"Every theater leaves the one bulb burning on the boards to keep the wrong kinds of spirits away."
"You think I'm a spirit?"
"Are you?" The head lowered again, leveling an uncomfortable stare at Jimmy.
"Not the last time I checked," Jimmy joked. The humor fell flat on the empty theater.
The old fellow didn't laugh, but came to the edge of the stage and out of the immediate glare. Now he was nothing more than a silhouette. "Then tell me what business you have with the trumpet, and I'll tell you if I can help."
"Just want to buy it."
"Why?"
Jimmy suddenly felt wary of sharing his story. Perhaps he was afraid people would laugh, perhaps he was afraid they wouldn't. "It's an unusual item," he said. "Is it yours?"
The man smiled then. At least Jimmy thought it looked like a smile; in the dark it was hard to tell. "What's it sound like to you?" Jensen asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Never mind then." The old man pivoted and had almost exited stage left when he stopped and turned to look back at Jimmy. "You a musician?" he asked.
"Used to be. Now I work on the other side of the board." Jimmy began to get irritated. "Since when does anybody need to know how to play an instrument in order to buy one? No one would ever learn how that way."
The guy nodded, but not, Jimmy thought, in agreement to what he'd said. "It's been a long time," the man answered cryptically. "Maybe this time we'll get it right."
"Get what right? What are you talking about?" Jimmy got out of his seat and began moving toward the aisle.
"It was 1938!" the man yelled. The boom of his voice shattered the theater quiet, freezing Jimmy mid-stride. "Vaudeville lost its luster, and talented acts were starving in the streets of New York. Some died, believing movies were a passing fancy, wasting away in tenements waiting for venues to reopen at a nickel a seat. Others went upstate, taking their acts to resorts, working for room and board and lying in the beds of the rich for a little extra on the side."
The old man's hair began to shift with the trembling of his own impassioned words. "A few got out. A few went south, touring night clubs and bars along the eastern seaboard. Some came west." He stopped.
Jimmy stood at the edge of the aisle, ready to either rush the man, feeling that he knew more than he admitted, or run from the theater, sure the coot was crazy as a loon. He did neither.
The old man continued. "George Henry found this place when his trumpet lost its appeal to both Vaudeville and the New York uptown jazz community. But no one cared to listen to a horn out here, not for money. So George set to music of a different kind, learning the sounds of the earth, the sounds of nature, writing it down, learning the patterns." Something entered the old man's voice then. Fear, maybe. He whispered, the sound of it carrying in the empty hall. "There's power in that, my friend. The power to undo. George learned it sure enough."
The man held his arm toward Jimmy, pointing a finger. From the shadow at the edge of the stage, it appeared ominous, like the specter of Christmas future pointing toward Scrooge's grave. "Anything you've heard is a gift to you, young man. Leave it be. Music isn't to be trifled with. You're either a musician or you're not. You either do it for a life, or you mock it by making it a hobby."
"I didn't say -- "
"Didn't have to," Jensen cut in. "Listen if you will. No harm there. But let the music rest. For heaven's sake, just let it rest."
Then the man stepped behind the curtain, and Jimmy was alone with the ghost light.
As night closed in, a glorious sunset erupted over the western horizon. Crimson skies lit across the water, turning the ocean a thousand shades of red. Some few tourists and locals trod the beach, heading for their cars or home, and Jimmy, headphones firmly in place, sat watching it all, listening to his recordings from the night before.
Something strange in them.
The melodies were beautiful, haunting, but oddly never
"You think I'm a spirit?"
"Are you?" The head lowered again, leveling an uncomfortable stare at Jimmy.
"Not the last time I checked," Jimmy joked. The humor fell flat on the empty theater.
The old fellow didn't laugh, but came to the edge of the stage and out of the immediate glare. Now he was nothing more than a silhouette. "Then tell me what business you have with the trumpet, and I'll tell you if I can help."
"Just want to buy it."
"Why?"
Jimmy suddenly felt wary of sharing his story. Perhaps he was afraid people would laugh, perhaps he was afraid they wouldn't. "It's an unusual item," he said. "Is it yours?"
The man smiled then. At least Jimmy thought it looked like a smile; in the dark it was hard to tell. "What's it sound like to you?" Jensen asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Never mind then." The old man pivoted and had almost exited stage left when he stopped and turned to look back at Jimmy. "You a musician?" he asked.
"Used to be. Now I work on the other side of the board." Jimmy began to get irritated. "Since when does anybody need to know how to play an instrument in order to buy one? No one would ever learn how that way."
The guy nodded, but not, Jimmy thought, in agreement to what he'd said. "It's been a long time," the man answered cryptically. "Maybe this time we'll get it right."
"Get what right? What are you talking about?" Jimmy got out of his seat and began moving toward the aisle.
"It was 1938!" the man yelled. The boom of his voice shattered the theater quiet, freezing Jimmy mid-stride. "Vaudeville lost its luster, and talented acts were starving in the streets of New York. Some died, believing movies were a passing fancy, wasting away in tenements waiting for venues to reopen at a nickel a seat. Others went upstate, taking their acts to resorts, working for room and board and lying in the beds of the rich for a little extra on the side."
The old man's hair began to shift with the trembling of his own impassioned words. "A few got out. A few went south, touring night clubs and bars along the eastern seaboard. Some came west." He stopped.
Jimmy stood at the edge of the aisle, ready to either rush the man, feeling that he knew more than he admitted, or run from the theater, sure the coot was crazy as a loon. He did neither.
The old man continued. "George Henry found this place when his trumpet lost its appeal to both Vaudeville and the New York uptown jazz community. But no one cared to listen to a horn out here, not for money. So George set to music of a different kind, learning the sounds of the earth, the sounds of nature, writing it down, learning the patterns." Something entered the old man's voice then. Fear, maybe. He whispered, the sound of it carrying in the empty hall. "There's power in that, my friend. The power to undo. George learned it sure enough."
The man held his arm toward Jimmy, pointing a finger. From the shadow at the edge of the stage, it appeared ominous, like the specter of Christmas future pointing toward Scrooge's grave. "Anything you've heard is a gift to you, young man. Leave it be. Music isn't to be trifled with. You're either a musician or you're not. You either do it for a life, or you mock it by making it a hobby."
"I didn't say -- "
"Didn't have to," Jensen cut in. "Listen if you will. No harm there. But let the music rest. For heaven's sake, just let it rest."
Then the man stepped behind the curtain, and Jimmy was alone with the ghost light.
As night closed in, a glorious sunset erupted over the western horizon. Crimson skies lit across the water, turning the ocean a thousand shades of red. Some few tourists and locals trod the beach, heading for their cars or home, and Jimmy, headphones firmly in place, sat watching it all, listening to his recordings from the night before.
Something strange in them.
The melodies were beautiful, haunting, but oddly never
Similar Books
The Storm's Own Son (Book 2)
Anthony Gillis
Love After War
Cheris Hodges
The Accidental Pallbearer
Frank Lentricchia
Hush: Family Secrets
Blue Saffire
Ties That Bind
Debbie White
Inherited by Her Enemy
Sara Craven
Sly the Sleuth and the Sports Mysteries
Donna Jo Napoli
0316382981
Emily Holleman