Roadside Bodhisattva

by Di Filippo, Paul

  “Tha—these are my fuh—friends, Evie.”

  Sonny’s sister actually smiled then, and the unexpected expression made her into a new person. She lost some of her stiffness, and I began to think maybe she wouldn’t turn out to be so dry. Maybe what I had taken for a tight-ass personality was really just sadness or loneliness or tiredness. We introduced ourselves and shook hands.

  “Please come in, gentlemen.”

  We entered a living room where all the weird furniture was like nothing I had ever seen. The chairs and couches and tables must’ve been about a hundred years old. And all the seats had transparent plastic covers over them. Shelves were filled with a zillion little cheap statues and souvenir plates and junk like that. The place smelled like a closet full of old wool clothes and rubber boots.

  “Sonny tells me you’re here to listen to some of our father’s record albums.”

  If Sid had been wearing a hat, I got the feeling he would have taken it off and held it to his chest. “That’s right, ma’am. We’re all music-lovers of the first degree. And your boy—your brother’s been tantalizing us with some hints as to the magnitude of this collection.”

  Evelyn seemed to take this as a personal compliment, lighting up like a Christmas tree. “Our father was a true afficionado of jazz. He compiled what was probably the largest collection of records in Lumberton before his untimely death. I’m sure you’ll find something there to appreciate, no matter what your tastes.”

  Sid winked at Evelyn and said, “And there’s a little wager at stake as well, ma’am. Just to spice up the evening.”

  Evelyn turned to Sonny with a stern look on her face. “Sherman, have you actually been gambling?”

  Sonny hung his head, but I could see he was trying to stop a smile from breaking free. “Nuh—not really, Evie.”

  “It was all my fault, Miz Taylor. I disputed your brother on a point of knowledge, and he wouldn’t back down. He’s got character that way, I can tell. After some wrangling, we just stipulated a small sum to change hands, once the matter was settled. Hardly a real bet at all.”

  “Well, all right, I suppose. Just remember, Sherman, how father felt about gambling. Why don’t you men go the the music room now, and I’ll bring in some refreshments soon.”

  “Thi—this way,” said Sonny, and we followed him down a short hall to a closed door. Sonny stood with his hand on the doorknob like he was getting ready to let us into some shrine. Then he opened the door.

  The room was average sized, no windows. But it seemed smaller because of the shelves sticking out. From the floor to within a foot of the ceiling, every square inch of wall space was devoted to records on shelves. The parents of one of my friends back home had owned a few hundred of these cheesy, moldy old vinyl albums, but there had to be ten times that many here. The different colors of their spines made a kind of quilt or painting that seemed to hint at some image I could only half make out, like one of those pictures made from lots of little pictures. The only space on the walls not devoted to vinyl was the part of one shelf that held a turntable and amp and speakers. A green armchair that had obviously gotten a lot of use, along with a sidetable, was positioned just so in front of the speakers.

  Sonny turned to beam at us like a bank of fog lights on a Jeep. Sid whistled in admiration. Angie said, “This is a helluva lot of records.” I said, “Uh, it sure is.”

  Sonny seemed pleased by our reactions. “Luh—look around while I guh—get some more chairs.”

  Sid went right over and started sliding albums out to examine. Every now and then he’d mutter, “Holy shit,” and shake his head. Pretty soon Sonny returned with three folding chairs and set them up close to the big chair.

  “Suh—sit down, and I’ll guh—get that Armstrong.”

  We sat. Sonny went without any hesitation right to a certain spot on the shelf and pulled down a record. He moved to the turntable and powered it up. He slid the record out of its sleeve like he was handling pure gold, placed it on the turntable and swung the needle into place. A second later, that same hokey music from the Diner filled the room like a concert hall, a thousand times more real-sounding than out of the juke.

  Sid said, “That’s the track all right. Let’s see the sleeve.”

  Sonny passed it over, and Sid examined it. “I’ll be damned, it’s Teagarden playing, no mistake. Sonny, it’s plain to me you’ve got a fine ear and a memory like a vise-grip. It’s a pleasure to lose this bet to you.”

  Sid dug out a five-dollar bill and handed it over. Sonny grinned, tucked the money into his shorts pocket, and kinda half-bowed to Sid.

  “Have you listened to every one of these platters?”

  “Oh, shu—sure. Muh—more than once.”

  “And your father put this collection together? I noticed there’s nothing more recent than some early fusion stuff, about, oh, 1974. How’s that?”

  Sonny got a little sad-looking “Duh—daddy died in nuh—nineteen-seventy-six. Even buh—before that, he wasn’t fuh—feeling too good.”

  “And how old were you?”

  “Eight.”

  “And you were into the music even at that age?”

  “Nuh—not really. I sta—started listening to it about fuh—five years later.”

  Sid contemplated this for a minute. “And you never added anything to the collection?”

  “Tha—they don’t suh—sell vinyl much around here nowadays.”

  “Still, you could’ve switched to cds. Lots of good post-fusion stuff available on cd. You’d dig Dave Douglas and a bunch of other guys. Hell, you don’t even know the Marsalises.”

  Sonny couldn’t seem to make sense of what Sid was suggesting. “Buh—but thi—this is Daddy’s cuh—collection, juh—just like he left it.”

  Sid nodded and dropped the topic. Just then the record stopped and Evelyn entered. She was carrying a tray with glasses of milk and a plate of Oreos on it. She set it down on the sidetable. I felt like I was back in Cub Scouts, before my folks had gotten so heavily into the Buddhist stuff and pulled me out. This was quite a change from the night of drinking booze at Angie’s place, and I wondered how Angie’d react. Didn’t seem to matter to him. He grabbed a glass and some cookies, so I did too.

  Evelyn turned to leave, but Sid stopped her.

  “Miz Taylor, don’t rush out. Tell us a little about yourself. What’s your line of work?”

  “I’m a legal secretary. At Whittaker and Torcasso, right at the corner of Chippewa and South Street. I’ve been there for nearly thirty years.”

  “I’m sure you’re the heart and soul of the place, not to mention the real brains.”

  Evelyn took Sid’s compliment like it was the first one she had ever gotten. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far …”

  “Sherman has mentioned that your father passed away some time ago. I assume your mother was not on the scene then either?”

  Evelyn sagged a little. “Mother died when Sherman was born.”

  “And you took over the family then? Mighty big responsibility for a young woman such as yourself.”

  “I don’t know that I was ever young, Mr. Hartshorn.”

  “Are you funnin’ me, Evelyn? I can call you Evelyn, right? You must be at least twenty years younger’n me, and I just learned to shave yesterday.”

  Evelyn chuckled. “I find that hard to believe. And I expect we’re much of an age, Mr Hartshorn.”

  “Please—Sid.”

  “Well, Sid, it’s been nice chatting with you, but I’m going to leave you menfolk to enjoy your music now.”

  “You sure you won’t pull up a chair with us?”

  “No thank you. Hearing this music reminds me too much of the past.”

  After Evelyn had left, Sid said, “Got any Jazz Messengers, Sonny my friend?”

  “Shu—sure!”

  “Well, cue ’em up!”

  We must’ve spent about three hours in that little room, listening to music, until it got so hot and stuffy I thought I was in a sa
una. I couldn’t say I really liked any of the stuff that got played. Some of it, the more agressive tunes, was halfway interesting, kinda like the rock I liked if all the guitars had been stripped away. Other tunes were too mellow or sappy. Evelyn came back in once to fill up our plate of cookies and pour more milk, and I got such a sugar buzz I didn’t even mind being stuck here with these guys. Although every now and then I did wonder what would have happened if I had stayed back at Deer Park with Sue.

  Finally Sid said, “Time to call it a night, Sonny. We’ve all got to hit the ground running first thing tomorrow. But you can bet we’ll do this again.”

  “Oh, nuh—no, I can’t buh—bet anymore!”

  Everybody laughed. We left the room and walked through the house to the front. There was no sign of Evelyn, and I figured she must’ve gone to bed.

  Sonny came outside with us, like he didn’t really want the night to end. Angie and I got into the truck, but Sid stayed outside on the lawn a few seconds longer. He placed a hand on Sonny’s shoulder.

  “Sherman, your dad must’ve been a helluva guy. But you know what?”

  “Wha—what?”

  “You are too. And if you buy and listen to just one record that your Dad never heard, you will be going someplace he never went.”

  Sid got in the cab then with us, and Angie backed away.

  Sonny was still standing in the yard when we joined back with the main road, two blocks away.

  This was my personal measure of how good the Diner was doing, a week after the juke box got installed.

  Before, I had been using about a cup or two of dishwasher detergent per day. Now I was using almost a whole box.

  Incredible as it might seem to me, there were actually tons of people who liked the kind of music Sid had filled the juke with. As bogus as the gimmick was, just the simple addition of some tunes to the environment and a little advertising had lured new customers in by the dozens. Or maybe it wasn’t the music itself so much as it was a kind of eagerness to have fun somehow, somewhere, in the middle of rough times. But whatever started bringing in new customers, once they were here, Sonny’s excellent cooking was not exactly a turnoff. They kept coming back.

  Mornings, people actually had to wait in line for tables and counter seats. Lunches didn’t feature lines, but every table was more or less continuously occupied. I had to really run my ass off to bus them all. But I was earning more, thanks to Yasmine’s increased tips, socking it all away for the road, except what I gave to Ann for my groceries. And at the end of each day, Yasmine handed my share over so sweetly that I wanted to do a good job to make her job easier. Even though she was all smiles with me, some little things that she let slip led me to believe that her mother was always on her mind, not doing so good healthwise as she once was.

  Sid and Ann were thrilled with the extra business, of course. They had taken a risk and it had worked. The good buzz they were putting out infected Angie, who I actually saw smiling without any particular reason once or twice.

  Sonny seemed more or less the same as ever, spacey and good-natured. After the first few days of increased business, Ann had given him a small raise, and he had just nodded his thank you. At first it didn’t seem like the visit Sid had engineered to his house had really succeeded in changing him, cracking open whatever shell he might be wearing. I wondered a little bit if Sid knew what he was doing all the time, and whether or not most people really needed or would benefit from the kind of radical change Sid liked to engineer. Maybe by the time most people got to be adults they were stuck with themselves as they were. How many times did anyone really turn their lives around anyhow? Most people just fell into some job or lifestyle and then ran it into the ground, all the way until they themselves were put into the ground. I had seen it with my parents. They had first gotten into the Buddhist stuff before I was even born, and just pushed deeper and deeper ever since, until they couldn’t even imagine some other way of life, even when the old one was obviously not working. That was one reason why I had taken off. I wasn’t going to dig myself a hole and then pull it in on top of myself. I was going to stay open and free as long as I could, seeing and doing a million different things.

  That is, if Sid and I ever got back on the road.

  But as far as Sonny went, I had to admit Sid’s intervention did pan out soon enough.

  We were all stitting exhausted, having our meal with the Diner closed for the day, when Sonny said, “Suh—sid, if you were going to buh—buy a cd puh—player, wha—what kind would it be?”

  Sid considered the question like it was no big deal. “Well now, all the major-name Jap brands are decent. Sony, Hitachi. I don’t think a person could really go wrong with any of those.”

  A day or two later, Sonny said, “Suh—Sid, who’s a good suh—saxman these days?”

  “Let’s see. You like Sonny Rollins, right? David Sanchez learned a lot from him.”

  And a few days later, Sid and Sonny were debating the merits of this guy Sanchez track by track. Sonny’s stutter made the discussion too painful for me to listen to, but Sid didn’t seem to be bothered one bit.

  Meanwhile I was getting nowhere fast with Sue. I had kinda put aside any hopes of getting her to dump Jayzee for me in the boyfriend department She was still acting like my buddy all right, no kisses though, but still making me supper and hanging out with me for an hour or two, kidding around and blowing smoke rings and trying to get me to listen to her hip-hop crap. But sooner or later most nights she’d take off for Lumberton without me. So I decided to do what Sid had recommended, try to figure out what kind of creative thing might turn her on and lure her away from the whole Jayzee scene. But I wasn’t making much progress.

  “So, uh, Sue, you like nice clothes, right?”

  She looked at me like I had two or three heads. “Kid, are your eyes functional, or just painted on? Look at me! I’m built like a truck, and I haven’t worn anything except farmer pants since you’ve known me. Do I look like some size-two mallrat with the tiny skirt and belly shirt and platform shoes?”

  “Well, no, but I just thought most girls liked fancy clothes.”

  “I am not most girls, Kid, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Another time when Sue was sliding some microwaved pizza in front of me, I said, “You really like to cook, don’t you, Sue?”

  She made that face again. “You call nuking this freezer stuff cooking? Macaroni and cheese out of a box is the most complicated thing I make, Kid. And that’s fine by me. I doubt if I could even do as much at the stove as Sonny does. And diner food is not exactly the height of sophistication.”

  A third time, desperate, I said, “Let’s hear that Eve cd again, Sue.” When the lameass rhyming had stopped, I said, “Not bad. But I bet you could do better.”

  Sue practically choked on her glass of Dew. “What?”

  “I’m just saying you could be a rapper too. You’re sharp, you know the music.”

  “Right. I’ll call myself Vanilla Spice. Or maybe Toofat Ass-shaker.” She slapped me with the heel of her hand on the side of my head, and it really stung. “What the fuck are you using for brains lately?”

  After that I was ready to give up trying to figure out Sue’s secret desires. This whole relating deeply thing with females was proving a big pain in the ass. Hell, I was having a better time talking and joking with Yasmine. There was no pressure there.

  With Sue and me going nowhere fast, I was losing some of my emotional investment in Deer Park. Sid and I had been here for close to a month now, and the scene was getting old. I liked the people okay, sure, and felt proud that the place was doing so good, thanks to our help. But I didn’t own Deer Park and it didn’t own me. I had plans and a future that weren’t necessarily connected to this place, and I was getting tired of putting everything on hold.

  I tried to cheer myself up by leafing through the pages of Dharma Bums, where I’d find Jack in similar fixes, trying to remind himself about keeping his perspective. “Everything is
possible. I am God, I am Buddha, I am imperfect Ray Smith, all at the same time, I am empty space, I am all things. I have all the time in the world from life to life to do what is to do, to do what is done, to do the timeless doing, infinitely perfect within, why cry, why worry, perfect like mind essence and the minds of banana peels.”

  Jack’s words seemed not to pack the same punch they once did. My head felt too confused to appreciate them the way I once had. I started feeling down about everything.

  But then I got lucky. I guess.

  I came into the apartment behind the rental office earlier than usual one afternoon. Sid had suddenly called it quits on our current job, which was weather-stripping the cabins in preparation for the cold weather still months away. Out of the blue, he had gotten some kind of inspiration he wanted to discuss with Ann. He wouldn’t tell me what it was, but I really didn’t care.

  Sue was sitting at the side of the kitchen table farthest away from the door, hunched over a wirebound notebook and drawing something.

  “Hey, Sue, whatcha doing?”

  She jumped a little and slapped the cover closed on her drawings. “Nothing. Just messing around.”

  I guess my face showed that I was hurt. Sue and I had shared a lot of talk about a lot of stuff, and I figured that had made us close, even if none of it had led to hooking up. And now she was shutting me out of something that must be special to her.

  “Oh, Jesus, you look like you’re gonna cry. What a baby. Here, look all you want.”

  She spun the notebook around to face me and flipped it open.

  The pages were full of pen drawings, sketches of geometric designs, all interlaced curlicues and swoops and arcs, thick and thin.

  “These are cool,” I said, turning the pages. “What are they?”

  Sue snagged the notebook back from me. “You dumbass, they’re designs for tattoos. It’s called a flash book, like they have in the studios, showing all the different ink you can get.”

  “Did you invent all these?”