Lucy handed him four dollars.
“Enter,” said tattooed Pete. Superman offered his hand to Molly once more. Surprising herself, Molly gave it to him this time. Superman kissed it, bowed, and disappeared back to the street. Molly blushed and watched him go.
Lucy waltzed inside, pulling Norman behind her.
Molly hesitated.
“It’s cool,” said Marvin Gardens, guiding Molly inside. “I’ve been here before. Don’t worry.”
A thick haze of cigarette smoke surrounded them as they went through a second set of double doors and into a candle-lighted, cozy living room with red walls, a fireplace, a long wooden table in front of old church pews against the wall, and a busy kitchen in the back. A second room was set up with ticky-tacky tables topped with small candles in glass jars. Two bearded young men played chess at a table and one poured tea from a fat white teapot.
The stage was in the living room by the fireplace. The wall behind the stage was plastered with gray egg cartons.
“For the acoustics,” said Marvin Gardens. “Sounds better.”
On the stage, a record player on a stool played a song about finding a new world somewhere, as Norman scooted behind a long table and into a pew already half-full. He was followed by Molly, who had once again insinuated herself between Norman and Lucy, which left Lucy to follow Molly onto the bench, with Marvin Gardens the caboose of their little train.
“That song is by the Seekers!” said Molly as she situated herself. She took the rubber band from her wrist and began to gather her hair together. It was hot. Her orange scarf fell off her forehead and Lucy caught it.
“I have that record!” crowed Molly. “It was number two on the Weekly Top Forty!”
“How do you remember that?” asked Lucy. “That song is old. I was just starting high school when it came out, so you must have been ten.”
Molly’s face colored at the realization that Lucy was so much older than she was, but she recovered quickly. “I write the Top Forty numbers on all my records,” she said with a superior sniff. “And I don’t listen to boring old jazz.”
“Jazz isn’t boring,” stated Norman.
“Nossir, it isn’t,” said a voice on the other side of Norman.
The man wore round granny sunglasses, a short-cropped Afro, several earrings along his right ear, and just as many necklaces that tumbled together along his chest. His skin was the color of the wing tip shoes Norman carried under his arm. Now the man pointed at the shoes. “You like jazz, Florsheim?”
Norman put the shoes on the floor at his feet. “Yeah,” he said. Then, flustered, “Yessir.” He had never sat so close to a black man. And this one was immediately fascinating. There was a smoothness in his voice, like Superman’s, and also an authority. His question was almost a challenge, but at the same time, it was mellow. And he seemed much older than anyone else in the room.
“What do you know about jazz?”
Norman blushed. “Well, I’m in band.” He cringed. Don’t be a moron, Norman. “Marching band.” Even worse, Norman! “My band director …” Just stop, Norman! “Big Swing Face — Buddy Rich …”
“You got a jazz band in your school?”
“Yessir,” said Norman. “Just started.”
The man nodded. “Good.” Someone removed the record player from the stool and a band shambled onto the stage with their equipment, to polite applause. Norman drank in the setup and the instruments — especially the drum kit. It was a small setup, the kind Mr. McCauley had for jazz band practice. Norman detailed it out loud like any good jazzhead would do. “A black pearl jazz set with a twenty-inch bass drum, two tom-toms, and a snare.”
The man nodded again and added, “That’s an eight-by-twelve tom, a fourteen-by-fourteen floor tom, and a fourteen-by-five snare. Probably Zildjian cymbals: a crash, a ride, and a pair of hi-hats.”
As if they’d known each other for years, Norman returned the man’s volley with “Probably an eighteen-, a twenty-two-, and a fourteen-inch,” which made the man laugh.
The band tuned up. Every one of them was wearing a suit.
“Buddy’s good,” the man said. “These guys are good, too.” He joined in the applause. “My name’s Jay,” he added. He stuck out a hand and Norman shook it. “Nice to meet you, Florsheim. You from around here?”
“No,” said Norman. “We’re just passing through.”
“Through to where?”
Norman rubbed two fingers on his forehead. “California.”
“You got wheels?”
Norman nodded.
“What kind?”
Norman blinked. “Well … a school bus,” he said.
Jay laughed. “Perfect! A school bus!”
“Is that bad?” Norman could feel Molly staring at him, boring her usual hole into the side of his face.
“No, man,” said Jay. “Whatever floats your boat. Just wondered if you were hitchin’. Lots of kids out on the road, hitchin’ these days; I’ve done a good bit myself, but California is a long way away.”
Norman tried to think of a way to make conversation. He didn’t want Jay to ask him why he was going to California in a school bus.
“Are you from here?” Norman asked.
“For heaven’s sake!” Molly tugged on Norman’s shirt. She clenched her teeth and said, under her breath, “Leave the nice man alone.”
Jay smiled at Molly but said nothing.
Norman knew that anything he said in rebuttal would seem childish, so he sat in silence, blushing with secondhand embarrassment, and was glad it was too dark for anyone to clearly see his face in the candlelight.
A bushy-bearded emcee wearing red suspenders stepped gingerly on stage with the band, trying to find a bit of room. He held up two fingers in a peace sign.
“We’re trying something special tonight, Twelfth Gaters,” he said. “Please welcome, on his way to play Paris and stopping here as a favor to the Twelfth Gate … Cannonball Adderley!”
More polite applause from the folkie crowd filtered to the stage.
“Who?” asked Molly.
Cannonball held his sax in both hands and wasted no time. “That’s right,” he said. “We’ve got some of the band here tonight with a layover in Atlanta, meetin’ up with the rest of us tomorrow, on our way to play in Par-ee!”
“Take me with you!” came a shout from the corner, followed by laughter.
“We ’preciate the opportunity to jam with you good people tonight! Thank you to Robin and Ursula and the Twelfth Gate!”
“That’s Cannonball,” said Jay. “He used to be a high school band director.”
“No kidding!” said Norman.
“Then he worked with Miles,” said Jay. “You know Miles?”
Norman nodded. Not well.
“Learn Miles,” said Jay, “and you’ll learn how to listen. Who you listening to tonight?”
“Shhh!” hissed Molly, who was not enjoying herself in spite of the fact that Lucy had ordered them tea and a pastrami sandwich from the kitchen.
“The drummer, I guess,” said Norman, ignoring his cousin. “I’m a drummer.”
“Me, too,” said Jay. “And I came to hear this one — Roy McCurdy. He’s played with Sonny Rollins. You know Sonny?”
Norman shook his head.
“You will,” said Jay. “Just listen tonight. Your lady is right.”
“She’s my cousin.”
“Stop. Making. Friends,” said Molly. She looked hesitantly at Jay to see what he might say, and when he said nothing, she added with as much authority as she could muster, “We should go. We have a long way to travel tomorrow.”
Norman sat between the needle-scratch voice of his cousin and the smooth tones of this man Jay and wondered what to do as he watched the band tune up. The promise of hearing live jazz for the first time in his life was thrilling. He did not want to miss it.
“Chill, little lady,” said Jay, and Molly, sandwiched between her cousin and his paramour, Lucy, sighed and sl
umped back against the church pew. Lucy quietly tied Molly’s orange scarf around Molly’s wrist while Marvin Gardens poured tea.
Jay smiled, sat back, and closed his eyes. “I love the beat.”
Molly lasted the length of two jazzy tunes. Then, as Cannonball began to introduce his band, she said, “Norman, let’s go.”
But Norman was floating and feeling the groove. This band was tight, clean, and precise. They could swing hard and stay in the pocket, something the newly formed St. Andrews Parish High School Jazz Band couldn’t begin to touch. Technique was a word Mr. McCauley used a lot, and now Norman understood what it meant. A recording couldn’t capture the energy, the push, and the drive — not to mention the physicality — of the players, their delight, and the jazz faces they made. Norman wanted to stay on his cloud.
“We’re not leaving,” he told Molly. “Not a chance.”
“Now, sometimes,” said Cannonball from the stage, “we find ourselves faced with adversity!”
“Yeah!” said the small crowd. Suddenly they were all jazz converts. The piano player started noodling behind Cannonball, with the beginnings of a new song hinted in snippets on the Fender Rhodes.
“The fuzz may be after us —”
“Yeah!”
“Or we might not have a pad to crash in for the night —”
“Yeah!” The drums kicked in. Norman sat up straight.
“Or we don’t have enough coin for our next meal —”
“Yeah!”
“Or our old ladies have left us —”
Groans from the boys, laughter from the girls.
“And we don’t know just what to do!” said Cannonball.
Molly knew just what to do. She grabbed Norman by the sleeve of his white oxford shirt. “It’s late!”
Norman shook her off.
“And it’s times like these,” said Cannonball, his voice escalating and the crowd with him, “that we ask for Mercy, Mercy, Mercy!”
“This’ll be good,” said Jay. “Sit back, man. Don’t think it. Feel it. Listen to that slow, bluesy drag.”
The first line of the melody began to slide off the Fender Rhodes keys, and the trumpet joined in. It took only four measures for Molly to recognize the tune.
“I know it!” she said in wonder. “The Buckinghams sing it! It was number five on the Weekly Top Forty. It’s got words!”
Jay laughed. “It was jazz first, my lady. And this one’s oozing soul, can you dig it?”
Lucy knew the song, too. She began to sing it softly and bob her head from side to side. “C’mon, Molly. Sing it with me! ‘There is no girl …’”
And, much to her own surprise, with a live band to inspire her, Molly sang along with Lucy. She loved this song.
“Sing it like a moan,” instructed Jay, “not like a pop tune. Feel the music. Space out your notes, like Cannonball’s sax. Put some longing in there!”
Lucy closed her eyes, tilted her head, and sang louder. Molly was immediately self-conscious and stopped, but when other kids in the room started to sing, too, she tried again. She closed her eyes, which allowed her to pretend no one could see her. She grabbed a hunk of her skirt in her fists on either side of her legs, as if she needed the ballast. She hummed at first, then she whispered the words, and then she sang them. As the singers got louder, so did she. Against her will, her head began to bob from side to side. She tightened her grip on her skirt and sang louder. She heard Lucy singing louder next to her, and she began to compete with her, still with her eyes closed, her head tilting in time and her fists letting go of her brightly colored new skirt, her hands then weaving back and forth, back and forth as, without realizing it, she began to sway with Lucy and the music that filled the room.
Jay nodded his head to the draggy beat and began to drum the tabletop with his palms, like he was playing bongos. Norman longed to pull his drumsticks out of his back pocket and play on the tabletop along with Jay and Roy McCurdy, but he didn’t have his sticks with him, and he was too shy. Instead, he put his elbows on the table and his hands firmly on the sides of his face, as if he was keeping his head attached to his body while he watched the amazement before him and kept his hands still. He wasn’t sure what sight was more amazing: his cousin swaying next to him in a dream state or the live band playing the groove right in front of him.
“Come on, Florsheim!” said Jay, more animated as the music reached a crescendo. “Beat it! This is how you learn!”
Norman didn’t need a second invitation. The rhythm carried him into his own emotional stratosphere as he opened his palms and began to match Jay, beat for beat, the table becoming their own personal drum kit as they traded off licks, then went back to playing in time together.
“Yeah!” said Jay, and Norman laughed.
The band was buoyed by the audience’s delight and their part in creating it. The trumpet wailed, the sax moaned, the Fender Rhodes swayed. The cymbals crashed and the snare filled in all the empty spaces. The drummer’s sticks flew. A live music jazz-pop moment carried them to the crescendo at the end.
“Mercy, mercy, mercy!” said Cannonball. “A big thank-you to all the freaky people! All the beautiful people. Thank you!”
“We’re the beautiful people,” cooed Lucy. Molly immediately crash-landed.
“Did you hear it?” asked Jay.
“Oh, yeah,” said Norman over the applause. The rhythm had informed the beat of his heart. The melody had rushed into his blood. The soul had got under his skin.
“Groovy,” said Jay, and Norman laughed. He longed to rush the stage and talk to Roy McCurdy about his drums, ask him how he was getting that sound, what he did to make that magic, but the band was already disappearing through the kitchen.
“Bring your girl to the park tomorrow,” Jay said.
“She’s my cousin,” repeated Norman. Then, as if he had magic news to impart, he said, “I heard the Allman Brothers will be there!”
“Band,” said Jay. “The Allman Brothers Band. I heard that, too. Maybe I’ll catch you there, Florsheim. Stay cool.”
SPINNING WHEEL
Written by David Clayton-Thomas
Performed by Blood, Sweat & Tears
Recorded at Columbia Recording Studios, New York, New York, 1968
Drummer: Bobby Colomby
MOLLY
I don’t know what possessed me. I know I say that a lot now, at least to myself, but honestly, I don’t know what possessed me, running all over Atlanta city streets with strangers, pretending to feel something — singing in public! — not me at all, not me to behave in such an unladylike fashion.
I’m a careful girl, but then I’m not, because if I were truly careful, I wouldn’t be here in Atlanta by myself, now, would I? Yes, Norman’s here, but Norman doesn’t count. He wants to be here. Suddenly, the boy who didn’t want to leave home is having the time of his life. He’s probably forgotten all about Barry, but I haven’t. When I opened my suitcase this morning, out fluttered Barry’s letter, Order to Report.
It’s Sunday morning and I can smell bacon frying downstairs in the kitchen. No sign of The Aunts. I climb out of this enormous bed in one of the endless bedrooms in this cavernous house, get dressed, brush my teeth so hard my gums hurt. Then I pull my ponytail so tight my eyebrows smile at me. I don’t care. My heart has closed up shop and hung a sign on the door: GONE OUT OF BUSINESS.
I have no business acting like a hippie in this crazy city and traipsing around in a long flowy skirt with my hair flying every which way, pretending we don’t have somewhere else to go. And furthermore, I’m out here against my will.
Or am I? It’s complicated. The phone rings.
“We are having the car serviced,” Mom says. “We’ll be there for lunch tomorrow. But you go on, Molly — don’t waste another night in Atlanta. We’ll leave bright and early in the morning.”
I bang out the front door with my suitcase and the sunshine nearly blinds me. In the bus, Norman has all the windows down and the toolbox open,
spilling wrenches and screws and screwdrivers.
“What are you doing?” I don’t have time for good morning.
“Installing the radio,” he says. “What’s it look like?”
“How long is this going to take?” I snap. “It’s already ten o’clock!”
“Keep your pants on,” returns Norman. “I’m almost done.”
“Well, hurry!”
“Where’ve you been? I got up hours ago. I had to chase away fifteen kids who slept on the bus last night!”
“What? How did they get on?”
“I must’ve forgot to lock the door.”
“Are you sure the lock works?”
“Yep.”
“Did they take anything?”
“Nope.”
“Did you check?”
“Yep.”
I am out of patience. “You really can’t forget to lock the doors, Norman. We’re traveling across the country, you know. We have to stay safe at night.”
“Yep.”
“Did you get gas?”
“Yep.”
“Say something else.”
“Hand me that Phillips head screwdriver,” Norman says. “And go eat a hot breakfast.”
“No time,” I tell him.
“Yes, time,” my cousin replies. “I need to check the engine before we leave, add oil, probably — water, too — and I’m not going to rush it. I don’t want to break down in the middle of nowhere with you.”
I hand him the screwdriver, step gingerly over the spilled toolbox, put my suitcase in the third row behind my navigating seat, and sit with a thump next to it.
I make a declaration. “It stinks in here.” No response. I open the road atlas, using the suitcase as a desk. “You just want to stall so you can listen to that band in the park.”
“Yep,” Norman says. “I do want to listen to that band in the park, and I’m gonna do that. You want to drive off without me, be my guest.”
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