The Saxophone Man
Short Story by Roy L. Pickering Jr.
What
am I going to say to Ellen? How will she
react when I tell her I’ve been fired? I
suppose there’s no point in asking myself rhetorical questions. I know exactly what she’s going to say.
“Howard,
how could you let this happen? How are
we going to pay our bills? I’m extremely
disappointed in you. You’ve always been
such an underachiever. You always settle
for second best from yourself. I bet
you’ve been daydreaming, or hallucinating, or whatever you want to call it,
instead of focusing on your work. Didn’t
any of what Dr. Seagram had to say sink in?
I suppose not. To think of what I
gave up for you. I could be married to
Barry Frugesi, living in a mansion with servants catering to my every need. But no, like a fool I let emotion override
common sense and chose you. Now here I am
closing in on middle age, and instead of being secure, we have to start all
over again.”
None
of this will be fair of her to say.
First of all, I’ve worked my tail off for McDermott and Lynch
Realty. It’s not my fault that I’m in a
slump. Not entirely, anyway. I can only perform as well as the economy
dictates. For a considerable number of
years I was their top salesman. At one
point I accounted for nearly sixty percent of their sales. There wasn’t a house on the market that I
couldn’t sell, even if it was little more than a cardboard box held together by
duct tape and loose wiring. Now that I’m
not doing so well, do they show me loyalty?
I suppose it was pure folly to expect any. Loyalty has gone the way of chivalry and
penny arcades.
Backstabbing from employers is one thing, but
the reaction from Ellen that I fully anticipate is shameless. How dare she complain about our bills being
paid? We’ve never paid a bill the entire
time we’ve been married. I’ve paid the bills. I’ve single handedly supported my family from
day one, never mind that gratitude has been expressed at a faster dwindling
rate than marital affection over the past decade or so. My output at work has
declined by no less a degree than Ellen’s output in the bedroom, not that
bringing this up will strengthen my case any.
Ellen is living a comfortable existence courtesy of my earning and
investing efforts, but all she cares to highlight are my supposed
inadequacies. Her complaints are based
on the paranoia instilled in her youth by a penny-pinching father. The truth of our situation is that we’d need
the Hubble telescope to find the poorhouse she’s routinely prophesying is one
bad break away from becoming our residence.
As for the legend of Barry Frugesi, if she throws him in my face one
more time I’ll have no choice but to sternly express that - “He was a pompous,
self-centered ass, not to mention that it was he who dumped you,
Ellen. And I hate to be the bearer of
bad news, darling, but you left middle age behind in your rear view mirror a
few years ago. Embrace the downhill slope.”
What am I doing?
I’m walking down the street talking to myself, that’s what I’m
doing. I need to get a grip. It’s a good thing this is Greenwich Village
or else I would be attracting a lot of stares.
As it is, I’m just one more raving lunatic in the crowd. This area of the only city I’ve ever lived
in, the greatest city in the world, bares little resemblance to the way it was when
I was a child. That was before NYU moved
in and took over, gentrifying the neighborhood building by building. Times in general have changed a great deal
from when I was young and on top of the world.
I suppose everyone’s on top of the world when they’re young, and by its
very definition, times have little choice but to change. Still doesn’t stop me from fondly reminiscing
and profoundly missing days gone by, one of my biggest faults according to
Ellen, though certainly not the only one she recites.
As
I turn onto Broadway, a beautiful and eerily familiar melody flutters in the
air. I spy a black man across the street
standing in front of a 24-hour deli playing a tenor saxophone. The scene is typical, but the virtuoso
performance he’s giving is anything but.
Before my mind can recall where I have heard this song before, he stops
and starts to play another one. This
composition I instantly recognize as a Dexter Gordon masterpiece that the
street musician is interpreting flawlessly.
Being a huge jazz fan and having nothing better to do than
procrastinating further before heading home to inform Ellen of my unemployment,
I cross the street to listen closer.
The
sax player looks about fifty-five years old, which would make him five years
older than me. He has a salt and pepper
afro and possesses a complexion like hot chocolate, his radiantly white teeth
putting me in mind of marshmallows floating on top. The feeling of warmth exuded from his eyes
puts one instantly at ease in his presence, even as they dance in rhythm with
the music he brings forth. His fingers
glide across the keys with a fluidity I can’t help but marvel at. Here is a man who was born to play the
saxophone, but not on a street corner with an open case lying on the ground
next to him containing about three dollars in change. This guy belongs in Lincoln Center or
Carnegie Hall. He should be performing
for kings and queens, not pedestrians with too much on their minds and too
little spare time to recognize the genius they’re racing past.
The music transports me back to a better time, a
wondrous one during which I handled a saxophone pretty well myself. I must have played close to a hundred
nightclubs. That sax of mine helped pay
my way through college. It got me more
dates than I could have ever hoped for.
Ellen fell in love with me, despite having superior offers on the table,
largely because of the
passion and sensuality that I exuded on stage.
Was it really so long ago when I last went out on the fire escape to set
loose a melody after making love to Ellen on that creaky old bed in our tiny
apartment in SOHO, back when we were delirious newlyweds?
The
Dexter Gordon tune is brought down to a graceful landing. I respectfully applaud and toss a dollar into
the musician’s case.
“Much
obliged, mister,” he says in a throaty pack-a-day voice, flashing a broad smile
with his practically glow-in-the-dark molars.
“You’re
incredible,” I tell him. “Much too
talented to be out here playing on the street.”
“Ain’t nothing wrong with the streets. You’re always guaranteed a sell out audience,
rain or shine. Even if most people don’t
stop to listen, they still hear me as they walk by. All in all I’ve played for thousands of
folks. And every so often one of my
songs touches someone’s heart and makes their
day just a little brighter. Guys and
dolls on Wall Street might make a lot more money than me, but how many
opportunities do they get on the job to make someone smile?”
“I
suppose you have a point there,” I say.
“I used to play the sax years ago.
Nothing quite like standing before a crowd and knowing I had them in the
palm of my hand, that I could take them on a journey of my own making simply by
breathing my dreams and aspirations into that brass tunnel. The feeling was worth a lot more to me than
the paychecks.”
“Of
course it was. That feeling is called
happiness. A shrink or a thesaurus could
give you some alternate words for it, but I think the one I chose works just
fine. I might not have a lot of money,
but it doesn’t take much effort to put a grin on this old mug of mine. The same can’t be said for you, sorry to
report.”
A
quizzical expression must fall upon my face, because before I can ask the old
musician what he means by this, he proceeds to answer my unspoken question.
“I
can see it in your eyes. Your whole life
has revolved around providing for the well being of others at the expense of
your own contentment. You’ve worked for
years in a job you hate so your wife could wear fashionable dresses while
dining at exclusive restaurants. You
made sure that your son was able to go to the best schools, even though you
knew that he’d goof off and flunk out.
You arranged for your daughter to have her dream wedding, never mind
that you couldn’t stand the guy and accurately predicted it wouldn’t last a
year. Their needs were taken care of,
but what have you done for yourself? The
truth is you haven’t really been happy since the last time you played your
saxophone. When you put it up in the
attic you
tucked away a large piece of your soul.”
I
can do nothing but stare with astonishment as this complete stranger recounts
my life story. I am both frightened and
fascinated.
“Where
are you getting this nonsense from?” I manage to stammer, afraid to confess to
the accuracy of his words, or perhaps ashamed to admit it to myself.
“Like
I said, I can see it in your eyes. It’s
a gift. Some people create paintings,
some write novels, others sing or dance or solve complicated mathematical
equations. There are even a few
extraordinary individuals who can juggle while riding a unicycle. As for me, I play the saxophone and read
people’s eyes. Some of them tell the
saddest stories ever told. The truly
tragic ones I put to music and play their tears. It isn’t too late for you to change your
song, you know. Sometimes what looks
like a setback is actually an opportunity.
Don’t let this one pass you by.
Life is too short, and there’s a whole mess of beauty to take in if you
have the right frame of mind to see it.
Most folks waste time examining their sorrow, trying to make sense of
it, trying to bend it to their will. I
say just toss it aside to make room for a prettier picture, for a song with a
groove that you can dance to.”
I’m not sure how to regard this fortune cookie
advice. Since he knows so much about me,
superficial details as well as knowledge that seems to require inside
information, perhaps he actually is qualified to counsel me. He may merely be some down on his luck guy
playing saxophone on a street corner for castaway
coins, but his advice rings truer than that given to me by those in much
loftier societal positions, including Dr. Seagram who charged armed robbery by
the hour to listen to my woes and then regurgitate the irrelevant opinions of
Sigmund Freud. Listening to the
musician, mesmerized by the creases in his face that remind me of rivers on a
map of Africa, I feel as people do upon reading their horoscope in the
newspaper for amusement and finding that it neatly coincides with whatever they
happen to be going through.
After college, I wanted to pursue a full time
career in music. But Ellen, who was
pregnant with the child who hastened our sprint to the altar, insisted that I
enter a more secure line of work. On the
recommendation of her father, some would have called it extreme prodding but I
knew better than to offend the daughter who doted on him, I chose the real
estate game. I turned out to be pretty
good at it, needing simply to transfer my stage presence to one-on-one charm,
especially in the beginning when it was new enough to capture my interest. But it was only a matter of time before
dissatisfaction settled in. My vocation
was lucrative, my home spacious, my finances secure,
my loved ones were protected from their complacency, but still …
One
morning about seven years into our marriage, an impulse led me up to the attic
in search of my abandoned saxophone. I
found that I had forgotten all the songs once played from memory with such
ease. I had traded my soul to the devil
in exchange for domestic tranquility, and my soul, in the shape of a tenor
saxophone, had become dust covered and foreign to my touch. As I headed to work shortly afterwards, I
realized it wasn’t so much playing the sax that I missed as it was the sense
of freedom I associated it with. When I
was a young man, the whole world lay before my eyes for the taking. Now as a not so young man, I could scarcely
believe how little I had elected to grab hold of.
The process of manufacturing a lifetime is a
tiring one, or at least that has been my experience to date. The quotas I was professionally obligated to
reach pulled increasingly further away over the years. The degree to which I allowed myself to care
about this waned in direct proportion.
One year ago I had what experts termed a nervous breakdown. Therapy and time were
supposed to rejuvenate me and increase my sales figures in the process. I tried to care. I failed.
Eventually I was fired. No hard
feelings.
This street musician is right. Today
doesn’t have to be an end for me. It can
be a new beginning. Maybe I’ll start my
own business, open up a music store. And
I could take up playing the saxophone again, not to earn a living, but to make
the process of living a little sweeter.
What nobler cause to undertake a venture can there be? But before doing any of this I’ll go on a
world cruise with Ellen, check out all the places we once talked about longing
to see before getting caught up with keeping up with the Jones’, whoever they
happen to be. What’s stopping us? We have enough money saved to tide us over
for a good while. Our kids are grown now
and more or less independent; Rachel having married and then divorced herself
into country club money; Herbert lucking into business partnership with a
former college classmate and now earning a small fortune not through
intelligence, skill or diligence, but solely due to being in the right place at
the right time - the American way.
My
thoughts are interrupted. The musician
is once again playing the song I first heard him performing, the one that lured
me to him like a child to the Pied Piper.
I allow its sweet melody to caress my senses and find myself humming
along. Suddenly I realize why the tune
is so familiar to me. I composed it
twenty-six years ago. It is the song I
wrote for Ellen when I was courting her.
This cannot be, and yet it most definitely is. I clear my throat to ask how he could
possibly know this particular arrangement of musical notes, but then decide
against it. Some things are best left
unknown. I continue to listen until the
saxophone man finishes my song, after which he grins so brightly that I nearly
need to shield my eyes.
“Beautiful,
isn’t it?” he says. “Now it’s time for
you to go home and play it for yourself.”
“I
think you’re right.”
I remove a twenty from my wallet and place it in
his instrument’s case. Then I head
across the street towards the nearest subway entrance. I can’t wait to get home and discuss with
Ellen my wonderful plans for the adventurous future I’ve envisioned for
us. She’ll no doubt resist at first,
wanting me to be practical, to get back onto the safe road. But I’ve played it cautious long enough. I’m confident that if I stick to these
relocated convictions and probe deeply enough into my wife’s heart, I will
eventually find the free spirit lurking beneath, long dormant but not yet
expired.
The
chain of mellifluous chords snakes between the oxygen and nitrogen that
comprise the surrounding air. With each
step I take the music grows louder and sharper, the acoustics of this street
corner defying conventional wisdom. The
saxophone man is accompanied by a most unique set of band mates generating
sounds only to be found on a New York City street, the ultimate jazz
improvisation. Then an unpleasant chord
is struck, a high pitched screech that spoils the toe tapping groove. I turn my head just in time to see the
alarmed face of a truck driver slamming his foot on a break pedal. But the vehicle has gained too much momentum,
and the distance between us is too small.
The tires stop spinning, but the grill of the truck moves towards me at
a catastrophic rate of speed. An instant
later all fades to back.
When
I awaken, it is in a state of profound confusion. I do not know how long I have been
asleep. Perhaps I’ve been in a
coma. I am relieved to find that my
limbs are fully operational. A quick pat
down of my torso fails to reveal anything missing, or even hurting. My health appears to be fine. I must have recovered from whatever injuries
I suffered while lying unconscious in this hospital room.
“Looks
like you were having quite the dream.”
I
turn towards the voice that has startled while informing me that I am not
alone. Seated to my right is Dr.
Seagram. I wonder why my former
psychiatrist has come to pay me a visit.
It isn’t as if we became good friends while I was under his care. In fact, during my sessions I made little
effort to mask my disdain of him. My
wife and kids should be here by my side, not this Freud obsessed fool.
An image from hospital bed scenes in various
movies springs to mind. Fearing to
discover that while my body is fine, my face is encased like a mummy, I run my
fingers from ear to ear and
hairline to chin. No bandages or scars
are to be found. It seems that I am
completely uninjured. Perhaps the truck
merely tapped me and I was knocked out when my head hit the ground. Or maybe I passed out in fright, a reasonable
reaction to the circumstances. It has
become clear that I was certainly not plowed into.
“How
did I get here?”
Dr.
Seagram smiles in that way of his that I have frequently longed to smack from
his face, for it toes the line beyond which is a smirk, without quite crossing
it.
“You
blacked out in your office after… After
you were fired, Howard. Do you remember
being fired?”
“Of course I do.” Oh, how I loathe Dr. Seagram’s condescending
tone of voice. My guess is that rather
than coaxing patients back to mental health by lending an ear and dispelling
sound advice, his technique is to drive them off his couch and back into the
chaotic world that loosened their marbles through the overpowering force of his
obnoxiousness.
“And
I remember leaving the office, having a great conversation with this black guy
playing the saxophone on a street corner, and then I think I was hit by a truck
while crossing the street.”
Dr.
Seagram pulls on his beard, one of his many very annoying habits. I can almost literally see the wheels
spinning in his head as he tries to psychoanalyze me.
“What
you’re describing is what you must have just dreamt, Howard. The truth is, you collapsed in the office of
your employer after you were let go. An
ambulance brought you here. Therefore
you could not have had a conversation with a musician, black, white, purple, or
green. And there was no truck accident.”
The
words spoken by Dr. Seagam shake me. As
much as I dislike him, I also know him to be a straight shooter. Playing con games is not his style. So I’ve little choice but to accept that his
version of events is the true one.
“But
it seemed so real. He seemed so real. He
inspired me to make major changes in my life.
I was looking forward to taking his advice. No offense, Dr. Seagram, but ten minutes
spent talking to him was far more motivating and clarifying than all of my
sessions with you combined.”
“No
offense taken, Howard. After all, it’s
pretty hard to compete against a figment of one’s imagination. Under the circumstances, I think you should
give serious consideration to resuming our sessions. I recommend two per week to start. Going back on medication is probably a good
idea as well. You have much work to do
when it comes to dealing with stress.
It’s no wonder a day like this one pushed you over the edge. Not that it’s anything to be embarrassed
about. There’s no easy way to cope with
being fired from a job you’ve had for decades and being left by your wife on
the same day. You have a tendency to
hide out in a fantasy whenever reality gets too difficult for you to handle.”
“Left
by my wife? What are you talking about,
Dr. Seagram?”
“Oh
my. Apparently you’ve blocked some of
what happened this morning from your memory and replaced it with what you merely imagined. I hate to be the bearer of
such bad news, but Ellen moved out of your home. She’s taken up with another man. I’m rather embarrassed to admit that the man
she left you for is my colleague, Dr. Robertson.”
Talk
about information overload. If only this
conversation was my nightmare instead of the awful state of affairs I’ve
awakened to. I close my eyes in order to
picture the psychiatrist that Dr. Seagram shares a practice with. Our paths only crossed a handful of
times. He’s African American, about half
an inch taller than me, mid fifties, a short salt and pepper afro with a complexion
like hot chocolate and prominently white teeth.
My eyes open wide, as does my mouth to utter three syllables.
“Oh my God.”
Remembrance is crashing down upon me.
The real events of today are assaulting my awareness with perfect
clarity, in technicolor. Ellen curtly
informed me that she was leaving for good.
Unlike prior occasions, it was not merely a bluff for attention. She actually walked out the door this time, out
of our marriage, without taking the briefest glance of regret back. Pathetically, I could think of nothing better
to do in response than go to work, where as bad luck would have it, I was
fired. I did not leave the office on my
own terms, or even on my own feet. There
was no encounter afterwards with a wise black man who plays the saxophone like
an angel. But I didn’t dream the guy up
entirely, not his physical appearance anyway, for he does exist, he is in fact the man that Ellen left me
for – Dr. Robertson.
I
close my eyes again, this time in sweet surrender. My senses shut out all stimuli, so if Dr.
Seagram is offering words of wisdom or apologizing for his colleague’s behavior
or trying to fit future sessions with me into his calendar, I am blissfully unaware. My state of concentration pays off and I am
able to bring back what I long for. The
music of the saxophone man is washing over me.
It will get me through this. The
uncaring world that I desperately need protection from has disappeared. Only
this glorious music is left behind like a Chesire smile.
THE END
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