Roadside Bodhisattva (17 page)

Angie answered me without hesitating. Since he had started having lunch with us, after Sid had broken down his ancient guilt trip, he had gotten to the point where he could actually conduct a conversation without sounding like Frankenstein with brain damage.

“Uh, I couldn’t say. I don’t know enough about it. At the garage, I usually just listen to whatever’s on the radio.”

“You are in for a treat tonight, my friend,” said Sid. “If Sonny’s collection reflects the straight dope he was spouting, then it’s gotta be pretty impressive. From Armstrong to Dolphy is a big range.”

“So you’re saying Sonny knows what he was talking about?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah. As soon as he named Teagarden, I knew I was wrong about Kid Ory. It takes a good ear and a lot of savvy to nail a player that fast, after just a few bars.”

I wondered about something, and said, “Where do you listen to music anyhow, Sid, if you’re always on the road? I sure didn’t ever see you carrying an iPod.”

“Libraries, Kid, libraries. The music-loving bum’s best friend.”

“Oh. Well, anyway, how come you went ahead and made that bet with him if you knew he was right?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Just to get him to invite us to his home. He never says more than two words at the Diner—that’s because of the stuttering, natch—and I was starting to think I’d never get him to open up with us.”

“But why are you interested? Why do you care?”

“Kid, you’re always quoting that so-called poetry of yours to me, so now I’m gonna lay a line on you. ‘The proper study of mankind is man.’ That’s good ol’ Alex Pope. People are endlessly fascinating to me. I like nature okay—you have to enjoy trees and rivers and shit when you’re hoofing it all alone through the middle of nowhere—and art and science and other highflown stuff like that can be amusing. But you can’t beat your naked, unadorned fellow man, woman and child for educating and entertaining you. People are a perpetual circus for me. Call it selfish if you want to, but the more I dig into other people’s lives, the more I feel qualified to live my own.”

“So people are a freak show to you? Or like bugs under your microscope?”

“Not so, Kid. There’s no voyeurism or science about it. It’s ninety percent empathy and ten percent reflection. Other people are more like parts of my own self that I’ve never experienced before. Think a minute. Aren’t you glad you met ol’ Jack through his book? Didn’t getting to know him feel like connecting with some dimension of your own soul? What would your life be like if you never met him?”

Before I could answer, Angie said, “I like to try to figure out people too. Like for instance, this old lady drove up to the pumps today, and she asked me to check her oil. She didn’t need any, and I when I told her that, she gave me a quarter and said, ‘This is for your trouble, young man.’ At first I thought she was busting my chops. Then I realized that to her, a quarter still meant something. Then I started thinking about how my mother used to save Green Stamps, and how nobody nowadays could be bothered with that kind of money-saving chore.”

“You see, Kid? Any behavior you can imagine—and plenty you can’t—are all out there for your edification.”

“’Green Stamps?’ What the hell are ‘Green Stamps?’ Do you two even live on the same
planet
as me?”

Sid and Angie just laughed at me, and pretty soon we were at Sonny’s place. I was glad to see it was in a nicer neighborhood than Jayzee’s crib.

Two houses in from the main drag, Sonny’s home was a neat little ranch house. Sky blue paint getting a little faded, black shutters ditto, yellow curtains in the windows. The yard was smoothly mowed. Some flowers and shrubs hid the foundation walls. Sonny’s bike was neatly chained to the railing of the front steps. We got out of the truck and went to the front door. Sid rang the bell.

Evelyn Taylor looked more like Sonny’s mother than his sister. He was kinda baby-faced and lanky and child-like, but she was short and pruney, and I could instantly tell that her personality was wrapped up tighter than a thirty-dollar piece of steak. Her hair was half grey and coiled close to her head in a bun and held down with enough clamps to keep a hamster from escaping. She wore a blouse colored like mud and a skirt thick as an Army blanket and shoes shaped like Kleenex boxes. She might have had a halfway decent figure, but I couldn’t tell because of her bulky clothes. Sonny, meanwhile, had changed from his work outfit into some kind of old-man shorts and a plaid buttoned shirt. Seeing her and Sonny side by side in the doorway was like seeing two comedy stars onscreen put together especially to make you laugh, and I had to hide a smile.

“Tha—these are my fuh—friends, Evie.”

Sonny’s sister actually smiled then, and the unexpected expression made her into a new person. She lost some of her stiffness, and I began to think maybe she wouldn’t turn out to be so dry. Maybe what I had taken for a tight-ass personality was really just sadness or loneliness or tiredness. We introduced ourselves and shook hands.

“Please come in, gentlemen.”

We entered a living room where all the weird furniture was like nothing I had ever seen. The chairs and couches and tables must’ve been about a hundred years old. And all the seats had transparent plastic covers over them. Shelves were filled with a zillion little cheap statues and souvenir plates and junk like that. The place smelled like a closet full of old wool clothes and rubber boots.

“Sonny tells me you’re here to listen to some of our father’s record albums.”

If Sid had been wearing a hat, I got the feeling he would have taken it off and held it to his chest. “That’s right, ma’am. We’re all music-lovers of the first degree. And your boy—your brother’s been tantalizing us with some hints as to the magnitude of this collection.”

Evelyn seemed to take this as a personal compliment, lighting up like a Christmas tree. “Our father was a true afficionado of jazz. He compiled what was probably the largest collection of records in Lumberton before his untimely death. I’m sure you’ll find something there to appreciate, no matter what your tastes.”

Sid winked at Evelyn and said, “And there’s a little wager at stake as well, ma’am. Just to spice up the evening.”

Evelyn turned to Sonny with a stern look on her face. “Sherman, have you actually been
gambling
?”

Sonny hung his head, but I could see he was trying to stop a smile from breaking free. “Nuh—not really, Evie.”

“It was all my fault, Miz Taylor. I disputed your brother on a point of knowledge, and he wouldn’t back down. He’s got character that way, I can tell. After some wrangling, we just stipulated a small sum to change hands, once the matter was settled. Hardly a real bet at all.”

“Well, all right, I suppose. Just remember, Sherman, how father felt about gambling. Why don’t you men go the the music room now, and I’ll bring in some refreshments soon.”

“Thi—this way,” said Sonny, and we followed him down a short hall to a closed door. Sonny stood with his hand on the doorknob like he was getting ready to let us into some shrine. Then he opened the door.

The room was average sized, no windows. But it seemed smaller because of the shelves sticking out. From the floor to within a foot of the ceiling, every square inch of wall space was devoted to records on shelves. The parents of one of my friends back home had owned a few hundred of these cheesy, moldy old vinyl albums, but there had to be ten times that many here. The different colors of their spines made a kind of quilt or painting that seemed to hint at some image I could only half make out, like one of those pictures made from lots of little pictures. The only space on the walls not devoted to vinyl was the part of one shelf that held a turntable and amp and speakers. A green armchair that had obviously gotten a lot of use, along with a sidetable, was positioned just so in front of the speakers.

Sonny turned to beam at us like a bank of fog lights on a Jeep. Sid whistled in admiration. Angie said, “This is a helluva lot of records.” I said, “Uh, it sure is.”

Sonny seemed pleased by our reactions. “Luh—look around while I guh—get some more chairs.”

Sid went right over and started sliding albums out to examine. Every now and then he’d mutter, “Holy shit,” and shake his head. Pretty soon Sonny returned with three folding chairs and set them up close to the big chair.

“Suh—sit down, and I’ll guh—get that Armstrong.”

We sat. Sonny went without any hesitation right to a certain spot on the shelf and pulled down a record. He moved to the turntable and powered it up. He slid the record out of its sleeve like he was handling pure gold, placed it on the turntable and swung the needle into place. A second later, that same hokey music from the Diner filled the room like a concert hall, a thousand times more real-sounding than out of the juke.

Sid said, “That’s the track all right. Let’s see the sleeve.”

Sonny passed it over, and Sid examined it. “I’ll be damned, it’s Teagarden playing, no mistake. Sonny, it’s plain to me you’ve got a fine ear and a memory like a vise-grip. It’s a pleasure to lose this bet to you.”

Sid dug out a five-dollar bill and handed it over. Sonny grinned, tucked the money into his shorts pocket, and kinda half-bowed to Sid.

“Have you listened to every one of these platters?”

“Oh, shu—sure. Muh—more than once.”

“And your father put this collection together? I noticed there’s nothing more recent than some early fusion stuff, about, oh, 1974. How’s that?”

Sonny got a little sad-looking “Duh—daddy died in nuh—nineteen-seventy-six. Even buh—before that, he wasn’t fuh—feeling too good.”

“And how old were you?”

“Eight.”

“And you were into the music even at that age?”

“Nuh—not really. I sta—started listening to it about fuh—five years later.”

Sid contemplated this for a minute. “And you never added anything to the collection?”

“Tha—they don’t suh—sell vinyl much around here nowadays.”

“Still, you could’ve switched to cds. Lots of good post-fusion stuff available on cd. You’d dig Dave Douglas and a bunch of other guys. Hell, you don’t even know the Marsalises.”

Sonny couldn’t seem to make sense of what Sid was suggesting. “Buh—but thi—this is Daddy’s cuh—collection, juh—just like he left it.”

Sid nodded and dropped the topic. Just then the record stopped and Evelyn entered. She was carrying a tray with glasses of milk and a plate of Oreos on it. She set it down on the sidetable. I felt like I was back in Cub Scouts, before my folks had gotten so heavily into the Buddhist stuff and pulled me out. This was quite a change from the night of drinking booze at Angie’s place, and I wondered how Angie’d react. Didn’t seem to matter to him. He grabbed a glass and some cookies, so I did too.

Evelyn turned to leave, but Sid stopped her.

“Miz Taylor, don’t rush out. Tell us a little about yourself. What’s your line of work?”

“I’m a legal secretary. At Whittaker and Torcasso, right at the corner of Chippewa and South Street. I’ve been there for nearly thirty years.”

“I’m sure you’re the heart and soul of the place, not to mention the real brains.”

Evelyn took Sid’s compliment like it was the first one she had ever gotten. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far …”

“Sherman has mentioned that your father passed away some time ago. I assume your mother was not on the scene then either?”

Evelyn sagged a little. “Mother died when Sherman was born.”

“And you took over the family then? Mighty big responsibility for a young woman such as yourself.”

“I don’t know that I was ever young, Mr. Hartshorn.”

“Are you funnin’ me, Evelyn? I can call you Evelyn, right? You must be at least twenty years younger’n me, and I just learned to shave yesterday.”

Evelyn chuckled. “I find that hard to believe. And I expect we’re much of an age, Mr Hartshorn.”

“Please—Sid.”

“Well, Sid, it’s been nice chatting with you, but I’m going to leave you menfolk to enjoy your music now.”

“You sure you won’t pull up a chair with us?”

“No thank you. Hearing this music reminds me too much of the past.”

After Evelyn had left, Sid said, “Got any Jazz Messengers, Sonny my friend?”

“Shu—sure!”

“Well, cue ’em up!”

We must’ve spent about three hours in that little room, listening to music, until it got so hot and stuffy I thought I was in a sauna. I couldn’t say I really liked any of the stuff that got played. Some of it, the more agressive tunes, was halfway interesting, kinda like the rock I liked if all the guitars had been stripped away. Other tunes were too mellow or sappy. Evelyn came back in once to fill up our plate of cookies and pour more milk, and I got such a sugar buzz I didn’t even mind being stuck here with these guys. Although every now and then I did wonder what would have happened if I had stayed back at Deer Park with Sue.

Finally Sid said, “Time to call it a night, Sonny. We’ve all got to hit the ground running first thing tomorrow. But you can bet we’ll do this again.”

“Oh, nuh—no, I can’t buh—bet anymore!”

Everybody laughed. We left the room and walked through the house to the front. There was no sign of Evelyn, and I figured she must’ve gone to bed.