band and how Abe was already on board.

  When Bert finished his plea, Charlie asked him, “How do I know you’re not hustling me, like you just hustled me with the cards?”

  “I didn’t hustle you,” Bert reminded him. “I gave you back all your money. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  Charlie thought about it for a moment, then grinned and extended his hand to shake. “All right. Count me in. What have I got to lose at this point?”

  Flushed with his small success, Bert took his leave and made the long walk down to the wharf to fulfill the pledge he had made to himself. The downward spiral was starting to reverse, he thought. As he approached the rail that separated the promenade from the water below, he reached into his pocket and extracted the bottle of Old Granddad, still two-thirds full. He unscrewed the top, took one last swig, and then ceremoniously hurled the bottle into San Francisco Bay. He watched the bottle bob on the waves until it disappeared from view.

  Chapter 3 – Dave

  Dave Hollaway effortlessly struck the keys of the piano while the crowd of blue-haired ladies surrounding it belted out, off key, the lyrics of “You Are My Sunshine,” “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” and “God Bless America.” He maintained a forced smile as he delivered his repertoire of moldy standards.

  The Cypress Gardens Retirement Community was having its seventeenth annual

  Summer under the Stars event, and Dave had been hired as the evening’s entertainment. The upright piano from the community clubhouse had been moved outside under a massive white canvas tent. Next to the piano, assembled in the center of the tent, a makeshift dance floor was surrounded by round tables, each accommodating eight of the community’s residents. Dave estimated the crowd at about 120 people.

  Dave hated these events. He was a music snob, and for good reason. Beginning at age eight, he had been trained as a classical pianist. He worked tirelessly on his lessons and practiced religiously. He could play any piece of music placed in front of him as if he had been practicing it for weeks. And he could write music.

  Dave’s passion was classical music, and he was decidedly intolerant of jazz, rock, soul, and most any other style.

  Throughout his younger days, Dave had participated in the school orchestras, and after high school he’d attended Sonoma State University, majoring in music with a performance concentration. Right out of school, he was snatched up by the Monterey Symphony. Dave’s charted course was right on schedule.

  The community orchestra performed an annual concert series of eight programs per year in Monterey and Salinas, in local halls that seated a thousand listeners.

  Dave thought that life couldn’t get much better. He wasn’t making much money since the community orchestra paid him less than ten thousand dollars for the season, but he was doing what he’d always wanted, and the money didn’t matter much since he was still living with his parents. The Monterey position was sure to be a springboard to his ultimate goal.

  The recognition and experience with the symphony allowed Dave to supplement his income and his schedule with other opportunities such as performing at summer concerts in the local parks and playing dinner music at functions. He also filled his time working as the pianist at the Grandview Hotel in Monterey, providing the lounge music on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, sharing the schedule with another pianist in order to keep time in his schedule for the
symphony engagements and rehearsals.

  Toward the end of his third season, Dave decided that he had ridden his experience with the Monterey Symphony as far as he could and started scouring the trade publications. After several interviews and auditions, he landed a position with the Santa Cruz County Symphony. With improved wages, Dave was excited about the opportunity to leave home and strike out on his own.

  The Santa Cruz Symphony was a step up in size from Monterey and routinely played before audiences numbering 2,000. Dave packed his few worldly possessions and moved to Santa Cruz, finding a tiny efficiency apartment in the downtown area. As a gift, his parents generously let Dave keep the baby grand piano that had adorned their living room. It took the movers nearly two hours to get the piano up the narrow hallway and through the door, and when they were done, it took up a full quarter of Dave’s living space. But he didn’t care. He was chasing the dream.

  Dave stuck around in Santa Cruz for the next four years. He enjoyed his time with the orchestra, but since it didn’t fully support him either, he continued to supplement his income with a variety of other engagements.

  As the years went by, Dave routinely kept one eye on the audition postings for bigger and better opportunities, seeking the next in the series of stepping stones that would lead to one of the nation’s top orchestras. As his schedule permitted, he traveled the country, going from audition to audition. But time after time, all that appeared in his mailbox were appreciative, complimentary rejection notices.

  Eventually the Santa Cruz gig wore thin. Dave needed a more significant income, so he continued his migration northward, accepting a job teaching piano to aspiring children at the San Francisco School of Music.

  Dave found that he enjoyed teaching classical piano, but at the same time, he grew increasingly frustrated by the shift in his musical career from performance to instruction. Those who can’t do, teach, he thought to himself, letting the old adage become fulfilled.

  His musical dreams moved a step farther from his reach when he married Ann Feldman a couple of years later. Ann taught violin at the school and started there at about the same time as Dave. Unlike Dave, however, Ann’s first love was teaching, and she never fully understood why Dave derived so little satisfaction from spreading his boundless knowledge to the students. Granted, she understood his disappointment in failing to achieve his goals. And certainly she was supportive. But Ann was the sort who found delight in everything she did and didn’t set herself up with a limited, binary measure of success or failure.

  One year into the marriage, Ann announced to Dave that she was pregnant. Dave was elated at the news, and the couple was overjoyed when their baby girl, Kate, was delivered several months later. In the ensuing discussions about their financial status, Ann and Dave struggled with whether Ann should return to work and put Kate in some form of child care center. Ann really wanted to be at home and raise Kate full time, at least until she reached school age. Realistically, the cost of child care would have eaten up most of her salary anyway. In the end, the two decided that Dave would look for work outside the school to supplement his income and Ann would stay at home.

  One day, a colleague of Dave’s at the school approached him with an opportunity to do some writing. A local advertising agency needed someone to create the music for television commercials. Dave’s first reaction was violent opposition. He had worked too hard to sell out, hadn’t he?

  After some persuasion, Dave grudgingly stopped by the agency’s offices the next day to see the creative director, Harold Himes. Dave took a seat across the desk in Harold’s well-appointed office. The walls were covered virtually end to end with advertising images and awards.

  “Here is a DVD containing the video for a car commercial we have in the works,” Harold began after the two men exchanged pleasantries. “I’d like you to work on the audio track.”

  Harold went on to explain to Dave how the agency works and how much Dave would be compensated if the agency bought the piece from Dave.

  Dave nodded his understanding. Feeling a bit uncomfortable and not having much more to say, Dave stood up to leave.

  As they shook hands, Harold asked, “By the way, Dave, what got you interested in writing for commercials?”

  “Honestly, Harold, I’m not,” Dave replied matter-of-factly. Dave managed a brief smile and then left the office.

  * * *

  Two days later, the phone rang at Dave’s house.

  “If this is what you can produce when you aren’t interested in writing for commercials, I’d love to see what you could do if you were,” came Harold Himes’ voice over the phone. “You totally nailed it, Dave.”

  Dave had dropped off his completed soundtrack at the agency 24 hours after receiving the DVD of the commercial. The Lincoln-Mercury ad had featured a man and a woman in formal wear, driving an elegant, mid-sized black sedan comfortably through city streets, then out on open country roads, and finally making precise turns around a windy mountain road before pulling through iron gates and into the circular driveway in front of a mansion. Guests at the estate were congregating on the front steps of the house and in the adjoining gardens, sipping wine and eating hors d’oeuvres. When the car pulled up, all conversation stopped and attention shifted to the couple in the car.

  Dave’s soundtrack now contributed a soft, lilting melody to the opening sequence. As the scene shifted from city to country to mountains, Dave shifted the music along with it, from a choppy strain accompanying the bustling city streets, to a serene, flowing sound for the country, rising to a thunderous, pulsating beat for the mountain scenes, and finally returning to the opening theme as the car entered the estate.

  Dave allowed himself a tinge of pride at Harold’s comments. He always enjoyed the recognition of his talents, and while money was clearly the driver that had led him to Harold, music for him was always more about appreciation and esteem than anything else.

  “Thanks, Harold. I’m happy to hear that. I hate to say it, but it came to me kind of naturally.”

  “If you’re game, I can have our legal folks here write up a contract for us. I’d love to work with you,” Harold replied.

  Won over by the admiration, Dave agreed to the offer, and thus began Dave’s journey into commercial background music.

  In the beginning, Dave kept the music true to himself, composing variations on classical themes to support the commercials. As time went on, however, and the agency asked him to work in a broader range, he was forced to let down his guard and craft the music in a variety of styles. It wasn’t comfortable, but the additional income Dave derived from the agency supplemented his relatively modest teaching income.

  A few years later, in the midst of an economic downturn, the agency was unable to sustain itself and closed its doors.

  During this same period, Ann had given birth to Jack, a baby boy. Dave was still teaching and doing some performing at events to support the now expanded family, but he couldn’t afford the gap in his income created by the agency’s closure.

  He continued to play classical music wherever he could, but out of necessity took a job playing piano by the escalators at a shopping mall department store. Next came the sing-along bar. As if playing piano as background shopping music weren’t bad enough, Dave found a new level of humiliation for a classically trained musician when he became the featured pianist at a club called Harmony.

  On Friday and Saturday nights, Dave would sit at a grand piano placed on a round, slowly rotating stage at the center of the crowded bar. At nine o’clock, he would start playing pop tunes, and for the first hour or so, for the most part the small but growing crowd let Dave handle the vocalist duties solo. But by 10:30, with a full house and the patrons’ singing spirit moved along by a few drinks (or more), the crowd would belt out the pop ditties with him, adding the requisite “Bum-bum-bum” and “So good, so good, so good” to each chorus of Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” and the “Salt, salt, salt” to the chorus of Jimmy Buffett’s “M
argaritaville.”

  While the work was decidedly unsatisfying, it certainly helped pay the bills. Dave received a respectable hourly wage as the house entertainment and always pulled in an extra hundred dollars or more each night in tips stuffed into the oversized brandy snifter that sat on the piano lid.

  Once Dave started down this path, it was hard to pull back. He welcomed the extra cash and began taking on all sorts of musical engagements, from children’s parties to weddings to retirement dinners. Thus was he led to Cypress Gardens.

  As the night wore on and the 11:00 ending time finally approached, Dave felt himself sinking into a mid-life crisis. Here he was at age forty-two, his dreams of becoming a concert pianist all but evaporated into the ether. The pressure to support his family was intense. Further adding to the stress was the time strain arising from helping to teach Jack, who a few years earlier had been diagnosed as moderately learning challenged. But equally intense was Dave’s desire to walk away from these meaningless events, where his musical talents were wasted and his artistic integrity was compromised.

  That night when he got home, he climbed into bed with Ann, who roused from her sleep just enough to mutter, “How did it go?”

  Dave took a deep breath. “We need to talk, Ann.”

  Ann reached over, turned on the light on her nightstand, propped her pillow up against the headboard, and sat up. “That good, huh? Didn’t you enjoy the groupies?” she asked with a knowing smile.

  “I don’t think the ladies who fawn all over me at these things are quite what a rock star gets treated to,” Dave answered with a forced laugh. Then he said resolutely, “I know you’ve heard me complain before, Ann, but I’m serious about making a change this time. I’ve decided to take a break from doing these events. I want to play what I want to play. I’m tired of this obligation to play this mind-numbing collection of tunes just because that’s what everyone expects to hear. I have absolutely no control of my artistic direction anymore.”