Prelude

 

Behold the way our fine feathered-friend

His virtue doth parade.

Thou knowest not, my dim witted friend,

The picture Thou hast made.

Thy vacant brow and thy tousled hair

Conceal Thy good intent.

Thou, noble upright, truthful, sincere

And slightly dopey gent.

 

 

Roger Tells a Story

 

Storm clouds threatened the patio at the Agape Café today, but they didn’t stop Jeff Grady from taking his usual seat outside. When it has rained heavily by 4 o’clock, they bring the red plastic chairs indoors; but when it has been only a light rain, or looks like rain, they leave them turned upside-down on the tabletops so they will be dry after it clears, . Jeff had wandered in from the parking lot, not from a car but the woods beyond, about 15 minutes before opening time. He pulls down a chair, the catbird seat right beside the café entrance, and shimmies out of his backpack, placing it on the table.

 

Inside, Roger is the bartender today and he never makes a fuss about Jeff’s unkempt appearance in such a highly-visible location - unlike Jerry, who complains that it might give potential customers the “wrong idea” and frighten them away. .Roger long ago realized that the regulars tolerate or genuinely like this unimposing man, the unofficial greeter, He smiles at familiar faces entering the Agape and, when he hasn’t been there, people will ask after a few days.

 

As the doors were being unlocked, Roger was polishing a wine glass, holding it up to the light, carefully inspecting the surface for dishwasher spots and rubbing each meticulously away, tiger, tiger, burning bright. His education serves him well in menial moments . Two noisy couples enter. As the door swings shut, Roger notices the unmistakable bearded profile of Jeff, abandons the glassware, and pulls down a paper cup from the dispenser. The noisy people, providing their own fanfare, gradually gravitate to a corner table, the one most distant from his station behind the bar. A burst of foam erupts from the Pabst tap the moment he pulls the handle, pressure from beer that has wanted to escape the keg since the night before. He slowly fills the cup, allowing excess foam to flow over into the drain. “The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, the furrow followed free,” he recites, setting the full pint down on the bar.

 

 Peggy arrives, wearing an Agape T-shirt with the stylized red ribbon heart. She glances at the corner table where there is a flurry of activity. “White Zinfandel,” she says, smiling at Roger. “My money says Chardonnay,” he counters. Peggy reaches behind the bar and picks up an order pad, though she rarely needs to write anything down. There is a lull at the corner table, briefly, as she takes their order. Returning, she leans against a barstool and shrugs. “It’s a push - two Zinnies and two Chardies.” Jeff smiles and reaches to the glassware rack and picks up the chamois. “Don’t bother, “ Peggy says, “they’re already toasted.”

 

“Oh!” She says, spotting the PBR on the bar. She picks up the paper cup that has a logo matching her T-shirt, and carries it outside. Jeff is extracting a ragged paperback from the backpack as she sets it down on the table.

 

“Tab?” she asks. He nods and they both look up into the sky. “Think it’s going to rain?”

 

Jeff squints, takes a deep breath, and stares deeply into the late afternoon sky, turning his head - perhaps mentally overlaying computer-generated graphics onto the swirling clouds, time-lapse isobar gradients and Doppler bands to help form his decision.

 

At some length, he pronounces, “Don’t know, hard to say.”

 

“My lawn is turning brown, we could sure use it. Hey, Jeff, would you do me a favor? Pretty please? If it does start raining hard, would you mind putting your chair back on the table before you come inside? It would save me a trip out into the rain.”

 

Jeff smiles, nods. Peggy returns the smile.

 

 

Happy hour is still 30 minutes away. Two regulars have wandered in at their usual time and have taken their regular seats at the bar., Peggy carries 4 fresh glasses of wine over to the self-absorbed fourtop, polar opposites to the man outside. The women both look like someone had poured glue into a bucket of costume jewelry and cast it at them. When her mission at the table is complete, Peggy looks out through the doorway. He is wearing a knotted blue handkerchief for a headband. His hair, long, graying in patches, frames an angelic face anchored by a salt-and-pepper beard, just long enough for a thoughtful stroke. His olive eyes, always focused on the horizon, see hidden dimensions unfolding. That improbable silk waistcoat, probably bought for 5 bucks at the thrift shop, has broad black vertical stripes sewn above a red background. It tapers across his unbelted denim waist, blue jeans anchoring him firmly to the earth. He stays outside, preferring his own company, that of a book, or of the sounds from the bandstand that sometimes seep from inside.

 

Some say he had been a decent musician once himself and it’s a fact that he still keeps an old clarinet in the backpack – a rare, for good reason, all-metal marching band B-flat Selmer. In freezing weather, the metal is like  a flagpole on your tongue, a real hazard. He’d scored the Selmer at Jerry’s Pawn, out on Bragg Boulevard, in Fayetteville, for ten bucks including the plastic case.

 

He really wasn’t much of a player anymore, but the musicians say he has a way of finding just the right note to play at the very right time, though his technique did not allow him to play a lot of notes in a little time. Some bands at the Agape might even let him sit in and play a few, especially on a slow night. The guys in the band coming tonight like him. He’s pleasant, eccentric, definitely unassuming, and besides, letting him play gives a couple of them a break, a little bar time, “customer relations” they like to call it – or a visit the men’s room for whatever reason, and for this group of musicians there are sometimes more than two.

 

Beyond the holly hedges edging the patio, a matching pair of Dodge Sprinter vans arrive in formation and pull into the spaces marked “Loading/Unloading Zone - for Musicians Only!” Jeff pulls his right hand away from the dog-eared copy of The Art of Mindfulness and waves to them. With the hand still free, he helps himself to a generous gulp of beer.

 

“Look out – Jeff’s here!” chirps, Larry, the drummer, and returns the wave, then a peace sign.

 

 

They’re about finished setting up their equipment when Grandiose Gary, the Agape’s surly manager, lumbers slowly across the dance floor to the stage. A slender man mimics his obese swagger to the keyboards and plays the opening phrase of “Baby Elephant Walk.” Larry and the bass player pick up on the irreverence, setting the tempo to Gary’s waddle. It’s just starting to gather a head of steam when Gary reaches his destination, head down, and cuts them off with a wave of the hand.

 

Silence.

 

“Severe thunderstorms predicted, a tornado watch - you’re probably not going to have much of a crowd…”

Now “we’re” is generally reserved for crowded nights, when “we’re” all in this together sharing the glory, but it’s always “you’re,” when the place is empty – and, for these Bessemer-converted musicians, it means only one thing – no pay, playing for tips, maybe a complimentary drink, a friggin’ busker gig. Spirits on the bandstand drop faster than the barometer.

 

“Hey, we drove 55 miles to get 5 guys here; on time, you could at least cover our gas money.”

 

“Well, it’s costing me money too, just keeping the place open – waitresses, bartenders, air-conditioning…tell you what though; I still haven’t booked for New Year’s – you interested?”

 

“Day or eve?” Larry groans, capping it off with a half-hearted bada-bing.

 

There’s an impromptu huddle: Mike, keyboardist extraordinaire and the group’s closest approximation of a leader, sighs “Okay.”

 

One of the guys at the corner table finishes a joke, squeaking out the punch line falsetto, “I didn’t say she was crazy - I said she was…” A Thunder clap drowns out the ending, but the fourtop hears it and the whole flock of explodes sforzando into riotous hilarity. Larry rolls his eyes and Mike makes a contorted face back at him.

 

“First time I heard that, I fell out my high chair,” moans Larry. The laughter at the corner table subsides. More thunder, each peal a little louder than the last.

 

 

The band plays “My Funny Valentine.”

 

Roger is busy spot-polishing another wine glass. “Cheap bastard,” he mutters, loud enough for the two regulars to hear, “too tight to spring for even a two-dollar sample of Jet-Dry.” He looks down the bar to the tip jar, already as full as it will probably get tonight, and two dollars suddenly sounds like a lot. He might as well have stayed home and got drunk by himself. Tim, one of the two regulars, speaks up.

 

“I never understood that song; it’s a real insult to the poor chick.” Roger listens patiently as he recites a verse.

 

Is your figure less than Greek

Is your mouth a little weak

When you open it to speak

Are you smart?

 

“He’s hinting that she’s fat, has a hair lip and, worst of all, might have some brains. What was Hoagy Carmichael thinking when he wrote that shit? He sure wasn’t gettin’ any.”

 

Roger chuckles. “Lorenz Hart wrote the lyrics and Richard Rodgers wrote the melody.”

 

“It’s not very flattering.”

 

“Neither was Shakespeare, Sonnet 130…” Roger recites the opening lines.

 

My mistress's eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips;

If snow is white, then her breasts are a brownish gray;

 

“See, it’s not intended to be insincere flattery. It’s more mature, accepting minor flaws and loving the person within, just as they are, warts and all.”

 

Tim is not impressed. “Okay, you might think stuff like that, but a lady wants you to tell her she’s beautiful. Women are insecure about their looks.”

 

Roger smiles and plays his trump card. “It wasn’t written to a lady. ‘Valentine’ was a guy, a gangster, matter of fact, Valentine LaMar, in the musical Babes in Arms and his lady sang it to him. It was never a hit until Chet Baker sang it and he left off the verse, which makes it clear it’s being sung to a dude. Sinatra too. Ella Fitzgerald used the verse later. So did Johnny Mathis…”

 

Their eyes meet and Tim changes the subject.

 

“Think they’ll let Jeff play tonight? Hey, what’s the story with him anyway? He embroiders those red hearts on the cuffs of his shirts. It’s freaky.”

 

“It’s the bar’s logo, a red ribbon laid out to form a heart, open on one side, so the ends do not meet – kinda like the bar itself. Jeff designed it.”

 

Tim is amused. “I mean Jeff. He seems a nice enough guy. An old hippie? Too many drugs? What’s his story?”

 

“You want the long version or the short version? Long version, ask Jeff when he’s toasted; short version, I got the 811.”

 

“The what?”

 

“The 811 – ‘Call before you dig’.”

 

“Ha!. Thanks for the warning. So, what’s the story?”

 

“He got drafted, late 60s, thought about Canada, but decided to enlist instead with a recruiter’s promise that he could get in the Army band. Dude really knew music inside out, played lots of instruments, wrote out charts by ear, he could sub in any band at the drop of a hat - a child prodigy in his time. Of course, after Basic they screwed him and cut orders for infantry, Fort Benning, Georgia. He was pissed, considered Canada again, but then called his congressman on a drunken whim. Lucky break, his rep took pity on him - couldn’t get him into the Army band, but was able get him into nurse’s training with a couple of calls. At the time, it seems the military needed warm bodies capable of saving lives just as badly as they needed warm bodies capable of snuffing ‘em.”

 

“I grok. Say, is this still the short version?”

 

“Sorry.” Roger picks up the tempo. “Jeff ended up training at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas. After that, he stayed there and worked at Brooke Army Medical Center. It was like a regular day job, which for him was not such a good thing. He took to hanging out in bars at might, strip clubs at first, tucking bucks and running out of toothpaste money by mid-month. He graduated to upscale jazz clubs, even playing sometimes. It was better for his teeth. He eventually settled in at a little place they called Valentino’s. The owner was a chick named ‘Alma,’ a 30s-something hottie, who used to work at the strip joints where he had hung out, but had saved enough by whatever means to open a place, of sorts, all her own.”

 

Thunder, coming in regular pulses now, shakes the ground. The wind is picking up. A few heavy drops of rain splatter, a torrent is coming. One drop lands squarely on the page opposite the one Jeff is reading, soaking an entire paragraph. Jeff takes this as an omen and shifts his gaze to read it.

 

Awareness is a fundamental aspect of the mind. Yet, much of our life unfolds in a dimly aware or even unaware state of consciousness. In the spiritual traditions, this "consensual trance" is considered undesirable, as the mind is allowed to enter into merely reactive patterns that perpetuate themselves.

 

Alma. What caused him to think of her just now? That was so long ago. He reaches into the knapsack and gently slides out the Selmer case.

 

 

“Valentino’s was just your basic GI dive - cheap drinks on Breckinridge Avenue, an easy walk from Ft. Sam. That’s what attracted him at first, before he met Alma. Then she played him like he did the clarinet. She was running Valentino’s on a shoestring, selling cheap beer to the GIs. They ship in and they ship out, you know, so you never develop the backbone, the regulars – by the way, thanks, Tim, we really appreciate your business…”

 

Tim drops a crisp Abe into the tip jar. “Slow night, eh?”

 

The wind, which had been whipping trees around like blades of grass, now stopped abruptly. This startles Jeff, as though he’d missed a cue. He looks again into the skies, then shrugs and opens the clarinet case. Inside are three tarnished metallic sections. Their luster could probably be restored, he knew, but the polish costs nearly as much as the instrument did and that seems foolish. He makes a mental note to visit some estate sales, a great source of bargains he’d been told, and see whether some dearly departed soul had left behind a 10-ounce can of Mothers 5101 Mag & Aluminum paste that he could pick up maybe for a quarter.

 

As he was thinking, his hands worked as deftly as they had once done at Fort Jackson assembling his 7.62mm M14. He slid the clarinet sections together unconsciously. Now, where is the damn reed? He thought he’d left it in the mouthpiece.

 

 

Momentarily distracted by the sudden calm outside, Roger turns back to Tim, “What were we talking about? It seemed important…ah, yes, Jeff...”

 

“It was the summer of ’67, summer of love, when Alma got some unexpected competition. A retired Colonel, dashing Scottish dude, red moustache – he wore a kilt on Bobby Burns’ birthday - opened a bar right next door to Alma’s place. He named it Auld Lang Syne and he had a gimmick that caught on like wildfire: Every night is New Year’s Eve! They had poppers and streamers and those ratchet things you whirl around that make a grating sound. He brought in noisemakers by the caseload, any kind you could imagine. Every night, the patrons would count down from 10, just like Wally Schirra or Dick Clark, as midnight approached. The women acted crazy, kissing everyone, raucous, and it didn’t take long for the wild stories to go viral, as they say now, back on the military bases. Tuesday night? Got guard duty tomorrow? No problem - tonight can be New Year’s Eve! Lines formed outside starting about eleven, then 10:30, and even earlier on weekends. Now you’d think Alma would have still done okay, getting the overflow, but if anyone walked over to peek through Valentino’s window - the sign there did say ‘Bar & Grill’ - they’d lose their place in line.

 

“Other than the officially-sanctioned festivities inside the Auld Lang Syne, it was an orderly bar and there was never any trouble. The Colonel kept a 4-iron, one that got him 170 yards in better days, over by the cash register to discourage impromptu fights. He was a big dude for starters: 225 pounds, 6 feet 4 inches. He’d been an Army Ranger and still liked jumping just for the hell of it. The street outside the bar, he really didn’t care so much - as long as they stayed away from the windows. Fights would break out in the line, booze being passed around, you know, but the police would quickly arrive in multiple Paddy wagons. A few patrons might even dosey-doe out to observe the evening’s unofficial warm-up entertainment. However, it did frighten away Alma’s GIs, who tended to be underage…”

 

“The SHORT version?” Tim drummed his fingers on the rim of the tip jar, a move guaranteed to rile any bartender.

 

 

Outside, Jeff had found his reed. It had been trapped in the worn faux velvet case lining. It looked a little funky, so he rinsed it off with a splash of beer before putting it in his mouth to soak. It had gotten dry but hadn’t split. It tasted like Swiss cheese.

 

“Wow! That was close!” Roger jumped. A bolt had just struck in the street, flickering the lights, and the simultaneous thunderclap rattled empty glasses on the bar shelves as well as everyone’s nerves. “Sorry. Tim, I’ll cut to the chase. Valentino’s was hurting, but Jeff got an idea for Alma to compete.”

 

Roger picks up the pace again, more from an adrenaline rush from the near miss than put of concern for Tim’s time. He’s got nothing better to do. “They bought some tacky red flocked wallpaper, cleaned the place up, laid red carpet wall-to-wall, hung some Cupid artwork, and placed bowls of candy hearts with slightly risqué messages on every table. Presto! Makeover! Now, at Alma’s place, each day is Valentine’s Day.”

 

 

Jeff carefully adjusts the reed onto the mouthpiece, centering it precisely on the very first try. He tentatively plays the B-flat fundamental, a note he always calls “C” just to annoy guitar players who always want to argue. Perfectly tuned. It’s starting to really come down, better pack up.

 

 

“How did that work out?” Tim asks.

 

“Fantasti right from the git-go - a truly great idea!. The Colonel started dropping by. He told his customers they oughta check the place out if they were more in the mood for Cupid than Bacchus. Alma changed the bar’s name to Valentine’s Day. It got written up in the San Antonio Light. That story went out on the AP wire and, next thing you know, the Today Show sent Hugh Downs and Barbara Walters over to do a segment when they came to town to cover the Battle of the Flowers parade.

 

“Unlike Alma, The Colonel benefited from the economy of scale, getting an earlier crowd. Both bars filled early every night and the fights outside stopped completely once it was mostly couples in attendance. About a month after the Today Show visit, with great ceremony, they built a doorway between the two bars so you could have a drink on Valentines Day and then saunter across for another celebrating New Year’s.

 

“Predictably, some loser opened an Irish pub across the street, but St. Patrick’s Day every day was a bit over much, especially considering San Antone’s extremely small Irish population. It failed in less than 3 months. Two symbiotic theme bars, yin and yang, was the perfect number. Alma and The Colonel eventually merged their businesses, considered franchising them and, incidentally, got married - on the very day Jeff got his honorable discharge. Great for both of them but, needless to say, it devastated poor Jeff.”

 

“Aw, now I feel kinda sorry for him, languishing all those years. Say, where did you learn all this stuff about Jeff?”

 

“You see…” Roger pauses a moment for dramatic effect and looks Tim straight in the eye, “He’s my father.”

 

Tim’s jaw drops so fast and so hard that it could have come unhinged. Then he sees the impish gleam in Roger’s eye.

 

“You ASSHOLE!”

 

“Almost had you there, didn’t I? The truth is even worse. I’ve been a bartender, languishing myself here for over 20 years and every once in a while, not too often, Jeff stays a little later, comes inside, and drinks an extra PBR after most of the regulars have left. He gets melancholy and opens up a little bit and that’s part of my job – I stand here and listen.”

 

 

Outside, the skies have opened up. Jeff has taken refuge under the awning, hoping the storm would pass. Giving up, he honks the clarinet, sounding like a French automobile, and walks over to the entrance. Peggy is standing there, having a smoke, just watching the rain. Jeff sees her, stops, turns, and braves the elements once more to place the plastic chair, inverted, back on the table just as he had promised, and scurries back under the awning.

 

Peggy smiles.

 

She raises an eyebrow and asks,” Are you going to play for us tonight, Jeff?”

 

Jeff looks down at the ground. “Don’t know,” he replies, “I’m a little rusty…”

 

 

 

Coda: Jeff’s Soliloquy

Roger. It is Roger telling his Alma story again, embellishing it a little more each time. It was nothing like he tells it at all, but it doesn’t matter. Alma was real. She loved “My Funny Valentine” and I loved to play it for her, that’s about all. The rest is just Roger’s English Lit imagination.

Last night I had a dream. There was a man with glasses and his friend. They had played a music game since childhood to see who could come up with the wildest chord, each playing more complicated harmonies and the other would guess all the notes in it from the lowest on up. They had gotten so good that they never stumped each other any more, but one guy played a chord and the keyboard began to shake. It opened up and out poured bushels of ripe jalapeno peppers, bright red, like a slot machine jackpot.
 

I don’t need the clarinet anymore or the band inside. The music is everywhere, in the clouds, the holly bushes, the sound of the opening door, the creaking of the chairs, the sounds Peggy makes when she inhales. It’s all there. Bill Evans, Johnny Smith, Chet Baker, Ella, Duke, Teddy Wilson, the Count. In the breeze, the passing cars, their brakes and horns. Philly Joe Jones, Joe Morello, Ray Brown. In the clarinet. Woody, Benny, Jimmy Dorsey. The band is always playing. Loud, then soft, in the mood or in a groove. Words are just for lies, music is the best.  Always.