Now that my friend Leo’s cut finger is nicely on the mend, he emailed to ask when we can get together, pull out our guitars, and rip into some dirty blues. He further asked if I’ve been playing much music.
I told him I had been getting into a pretty good groove with the spoons the other night at dinner—but the waiter came over and made me stop.
(Oh, come on… You chuckled. I heard you.)
My friend Leo came by the other day to jam the blues, and showed up with a cut on the tip of his finger. He said he got it four days earlier, and it still wasn’t healed.
I asked him why he didn’t call to cancel, and he said he just thought he’d super-glue it together, like the surgeons do on TV. He said he tried it and it hurt like [mild expletive] and it didn’t work. Now he’s down on surgeons and TV both.
I told him I didn’t think they use the same stuff—and besides, they don’t use it and then send the patient out to play F# major across the incision. Maybe you could use the slide, I suggested.
I don’t play the slide, says friend Leo. I might as well try to play the accordion.
There you go, I said. I’ll get you mine.
I’ve been watching the World Series, of course. …And it takes me back to my own playing days in the Bigs. Oh yes—I was an all-around All-Star. I just prefer to remain humble about it.
Unfortunately, I was on IR most of my first and only season. I got a broken finger in a superhuman dash to intercept an errant foul ball—well on its deadly way toward an infant still in its mother’s arms. You’ll still see that up on the JumboTron from time to time, when things get slow. The finger’s never been right.
If you can find my Baseball card, it’s worth a lot.
The little bell jangled as I stepped from the bright sun glare into the dim music store. I paused only a moment, then strode confidently past the amps and guitars and keyboards. I bellied up to the counter. “Harvey, my man” I said, “let me have the saxophone.”.
Harvey was a slightly rotund man with an impish face and a magical manner. He had one of those mustache and goatee things, mostly gray, like his hair. I once called him a beatnik, and he took gentle issue. No, my friend, he said—I am a “bohemian”. He was also one of the premiere jazz baritone sax players in this part of the country. He had played with everybody who was anybody. He worked here because he liked it.
But the point is that I’d always wanted to play the saxophone myself, ever since I failed so miserably at it in third grade, I’m still hurt. That’s why I was here. Harvey said are you sure? I nodded resolutely. He sighed.
From a special cubby apparently reserved just for me he pulled a worn saxophone case. He set it gently on the glass countertop with a click. He reached once more and brought out some faded folio books: “Saxophone 101″, “Making Scales Sexy”—like that—and one dog-eared copy of the third-grade sheet music to “When The Saints Go Marching In”. From behind him on the wall he plucked two large boxes of saxophone reeds, then paused and reached back for another.
As always, he generously offered me his time for lessons, for free, but as always, I demurred. This was a hill I had to climb by myself. A beast to out-wreste. This time I was going to study and practice, and for once find a reason to rent this darned thing a second month.
For a week I honked and squeaked, tooted and screeched (provoking several visits from Animal Control concerning reports of an abused cat at my address). Undaunted, I now squinted even more fiercely at the book, practiced my stance like a pro. I blew through my second box of reeds at Doppler speed. One day a crack appeared in the sheet rock where I’m sure there hadn’t been one before.
What finally got me was the spit part. Nobody told me about that part. Of course, I’d never made such an assiduous start before, or gotten so far past those first three bars of “Saints”, so I’d never found out about the spit part. Until just after dinner that one night. I’ll spare you the details.
The next day I slunk back into the store, past the amps and guitars and keyboards and trudged up the counter, a beaten man. Harvey gently took the case and book, and silently put them away in my cubby. He was never a man to gloat. I asked him why he didn’t tell me about the spit part. He said he would have mentioned that in the lessons I should have taken from him. He said he thought it was in the book. But hey, he says, now that you know, next time you’ll know to drain it more often.
There won’t be a next time, I called back, as I strode out past the amps and guitars and keyboards.
See you next year, he said with a twinkle.
These new guitar strings I boosted off Tom don’t sound near as good as the old ones I took off. Cheap dude. I should tell him to buy better strings. Can’t trust anybody.
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