Ladies and Gentlemen...The Redeemers

by Michael Scott Miller

  At the turnstile, the young man turned to address Bert and Charlie. “Look, guys. I appreciate the offer and all that. I’m just not interested. That’s all. Now do me a favor, and please, please stop following me.”

  “We can’t do that,” Bert answered. “You’re too good, and you’re one of us. I know it.”

  “One of who?” asked the kid, beginning to lose his calm.

  “One of us. The subway dwellers. The hungry, the cast aside, the unfulfilled...”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Put it this way. I can see the passion in your music. It drives you. Just like everyone else in the band.”

  The young man waved his arms. “Look. I’m not a subway dweller, as you call it. I just play here to make a little extra money to put myself through school. That doesn’t make me one of you. You guys are vagrants. Bums! I’m doing something with my life. Now stop trying to con me with whatever scheme it is you’re working and stop following me!”

  The vitriol slid off Bert like Teflon. He smiled slyly. “I like you, kid. You’ve got a lot of spunk. I’ll give you some time to think about our offer. We’ll be in touch. C’mon, Charlie.”

  “Now what?” asked Charlie after the young man had disappeared from view. “I’m not getting the feeling that he believes us.”

  “Hmmm. You’re right. That could be the problem. Maybe it’s we who need to audition for him.”

  “Could be, but I also get the feeling he doesn’t like us.”

  “Not like us?” Bert asked in mock disbelief. “Who could be more charming than we are?”

  Bert and Charlie walked back to their apartment in virtual silence. The day had been so full of promise that escalated as they listened to the guitarist play. But their hopes had come crashing back to earth with the rejection and Bert had no Plan B.

  At the entrance to their apartment, the day made an abrupt right turn. There, taped to the door, was a note folded in half. Charlie took hold of it and tugged carefully. Bert looked over Charlie’s shoulder as Charlie opened the handwritten note:

  Bert and Charlie,

  Hi guys! Please meet me at Union Square tomorrow at 3:00.

  I’ve got something to show you.

  Dave Hollaway

  The two men looked curiously at one another.

  “What do you think he wants to show us?” asked Charlie.

  “I don’t know,” Bert answered pensively, and then with customary optimism added, “but I think it means that tomorrow will be better than today.”

  * * *

  When Bert and Charlie arrived at Union Square the next day, Dave was seated on the same steps as at their previous encounter, looking as if he had just come from his teaching job. He was dressed in khaki pants and a short-sleeved, madras button-down shirt. The legs of the portable piano rested on the concrete stairs on either side of him, supporting the keyboard that was perched inches above his lap.

  Dave looked up when Bert and Charlie arrived. “You got my message! That’s great! I wasn’t sure if you would. I tried to call, but the phone just rang and rang.”

  “Yeah, sorry,” responded Bert. “We don’t have an answering machine yet,” he offered in apology, then shifted tones. “It’s great to see you again!”

  “You too. Thanks for coming.” Dave paused uncomfortably. “Listen, I’ve been thinking. I mean – you haven’t found a keyboard player for your band yet, have you?”

  “Nope,” answered Bert. “It’s still yours for the taking.”

  “Oh, good!” Dave let out a sigh of relief. “Actually, I wanted to play something for you. I’m not sure I’m much of a rock musician, but I thought it might be fun to try. You see, I’ve composed some classical stuff, but I never really got the chance to perform it, and well I thought, maybe if I could bring myself to drop my pretensions, I’d find another outlet for my music, and so--”

  “You never have to justify yourself to us, buddy,” said Charlie, cutting off Dave’s nervous speech. “Let’s hear what you’ve got!”

  “Okay. Here’s something I wrote. It’s still a bit of a work in progress, so it’s not fully polished, but--”

  “Just play!” Charlie entreated loudly.

  Dave interlocked his fingers and cracked the knuckles, gave a quick shake of his arms to loosen the tension, and started playing.

  Dave’s fingers danced across the keys, and the size of the keyboard belied the sounds emanating from it. When Bert closed his eyes, it seemed as though a full band were accompanying Dave. The electronic keyboard provided the back beat, and the striking of the chords created a wall of sound that formed the backdrop to the melody line. Dave thrust the controls to full volume.

  The song was crafted beautifully. It had elements of pop commercialism thrown in, but the song was much deeper than that. The hooks were supplemented by what were obviously orchestrated measures borrowed from Dave’s classical heritage.

  Bert and Charlie recognized their good fortune immediately. Not only had they found their keyboardist, but they had a songwriter too. When Dave finished, he looked up anxiously and found the two men beaming.

  “Yowwww!” exclaimed Charlie. “That was incredible. I mean, you nailed it! Don’t you think, Bert?”

  Bert didn’t answer. He was now lost in his thoughts, beginning to visualize this whole thing coming together.

  “Bert?” Charlie prodded.

  Bert snapped out of it. “Oh my god, yes! That has got to be our first song. I don’t suppose you’ve written any lyrics for it yet?”

  “Baby steps, Bert. Baby steps,” Dave answered. “Remember, I never thought of music as having words.” He shifted looks between the two men. “So what’s next?”

  Charlie’s eyes turned toward Bert, and Dave’s followed. “Good question,” Bert mused. “Well, we still need a guitarist. And a bass player, though we haven’t even had the scent of a trail for one of those. The guitarist, on the other hand--”

  “Oh, no,” Charlie cut in. “You’re not still thinking about that college kid, are you?”

  Bert’s cunning smile answered Charlie’s question. Charlie rolled his eyes. “You know Bert, there are laws against stalking.”

  “You know, I never liked those laws,” he answered, chuckling.

  “What’s going on?” asked Dave.

  Charlie explained how he and Bert had found the young guitarist, but how each of their two encounters with him had been about as successful as if they had asked out a swimsuit model to dinner and a movie.

  “So what do you think, guys? Time for another visit with him?” Bert asked.

  “How is this time going to be any different?” asked Charlie.

  “How about this?” answered Bert. “Let’s bring your sax, and Dave, you bring your keyboard, and we’ll get him to listen to you guys play. When he hears how good the two of you are, I think he’ll realize that we’re serious musicians and not deranged old men.”

  Charlie gave Bert a skeptical look.

  “Okay, not completely deranged.” Bert laughed.

  “What have we got to lose?” said Dave.

  “I don’t have a better plan,” Charlie acknowledged with a shrug.

  The three men debated what they would play for Ethan and decided upon the piece Dave had written. Over the next couple of hours, Charlie worked on his saxophone accompaniment while Bert sat and listened. Periodically, Bert interjected comments on what was working and what wasn’t, and they ultimately had something that, while not quite ready for prime time, was more than adequate for demonstrating their skills to the dubious college student.

  The three agreed to meet at the entrance to the Embarcadero Station the next day at 2:00, instruments at the ready. They arrived within a few minutes of one another, and not seeing Ethan in the large hall, they waited. Sporadically, travelers traversed the concourse at an activity level consistent with a typical mid-afternoon weekday. The men’s eyes jumped to each of the points of entry each time they saw movement, anticipa
ting each time that Ethan would be entering the station, but each time they were disappointed. Each time they heard footsteps in the corridor behind them, they turned, but it was always someone else.

  As 2:00 stretched into 3:30, they abandoned hope and headed home for the day, agreeing to meet again on Monday. When Monday came and went without success, Charlie began to wonder. “Bert, do you think he’s given up playing here on account of us?”

  “Could be. I don’t usually have that effect on people, but…”

  “Should we try to find him at the school?” suggested Dave.

  “I don’t know,” said Bert. “It’s a pretty big campus. And there are a lot of kids. It could take awhile.”

  “Time is one thing we definitely have,” responded Charlie. “Let’s give it a try. If nothing else, we can always check out the college ladies while we’re wandering.”

  “All right,” Bert said with a grin. “Just don’t go getting us into trouble.”

  * * *

  The BART train let Bert, Charlie, and Dave out at the western edge of the University of California-Berkeley campus on the following day. The campus extended over a deceptively large 178 acres, its rolling green fields, wide pathways, and historic buildings seemingly worlds away from the urban feel of its perimeter. Buildings of white stone with red tile roofs dotted the campus. Interspersed between the buildings, amongst the greenery, college students could be found reading books, chatting, throwing frisbees, or engaging in any number of other study-avoiding activities.

  Bert looked around. The late morning sun was approaching its apex and it was nearly blinding in the open space nestled between the large buildings. Students dressed in casual autumn wear were going about their business.

  “What now?” asked Charlie.

  “I guess we wander,” answered Dave.

  So the three of them walked around the green, hoping to recognize the guitarist. Dave wasn’t going to be much help, having never met the young man, but he’d come along anyway for moral support. He wasn’t due at the music school that day until 2:00. Dave and Charlie hadn’t brought their instruments along, figuring that it would be a lot of carrying. Their hope was to convince Ethan to hear them play and arrange the time and place with him.

  The group wandered through the campus for forty-five minutes. To Charlie’s liking, there were indeed plenty of attractive female students to ogle, and he kept up a running assessment to Bert and Dave as they walked. However, there was no sign of the guitarist.

  Eventually, they came upon the student union, a bland, concrete and glass structure on the southern edge of the campus. Bert stopped in front, and Charlie and Dave halted with him. “This area seems to draw a lot of traffic,” Bert said, observing the crush of college students. “Do you suppose it would be more effective to hang out here and watch for him to wander by?”

  But Dave wasn’t paying attention. His eyes had been drawn to a yellow flyer stapled to a kiosk in front of the student union. He walked over to it and then motioned to the other two to join him. “This wouldn’t happen to be your boy, would it?” he asked hopefully, pointing to the flyer.

  Sure enough, though the picture on the flyer was a poorly reproduced photocopy, it was the guitarist from the subway. The text surrounding the picture announced that Ethan Banks would be playing at The Grind, a coffeehouse located on Telegraph Avenue, on Friday nights, from 7 to 10 P.M.

  “Paydirt!” exclaimed Bert excitedly.

  “Well, what do you know,” said Charlie. “We found the needle in the haystack.”

  * * *

  That Friday night, Bert, Charlie, and Dave rode the subway together back to campus. Charlie and Dave had brought along their instruments, hoping to play for Ethan after his show ended. As Bert entered the coffeehouse, which was just across the street from the campus proper, he felt a tingle of excitement, an incongruous combination of optimism and foreboding. It was that same exhilaration he would get as a child when he was doing something he knew he wasn’t supposed to. Bert knew that the three of them would look oddly out of place in the coffee bar and it would be difficult to be inconspicuous, let alone comfortable.

  Still, Bert maintained a confident front and led the two others into the square room, which was set up with couches, soft chairs, and small tables. At one end was a coffee counter, manned by a boy and a girl, presumably students at the college. Seated on a high barstool across the room was Ethan Banks, strumming his guitar and singing.

  The tables were fairly full, but there were a few open ones. Bert nodded toward one as he spoke to the others. “Go grab that table and I’ll get us some coffee.” He then went to the counter to purchase three small cups of regular coffee, purposely avoiding the higher-priced lattes, mochas, espressos, and cappuccinos.

  The cashier was an attractive young lady with short, jet black hair, a form-fitting black short-sleeved shirt, and low-rise black jeans. A series of progressively larger golden earrings scaled the outside of her left ear, and a matching solitary one pierced her left eyebrow. Bert thought that she’d be more attractive without all the hardware.

  He paid her as the young man filled the cups. “Pretty good, isn’t he?” Bert said, motioning toward the guitarist.

  “Ethan? Yeah, he’s the best! Cute too!” she answered in a schoolgirlish manner.

  “Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” responded Bert with a laugh. “Do you know him?”

  “No. Well, a little. I’ve spoken to him for a few minutes here and there between sets. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. Just making conversation.”

  “You seem a little old to be here,” she said somewhat abruptly.

  “Just a little reunion with some of my buddies. Class of ’78,” Bert lied. “Of course, that was before the age of coffee bars.”

  She looked at him a bit dubiously, but didn’t say any more. She was interrupted when the other student-waiter placed the three coffees on the counter. Bert thanked them, carefully gathered up the cups, and went over to their table.

  “Cream and sugar are over there,” Bert said, pointing behind him. As he sat down, his eyes met the guitarist’s. Did he detect a small jolt of recognition? Bert wasn’t sure if it was real or imagined.

  As the set progressed, Bert sensed that Ethan was purposely avoiding looking at their table. When the set ended and Ethan leaned the guitar against the chair, Bert got his answer. Ethan was heading directly toward them.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded, not offering any greeting.

  “We’re big fans of yours,” answered Bert, without any return of hostility. “We just came to see the show. Really great so far, by the way.”

  “Look,” he said in a whispered scream, “I don’t know why you keep following me, but I already told you. I don’t want any part of you!”

  A deep voice called out from another table across the room. “Hey, Ethan. Is that your father?” There was a murmur of giggles. Bert glared in frustration. Despite trying to clean himself up, and despite moving in from the streets, the years of wear on his body, the old clothing, and the creases on his face betrayed him. He still looked like a vagrant.

  Ethan gave the heckler a nasty look, then turned it back toward Bert. “Can’t you see that you’re embarrassing me?”

  “Look, Ethan. All we’re asking is a chance for you to hear us play,” continued Bert. “How about when you’re done tonight, you give us just a few minutes.”

  “How many ways can I say no? No! No! No! I’m not interested! Now please leave me alone! Do I need to call security?”

  “Very well, boys,” Bert said turning to Charlie and Dave. “I can take a hint.” He looked back to Ethan and tipped his hat. “’Til we meet again.” And with that, Bert, Charlie, and Dave rose from their seats and walked out of the coffee bar.

  As they were heading back toward the short stairway that went down to street level, Dave suddenly said, “Guys, I’ll meet you outside in a few minutes.” Without explanation, he turned and went back i
n.

  * * *

  Ethan was standing at a table, chatting with some people, when Dave motioned to him. Ethan walked over.

  “You know,” Dave started, “those guys aren’t so bad. I was pretty reluctant at first myself. I mean, yeah, they may look like they just wandered in from the streets, but they had a life once, not so different from yours and mine. I truly think they’re on the path to something special. I’m afraid you’ll regret not giving them a chance.”

  Ethan frowned. “Look, uh,--”

  “Dave. Dave Hollaway.” Dave extended his right hand and Ethan shook it.

  “Dave,” Ethan repeated. “You seem different. What are you doing with those guys? Are they friends of yours?”

  “No. Well, yes. They are now. But I’m a music instructor. I teach classical piano and music theory at the San Francisco School of Music. I used to perform a lot, but I haven’t performed seriously in quite awhile.”

  “That’s funny,” Ethan said thoughtfully. “I almost went to SFSM. You could have been my instructor.”

  “So what do you say? Will you give them--us--a chance?”

  “I don’t know. I’m still not sure I’m ready to start hanging out with a bunch of derelicts, recovering or otherwise.”

  “Think about it, okay?” Dave asked.

  Ethan looked at him. He didn’t nod yes, but he didn’t nod no. Dave smiled, placed Bert’s card in Ethan’s hand, and walked away.

  Outside, Bert asked Dave what he had gone back for. Dave recounted the brief conversation.

  “Any hope, you think?” asked Charlie.

  “I don’t know,” answered Dave. “Maybe.”

  * * *

  The following Friday, Bert, Charlie, and Dave were back at work implementing Plan C. Charlie and Dave had voted to give up on Ethan and return to square one in looking for a guitarist, but Bert wanted to keep at it. The pursuit of Ethan had become personal. Reluctantly, and with the promise that it would be the final attempt, win or lose, the other two went along.