“You know,” he says, “you should really start locking your door, you never know what kind of creep’s just going to let himself in.”
“There’s a joke there,” I tell him, “but it’s way too obvious. What are you doing here?”
“You told me to let you know if I thought of something to do that wasn’t in any way related to — well, you know, and I think I’ve got it,” he says.
“I’ve got to tell you about this fucked up dream I just had,” I tell him.
“Do you like jazz?” he asks, and I’m wishing I was back in my dream, blind and crawling on the floor.
***
It took him a while, but Jace finally convinced me to let him take me to John Coltrane night at a local jazz bar I never knew existed.
I don’t hate jazz; I just hate nearly every modern person associated with it. I think it has something to do with the hats.
John Zorn’s pretty cool, though.
Anyway, we get to the club and Jace is kind enough to pay the cover. Okay, it was one of my conditions for accompanying him.
The place is pretty full, but we manage to find a small, circular table on the second floor balcony, overlooking the stage. There’s
a group of six guys on stage, each one with a different saxophones. I’d always thought there were only two or three, but there they are.
It would be nice if there was some kind of rhythmic accompaniment, but as it stands, the six guys are watching each other’s feet to make sure they all come in on the downbeats at the same time.
Okay, so maybe it’s the hats and the pretentiousness.
Still, the music isn’t bad.
What’s better, where Jace and I are sitting, we’re far enough away from the wailing version of Cousin Mary.
“So,” he says, “what do you think of the place?”
“Do you think they’re going to get anyone on the drums sometime tonight?” I ask. “I’ve always been a fan of jazz drummers.”
He smiles. “The way you were talking on the way here, I got the impression you didn’t care that much for jazz.”
I can’t believe I have to explain this to him.
“It’s not the music,” I tell him. “It’s the self-important douchebags who profess to be experts on the genre like…” I look around, “pretty much everyone here tonight.”
“How do you know what people are ‘professing’ if you can’t hear what they’re saying?” he asks.
“How are you doing?” I ask, changing the subject.
“What do you mean?” he returns.
“Well,” I say, “we’ve kind of taken a step in a new direction, and I guess I’m just curious as to what you’re doing with that.”
“What I’m doing with that?” he asks.
For an intelligent man, I’m really finding myself explaining a lot of things to him.
“I mean, what you think about what’s happening between us,” I tell him. “Fuck, that sounded like it came from an after-school special, didn’t it?”
“I’m happy about it,” he says. “I thought I’d be more conflicted, but I’m really very happy about it.”
“Good,” I tell him, and look back at the stage.