BOOKS: EINSTEIN'S FORMULA: A NOVEL AFTER LAUGHING COMES CRYING: SICILIAN IMMIGRANTS ON LOUISIANA PLANTATIONS NOT FOR SELF: A SICILIAN LIFE AND DEATH IN MARION. BASS SOLOS: A NOVEL.
SCREECH: AIN'T NOTHING BUT THE BLUES
SCREECH: AIN'T NOTHING BUT THE BLUES
CHAPTER 2: BASS SOLOS: A NOVEL
Tyrone Broadbent stood at his desk one day of the many days that all ran together. He looked around the office. Since his desk was on the back row he could only see the backs of his fellow workers' heads. On this particular day of the many days a very strange thing happened to Tyrone. He could no longer remember the face of anybody. He became alarmed since he worked with the same people day in and day out, even on Saturdays sometimes. Even on Sundays. Yet, now he couldn't recall what anyone looked like. The more he tried to remember the greater was his block. He began sweating, and breathing heavily , and working harder trying to recall faces. A strange noise began to well up from Tyrone’s mouth It was a sort of moan; a sort of long yip like when a dog is hurt, or uncomfortable, or looking for attention from its master. The noise began in a low pitch at first, but then crescendoed into a high frantic yelp. It was an interesting scene because Tyrone's sounds were choreographed with body movement that started in his chair, and ended in a ballet leap into the air just as his yelp became a full fledged scream.
"I know you have faces. I know your faces," he yelled over and over. "Turn around everybody, let me see your faces." Of course by now he needn't have asked, they were already turned frozen, wide eyed, mouths agape. Then, two of the brawniest men, recovering from the shock of it all, rushed up to Tyrone, first one then the other, and gently ushered him out of the office. Tyrone offered no resistance. He left peaceably. Everyone else sat still until the three left the room, then slowly and cautiously, the office began to buzz with opinions.
"I didn't know whether he was going to tear up the place or not, " Thelma Zetts was saying as she held her hands over her heart. "Come to think of it, I never trusted him any way. I think it's his ears. One's lower than the other. They're too big, or something."
"Hyper-hysteria, that's what it is. Just hyper-hysteria. I saw it many times in the war. The big one. That's when wars meant something. Shell shock. Same thing. Hyper-hysteria, knew it right away," Benny Dangerfield was saying slowly shaking his head from side to side. Benny was the self-ordained resident omni-expert. Nothing was ever unknown, or a surprise to Benny.
As Freddie the office-go-fetch-boy entered, he was immediately waylaid with questions, "Are the police here yet? Is he foaming at the mouth? Does he have a gun or a knife? Tell us Freddie. What's going on out there?"
"Freddie, surely you noticed his ears? Is one bigger than the other?" Thelma asked with an urgency for validation.
Freddie had spent the night partying. His trip into the office was purely for self-maintenance. He had no idea what had just happened. Through bleary eyes he could see an entire office staff staring at him, in silence, waiting for his very next utterance. As he drew some water from the drinking fountain, taking in a huge gulp, he wiped his mouth with the back of his shirt sleeve, did a mild belch, and said, "Huh?" This was his beginning and parting contribution to the matter. He was out of the office door. Having all realized, in the same moment, that Freddie, the office-go-fetch-boy, was not going to convey any useful information, the group buzz of comments and opinions resumed as though on cue from a conductor.
Ty sat up in bed. The covers were drawn up to his chin. Except for a faint light filtering in from another room, the room was dark.
"Ty. You really did it this time. I mean you'll be lucky if Tangenberry doesn't file criminal charges against you for obscenity, or distrubing the peace, freaking out old ladies, or something," Ernie Krotz was saying. Ernie was Tyrone's best friend. They'd known one another since elementary school.
Tyrone sat up in bed motionless, listening to his friend.. He knew Ernie would tell him the way things are. Ernie was level headed about most things. Tyrone made decisions from his gut while Ernie planned from his head.
"Does your old man know yet?" Ernie asked. "He's gonna spit nails when he hears about what you've done."
"I don't plan to tell him just yet," Ty spoke into the covers. "I'm gonna wait til I get something better. Then I'll tell him after I get something better."
"Something better? "Something better?" Ernie repeated an octave higher and louder, sort of singing the last word for emphasis. "What something better? You know how hard work is to find around here."
"Ernie, something'l turn up. Any way I wasn't cut out to work an office-eight-to-five. . . " Ernie interrupted him, "Oh, here we go now talking about how a regular eight to five job is a drag, and that this may be for some people, but not for you?" Ernie spoke. "Where would your ass be if your father refused to do an eight to five job? Where would any of us be if no one wanted to do an eight to five job? If you want to eat, pay insurance premiums, live in anything but a cardboard box then don't knock the eight-to-fivers. They keep this country sane."
As Ernie spoke Ty shifted into a lying position, pulling the covers over his head. "Man you're the oldest young person I know." Ty said under the covers.
"What? What'd you say? Come on Ty, this is serious. Take the cover off of your damned head!"
"I said, 'You've gotten old on me.' " Ty said sticking his head out of the covers.
He continued, " What happened to that friend of mine who was going to create his own cartoon strip, and write funny stories? I'll tell you. He's writing cream cheese slogans and soap powder ads. He's uptight about losing, or making, money in the stock market and has an ulcer, at 22. You're too young to be so tight assed, Ernie. And, by the way, what happened to his friend? You know? The one who was going to travel the world until he'd had seen everything, then move to some little town and make shoes and repair them the rest of his life just like his grandpa did? He's sitting in an office all day analyzing the number of times people pee or have other bodily functions in an eight hour shift to find out how much this costs the company. I just want 'a make shoes."
"I'll be. Are you telling me you don't need hospitalization, health insurance, retirement. Are you really serious about this shoemaking thing?" Ernie said while throwing his hands up at the ceiling. "And, I don't have an ulcer, just a nervous colon, smart ass."
"My dad wanted me to be an accountant. He made it too easy. I had a job before I went to college. But it was his job. I tried to talk to him, Ernie, to tell him my feelings. But he wouldn't listen. Not really listen. Talking to him was like playing a bass solo. You know what I mean Ern? You know how the other musicians get really quiet when the bass takes a solo, but the audience still keeps drinking and talking loudly. Some even get up to go take a leak. Maybe the musicians hear you and know what you're doing, but the audience just sees you. It was sorta like that. I mean the sound comes out, but no one knows what the hell you're playing. He saw me talking, but he didn't hear with any depth. My words were dull thunks to him. I wanted to work with my grandpa learning a craft that I could be proud of , making good shoes. He said I have a talent for that. My dad said both of us were nuts."
"You know Ty, there are machines these days that make shoes .
Ty quickly interrupted, "No damned machine ever made a better shoe than my grandfather, Ernie. You can believe that."
Ernie conceded the point and continued to plead his case, "The fact is Ty that there are machines that produce shoes must faster and cheaper than any shoemaker can. How are you going to live comfortably fixing shoes? I think you've seen Pinnochio too many times."
"Pinnochio?" Ty asked. He was puzzled at the non sequitur.
"Yea, Pinnochio. You know Geppetto the shoemaker who made Pinnochio."
"Geppetto's not a shoemaker. He's a clockmaker."
"No. He's a shoemaker who makes toys."
"Gee Ernie, I don't think so. I think . . . "
"The point is Ty, no one gives a crap about quality these days. They want something quick and cheap. Who's gonna buy your shoes? Who cares whether you have a talent for making shoes? Who really cares? People aren't hired for their talent anymore. They're hired to fill a position that pays x amount of dollars. They're hired even faster if they'll work for (x minus 1) amount of dollars. Cheaper."
"Well this is sad." Ty said.
"But this is life friend."
There was a long silence while both pondered how things should be and how things appear to be. Ernie suddenly stood up.
"I gotta go. Listen take care will you. I'll call you tomorrow, or you call me. OK?"
"Yea. Thanks for coming over buddy. I really appreciate it." Ty said as he gently shook Ernie's hand.
Tyrone lay in bed thinking. He put the covers back over his head. He kept his eyes open under the cover. It was dark. He thought about what had happened today at the office, and where his life would go now. He thought about making shoes. He just knew there'd be room for a quality shoe. He'd open his own chain some day. He'd show the world that handmade shoes and talent are not dead. Meanwhile the reality of being unemployed jolted him like an electric shock. He'd need capital for his shoemaking venture. His father, while very prosperous and financially liquid, wouldn't sponsor such a project. He knew that even had he saved his money, and he hadn't, there wouldn't be enough money to begin. Ty took a deep breath under the covers and lay very still while he considered his options.
Tyrone stuck his head out from under the covers and looked at the clock. It was now 8:30 p.m. He knew what he had to do now. Tomorrow morning, very early, he would get up and go look for another job. Maybe someone in town needed a systems analyst.
Tyrone Broadbent stood at his desk one day of the many days that all ran together. He looked around the office. Since his desk was on the back row he could only see the backs of his fellow workers' heads. On this particular day of the many days a very strange thing happened to Tyrone. He could no longer remember the face of anybody. He became alarmed since he worked with the same people day in and day out, even on Saturdays sometimes. Even on Sundays. Yet, now he couldn't recall what anyone looked like. The more he tried to remember the greater was his block. He began sweating, and breathing heavily , and working harder trying to recall faces. A strange noise began to well up from Tyrone’s mouth It was a sort of moan; a sort of long yip like when a dog is hurt, or uncomfortable, or looking for attention from its master. The noise began in a low pitch at first, but then crescendoed into a high frantic yelp. It was an interesting scene because Tyrone's sounds were choreographed with body movement that started in his chair, and ended in a ballet leap into the air just as his yelp became a full fledged scream.
"I know you have faces. I know your faces," he yelled over and over. "Turn around everybody, let me see your faces." Of course by now he needn't have asked, they were already turned frozen, wide eyed, mouths agape. Then, two of the brawniest men, recovering from the shock of it all, rushed up to Tyrone, first one then the other, and gently ushered him out of the office. Tyrone offered no resistance. He left peaceably. Everyone else sat still until the three left the room, then slowly and cautiously, the office began to buzz with opinions.
"I didn't know whether he was going to tear up the place or not, " Thelma Zetts was saying as she held her hands over her heart. "Come to think of it, I never trusted him any way. I think it's his ears. One's lower than the other. They're too big, or something."
"Hyper-hysteria, that's what it is. Just hyper-hysteria. I saw it many times in the war. The big one. That's when wars meant something. Shell shock. Same thing. Hyper-hysteria, knew it right away," Benny Dangerfield was saying slowly shaking his head from side to side. Benny was the self-ordained resident omni-expert. Nothing was ever unknown, or a surprise to Benny.
As Freddie the office-go-fetch-boy entered, he was immediately waylaid with questions, "Are the police here yet? Is he foaming at the mouth? Does he have a gun or a knife? Tell us Freddie. What's going on out there?"
"Freddie, surely you noticed his ears? Is one bigger than the other?" Thelma asked with an urgency for validation.
Freddie had spent the night partying. His trip into the office was purely for self-maintenance. He had no idea what had just happened. Through bleary eyes he could see an entire office staff staring at him, in silence, waiting for his very next utterance. As he drew some water from the drinking fountain, taking in a huge gulp, he wiped his mouth with the back of his shirt sleeve, did a mild belch, and said, "Huh?" This was his beginning and parting contribution to the matter. He was out of the office door. Having all realized, in the same moment, that Freddie, the office-go-fetch-boy, was not going to convey any useful information, the group buzz of comments and opinions resumed as though on cue from a conductor.
Ty sat up in bed. The covers were drawn up to his chin. Except for a faint light filtering in from another room, the room was dark.
"Ty. You really did it this time. I mean you'll be lucky if Tangenberry doesn't file criminal charges against you for obscenity, or distrubing the peace, freaking out old ladies, or something," Ernie Krotz was saying. Ernie was Tyrone's best friend. They'd known one another since elementary school.
Tyrone sat up in bed motionless, listening to his friend.. He knew Ernie would tell him the way things are. Ernie was level headed about most things. Tyrone made decisions from his gut while Ernie planned from his head.
"Does your old man know yet?" Ernie asked. "He's gonna spit nails when he hears about what you've done."
"I don't plan to tell him just yet," Ty spoke into the covers. "I'm gonna wait til I get something better. Then I'll tell him after I get something better."
"Something better? "Something better?" Ernie repeated an octave higher and louder, sort of singing the last word for emphasis. "What something better? You know how hard work is to find around here."
"Ernie, something'l turn up. Any way I wasn't cut out to work an office-eight-to-five. . . " Ernie interrupted him, "Oh, here we go now talking about how a regular eight to five job is a drag, and that this may be for some people, but not for you?" Ernie spoke. "Where would your ass be if your father refused to do an eight to five job? Where would any of us be if no one wanted to do an eight to five job? If you want to eat, pay insurance premiums, live in anything but a cardboard box then don't knock the eight-to-fivers. They keep this country sane."
As Ernie spoke Ty shifted into a lying position, pulling the covers over his head. "Man you're the oldest young person I know." Ty said under the covers.
"What? What'd you say? Come on Ty, this is serious. Take the cover off of your damned head!"
"I said, 'You've gotten old on me.' " Ty said sticking his head out of the covers.
He continued, " What happened to that friend of mine who was going to create his own cartoon strip, and write funny stories? I'll tell you. He's writing cream cheese slogans and soap powder ads. He's uptight about losing, or making, money in the stock market and has an ulcer, at 22. You're too young to be so tight assed, Ernie. And, by the way, what happened to his friend? You know? The one who was going to travel the world until he'd had seen everything, then move to some little town and make shoes and repair them the rest of his life just like his grandpa did? He's sitting in an office all day analyzing the number of times people pee or have other bodily functions in an eight hour shift to find out how much this costs the company. I just want 'a make shoes."
"I'll be. Are you telling me you don't need hospitalization, health insurance, retirement. Are you really serious about this shoemaking thing?" Ernie said while throwing his hands up at the ceiling. "And, I don't have an ulcer, just a nervous colon, smart ass."
"My dad wanted me to be an accountant. He made it too easy. I had a job before I went to college. But it was his job. I tried to talk to him, Ernie, to tell him my feelings. But he wouldn't listen. Not really listen. Talking to him was like playing a bass solo. You know what I mean Ern? You know how the other musicians get really quiet when the bass takes a solo, but the audience still keeps drinking and talking loudly. Some even get up to go take a leak. Maybe the musicians hear you and know what you're doing, but the audience just sees you. It was sorta like that. I mean the sound comes out, but no one knows what the hell you're playing. He saw me talking, but he didn't hear with any depth. My words were dull thunks to him. I wanted to work with my grandpa learning a craft that I could be proud of , making good shoes. He said I have a talent for that. My dad said both of us were nuts."
"You know Ty, there are machines these days that make shoes .
Ty quickly interrupted, "No damned machine ever made a better shoe than my grandfather, Ernie. You can believe that."
Ernie conceded the point and continued to plead his case, "The fact is Ty that there are machines that produce shoes must faster and cheaper than any shoemaker can. How are you going to live comfortably fixing shoes? I think you've seen Pinnochio too many times."
"Pinnochio?" Ty asked. He was puzzled at the non sequitur.
"Yea, Pinnochio. You know Geppetto the shoemaker who made Pinnochio."
"Geppetto's not a shoemaker. He's a clockmaker."
"No. He's a shoemaker who makes toys."
"Gee Ernie, I don't think so. I think . . . "
"The point is Ty, no one gives a crap about quality these days. They want something quick and cheap. Who's gonna buy your shoes? Who cares whether you have a talent for making shoes? Who really cares? People aren't hired for their talent anymore. They're hired to fill a position that pays x amount of dollars. They're hired even faster if they'll work for (x minus 1) amount of dollars. Cheaper."
"Well this is sad." Ty said.
"But this is life friend."
There was a long silence while both pondered how things should be and how things appear to be. Ernie suddenly stood up.
"I gotta go. Listen take care will you. I'll call you tomorrow, or you call me. OK?"
"Yea. Thanks for coming over buddy. I really appreciate it." Ty said as he gently shook Ernie's hand.
Tyrone lay in bed thinking. He put the covers back over his head. He kept his eyes open under the cover. It was dark. He thought about what had happened today at the office, and where his life would go now. He thought about making shoes. He just knew there'd be room for a quality shoe. He'd open his own chain some day. He'd show the world that handmade shoes and talent are not dead. Meanwhile the reality of being unemployed jolted him like an electric shock. He'd need capital for his shoemaking venture. His father, while very prosperous and financially liquid, wouldn't sponsor such a project. He knew that even had he saved his money, and he hadn't, there wouldn't be enough money to begin. Ty took a deep breath under the covers and lay very still while he considered his options.
Tyrone stuck his head out from under the covers and looked at the clock. It was now 8:30 p.m. He knew what he had to do now. Tomorrow morning, very early, he would get up and go look for another job. Maybe someone in town needed a systems analyst.