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Book Ten: Captain
Julia
82. When the
phone. . . .
When
the phone rang Sunday morning, I was sure it would be Julia telling me the
rehearsal we’d planned was canceled. Instead it was a woman’s voice that I did
not at first recognize. “Hey, big guy,” it purred, “how about a date?”
“Toni,”
I said, rubbing my eyes. “Toni McFerrin.”
She
laughed. “Did I wake you up?”
“Actually,
I’ve been awake since four-thirty reading John Milton,” I said. “But I gave it
up and laid down for a nap after breakfast.”
“It’s
a likely story,” she said. “Can you come for dinner this evening? I’ve got a
present for you.”
“Sure,”
I said. “What time?”
“Come
at five-thirty,” she said. “The kids like to eat early.”
“I’ll
be there,” I said. “If I don’t make it on the dot, save a place for me. I’ve
got a rehearsal this afternoon. They’re trying to make a rhythm-and-blues
drummer out of me.”
“That
should suit you,” she said. “We’ll see you, then?”
“You
betcha.” I smiled as I hung up the phone, thinking that my cousin Dale had done
well for himself. Of course, Toni wasn’t as knockout beautiful as Selva.
After
I made coffee and cleaned up the breakfast dishes, it was almost time for me to
head downtown. I went into the bedroom and lifted Julia’s necklace from its
box, leaving the shrapnel piece to lie in its cotton. I slipped it over my
head—I was wearing a fatigue-green T-shirt—and glanced in the mirror. I looked
hairy, skinny, and weird. I got out a brush to try to organize my hirsutity,
but I mostly succeeded in fluffing myself like an angry cat. Anyway I looked
good enough for a Sunday afternoon at the Frog.
Bars
in Lincoln were closed on Sunday, a vestige of a time when Methodists laid down
the law. There was no traffic downtown and no reason to pause at the
crosswalks. I arrived at the Green Frog on foot a little before one; of course
the place was locked and dark, and I had to wait fifteen minutes in the cold
for Julia to make it around the corner and down P Street, a distance of a block
and a quarter from Weld’s. “Sorry,” she said when she finally showed up.
“Domestic hassles.”
“That’s
all right,” I said. “I love to watch the shadows of parking meters drift across
the sidewalk.”
Julia
held the door for me and turned on the lights once we were inside. “Don’t give
me a lot of crap,” she said. “I apologized, OK?”
“Ugh,”
I said. “This place stinks. Did you have a good crowd last night?”
“We
had a little over a hundred,” she said, “according to the cashbox, anyway.”
“That’s
pretty impressive,” I said.
“It’s
not enough, Jonas,” she said. “I need more money.”
She
went toward the back of the building and threw a circuit breaker, and lights
went on over the stage. I looked around the place, wrinkling my nose against
the strong bar smell. Chairs were upended on the tables; dirt and trash and
cigarette butts had been swept into a windrow in the middle of the dance floor.
The stage was small and filthy, with a plywood deck; two pair of metal folding
chairs leaning against the back wall and the three mike stands were the only
accommodations. The speakers were stacked offstage at the edge of the floor. In
contrast to the general colorlessness of matte black and chrome silver and
dirt, a candy-apple metal-flake drum set gleamed ruddily in the shadow behind
the spotlights.
From
somewhere in the back I heard a toilet flush and a door opening. “Where’d you
get the drums?” I called out.
Julia
emerged from a blacked-out hallway. “You remember the pawnshop guy?” I nodded.
“Guess who owns every building on this side of the street.”
“That
old Irishman? You’re kidding.”
“Nope.
Every one except the Sam Lawrence Hotel. They’re all falling down, too.”
“So
he loaned you these? Did you move them in last night, then?”
“Yesterday
evening. We put a dropcloth over them so the audience wouldn’t expect drums.”
As
I stepped up on stage, I saw that every drum had a dangling price tag, as did
the stool and high-hat. “We had to put a deposit,” Julia explained. “Don’t
knock any holes in the drumheads, please.”
“Not
to worry,” I said. “I’m a feeble fucker.” A pair of sticks lay across the
stool; I picked them up and sat down.
“Don’t
look so glum,” Julia said. “You’ll be fine.”
“Will
I?”
“The
audience is campus people, mostly,” Julia said. “Grad students. It’s not like
the Three-Legged Dog.”
“Harmless
intellectuals, in other words. Like us.” I balanced the sticks and did a soft
roll. “What’s the matter with Greg?” I asked.
“For
what we make, he couldn’t afford to drive down here,” Julia said. “Besides, he
works most weekends. We were lucky to get him that night in Carter Lake.”
I
practiced a few licks while Julia got on the pay phone and called the Co-Op.
She came back to the stage biting her thumb. “Robert is sick,” she reported.
“Mark is on his way.”
“Robert
had too much to drink,” I speculated.
“Probably
not,” Julia said. “Usually it doesn’t bother him.”
“Can
you turn up the heat?” I asked. “I could play better if I could take my jacket
off.”
“I
don’t know how,” she said. “I think we have to suffer.”
McKinley
arrived bearing his electric bass, and the three of us managed a desultory
practice. They walked me through their repertory of songs; I tried to keep a
steady tempo and listen to the material. I played as woodenly as I had danced
with Grace, eliciting winces from McKinley and frowns from Julia. The sticks
grew wet and heavy in my hands, and my shoulder and back began to ache; my
mouth got dry as if I’d been singing with them. I played badly for an hour and
a half and called for a break.
“Jonas,”
Julia said impatiently, “we have to get through this stuff.”
“Let’s
take five,” McKinley said to her. “This is no picnic if you’re not used to it.”
“Who
said it was easy?” Julia snapped. “Do you think it’s easy for me? My throat
hurts, if you want to know the truth.”
“More
reason to take a rest,” McKinley said.
“Fine,”
Julia said, and headed for the bathroom.
I
put the sticks down gratefully and stood up to ease my back. “What’s with
Shemansky?” I asked. “Is he really sick?”
“Yeah,”
McKinley said. “Looks like the flu. There are others in our building who have
it.”
“I
got it last fall,” I said. “Maybe I won’t catch it this time around.”
“I
hope it misses me,” McKinley said. “Flu, that’s all I need right now. That
seminar with Lewis Rey is stranger than Strange.”
Julia
came back in a better frame of mind. “Hurray!” she announced. “The menses have
returned.”
“You
were sweating it?” I asked.
“I
was late,” she said. “It’s a new experience for me.”
“What
the world needs,” I said. “More Jerome Welds.”
“It’s
none of your business, Jonas,” Julia said. “You don’t have to like him.”
“You’re
right,” I said, “I don’t. Are you on The Pill?”
“We’re
using something,” Julia replied. “Like I said, it’s none of your business.”
The
second session went better. I warmed up and took off my flight jacket, and even
had a little fun with a couple of the numbers. The next time someone called a
halt it was McKinley. “The skin’s peeling off my fingers,” he said. “I need a
couple of days to grow it back.”
“What
do you think, Jonas?” Julia asked. “Anyone care for a cough drop?”
“Hell,
I can do this,” I said. “The way things are looking at the English Department,
I’d better develop some alternative career choices.”
“Does
that mean you’ll pay for these drums?”
“Oof,”
I said. “Why didn’t I see that coming? Well, how much is it?”
“Three
hundred bucks.”
“Oof,”
I said again. I calculated the arrival of my next VA check. “Sure, I can come
up with it.”
“That’s
my boy,” Julia said. “Old Moneybags. Now, all we have to do is get you an
outfit.”
“Jesus
Christ!” I said, and repeated myself on the drums: BOM-ba-da BOM. Mckinley
laughed.
“Wow!
Do that again,” Julia said. POW! Ba-dat ba-DUM, I echoed. She raised her thick
eyebrows and grinned. “Maybe we can use it in the act.”
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