“So, what’s going on?” The traffic was thinning and time for talk.
“You first,” Cole yielded, “you said on the phone you needed to tell me something.”
“It may be nothing,” Kelly said, then sighed. “But, I’ve had a couple of weird things happen at the gym and it is kind of creeping me out.”
“Like what?”
“Well, first, there was a single red rose in my locker. And yes, I have a lock on it. It was stuck in the back pocket of my jeans. Then there was this.” Kelly held up a small sheet of rose bordered stationary. “It’s a love poem. I found it under my windshield wiper today.” Kelly began to read:
The seasons of life, though filled with strife,
Bring us love in places we might never have looked.
I have found you and the vision of the perfect wife,
Your beauty and laughter leave me captivated and totally hooked.
“It’s certainly not Shakespearean, but it does makes me feel neglectful.” Cole joked to ease Kelly’s concern.
“You have been, but that’s beside the point,” Kelly teased, but Cole could tell her heart wasn’t in it.
“Do you have any idea who it could be?”
“The thing that makes me really uncomfortable is I think my admirer is a woman.”
“What?” Cole didn’t see that coming. “Because…?”
“It’s a women’s yoga studio and health center. There are no men in the building. Very feminist, a women’s empowerment kind of place.”
“Well that fits you perfectly,” Cole said sarcastically. “Why did you pick that place?”
“It is rated very highly, it’s close to the house, and it’s the cheapest monthly fee I could find.
“OK, now that really makes sense.”
“I’m being serious and you make jokes. Don’t you find it weird?”
“Not particularly. You are a beautiful, charming, witty, woman. This is San Francisco, after all.”
“Meaning?” Kelly pressed.
“Oh, come on Kell’. This is a Mecca for Gays and Lesbians from around the world.” Cole was shocked at her naiveté. “Look, if you are approached by this person just politely decline her advances. It’s not uncommon for straight women to get hit on, just tell her you’re in a relationship with a handsome, manly man.”
“Funny. It still makes me terribly uncomfortable. Even Claire, my new friend from the gym, thought the gifts were kind of odd. But, then she acted like I was weird because I had never ‘experimented’.”
“Things are a lot different than when we were young…younger,” Cole quickly amended.
“I know, I know. Sometimes I wish things were like when we were ‘younger.’ Your turn, what’s going on? I haven’t seen you in nearly a week.”
“I think it’s time for me to leave the paper,” Cole blurted out.
“Whoa! Where did that come from?”
“We have a new editor. Chuck got canned, and there was a monsoon of pink slips this morning. I got called in to meet with Chuck’s replacement, and quite frankly, I’d love to shove him out the window just to see what kind of pattern that kind of snake makes when it hits the pavement.”
“Cole!”
“OK, not really, well maybe…no, not really, but what a pompous jerk he is. He has no background in the newspaper business. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t even read one. He gets his news from the phone that’s grown to his palm.” Cole felt his anger rising and tried his hardest to appear calm, but it wasn’t working. “I was informed that from now on my stories will come from his pointy little head, and will be things he thinks are in keeping with the pulse of our readers. Get this,” Cole stuttered, “I’m supposed to write a piece on how wonderful it is that San Francisco is a sanctuary city! Anyone who reads my column knows I’m opposed to that idea. I’ll look like a sellout, or a liar, or a lame combination of both.”
Kelly sat quietly. It was a couple blocks before she said, “Are you through or just taking a breath?”
“Taking a breath,” Cole grunted.
This was new territory for Kelly. Cole was angrier than she had ever seen him. She slipped her hand over and patted him on the thigh. He sighed and stared straight ahead.
Cole began with renewed vigor. “Oh, and get this! I had a guy try and stab me today. You see, that’s what happens now when you try to do a good deed.”
“OK, Sport, let’s park on that one for a minute. What is that supposed to mean?”
Cole suddenly laughed. He ran his hand through his hair and said, “I must sound nuts.”
“A bit goofy, but nuts is a little strong.” Kelly smiled, grateful the rant was over.
“Sorry, the whole situation just makes my blood boil. I have an idea that might lead to a new beginning. I tried to…”
Kelly cut him off in mid-sentence, “Stabbing? Knife, sword, plastic fork? You can’t throw that out and then change the subject.”
“This little girl, teenager actually, came into the office pretending to be my niece. She wants to be a writer. She bluffs her way as far as Hanna. Cute kid. Raised by druggies, but really bright, and quite talented.”
“She tried to stab you?” Kelly interrupted.
“No, no,” Cole laughed. “Her mother’s boyfriend.”
“She tried to stab her mother’s boyfriend?”
“OK, stop, I’ll start over.”
“Thank you!” Kelly smiled.
“Her name is Lindsey. She showed up with a backpack full of notebooks. Her writing is nothing short of brilliant. She’s written this whole collection of stories called Life in the City, or something like that. Sketches of people places, observations—just wonderful.”
“High praise,” Kelly interjected.
“And well deserved, I might add. That’s the good news. The bad news is her home life is horrendous. Her grandma’s in a wheelchair, her social security pays the bills, and she’s treated like a houseplant. Her mother is a part-time hooker. The mother’s boyfriend is an off-the-rails tweaker who thought I was hitting on to mom!”
“Were you?” Kelly giggled.
“Funny.” Cole chuckled. “I suggested that the girl, Lindsey, do an internship after school at the paper. I got the paperwork from HR and Hanna went with me to take her home and get the permission papers signed. Easy, huh? Au contraire. The mom’s such a screwball she can’t sign stuff, so we put a pen in grandma’s hand and had her do it. That’s when Stevie, the boyfriend, enters the scene and pulls a knife on me.” Cole sighed.
“For a writer, sometimes you are a really lousy storyteller.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m saving the wild finish for last, with a pause for dramatic effect,” Cole teased.
“Since you’re still here I can surmise he didn’t kill you. So how did our hero escape? And what about his female companions?”
“Well, Super-News-Guy, that’s me, grabbed a cushion off the couch and the villain stabbed it, giving our hero the chance to knock his block off!”
“Cole, this really isn’t funny. I’m joking to keep from crying, or throwing-up, or both. He could have really hurt you. Killed you even! Did you call the police?”
“Hanna took the girl to the car when the trouble started. Do you still have that friend at Child Protective Services?”
“Terry? Yeah, he’s still there. What about the police?”
“I need his number?”
“And the police?”
“They wouldn’t have done anything. Besides, I taught Stevie not to play with knives. Besides, he might lodge a complaint about the way I handled him.” Cole reached over and patted Kelly’s leg.
“I love you, but these daring deeds of yours are going to get you hurt one of these days.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Well, grandpa…”
Grandpa! Cole thought. The word stung but not in a hateful way, not in a way that he resented, but the accolade carried with it the realization there was a lot less
of life in front of him than there was behind.
Cole used the volume control on the steering wheel to turn up the stereo as Leonard Cohen’s Titanic-deep baritone sang the first line of Dance Me to the End of Love. It seemed to him that Cohen was just the thing for that moment. The pair rode for seven minutes and forty-three seconds in silence, as the lilting waltz took them to places neither spoke of. Kelly’s words sent a message to Cole that was long overdue: he was indeed getting old.
As the song faded, Kelly said softly, “Will you dance with me soon?”
“I can think of nothing that would give me more pleasure and you more embarrassment. Can we do it in private?”
“So long as you hold me tight.”
The remainder of the trip was spent with Kelly’s head leaning against Cole’s shoulder. He changed the music to a jazz station he knew she liked and the two rode along in silence.
As a bluesy tune played, Cole’s thoughts drifted back to a small blues club on Maxwell Street in Chicago. He saw a flyer for an appearance of Howlin’ Wolf, the legendary bluesman. One Night Only! The words seem to shout off the paper and Cole thought, I’m in!
The place was almost narrow enough for a tall man to reach from wall to wall. It was as if it were built in the gap between two buildings. Not far from Halsted and Maxwell Street, almost to the freeway. Cole smiled at the thought of the way it looked then, before the University of Illinois bought up every building in sight and turned it all into a red brick mall.
Out in front of the place—Cole wished he could remember the name—sat an old black man with a small barbecue grill and an ice chest. For a dollar one could buy a length of Polish sausage topped with grilled onions and yellow mustard tucked in a chunk of Italian bread. The length of the bread depended on the length of your cut of sausage. Cole got the eight inch, dollar size, and went inside.
There was a man in a gray, shark-skin suit who claimed to be Howlin’ Wolf’s manager just inside the door collecting three dollars from everyone who came in. There couldn’t have been more than a dozen people in the tiny place and most were at the bar. Cole chose a table down in front, just a few feet in front of the double-stacked pallet and plywood stage. At the right end of the bar was a tall glass-front cooler. Cole left his sandwich and went to get a bottle of RC Cola.
“You be by yo’ self, up there, son,” the bartender said as Cole put fifty cents on the bar.
“Yes, sir. Best seat in the house.” Cole smiled at the bartender as he popped the cap off the soda.
“How in the world did a white boy like you find out about this place?”
“I work at the Sentinel, somebody had a flyer pinned to the wall of their cubicle. I wasn’t about to miss a chance to see the Wolf in person.”
“Well, you stick around, son, ‘cause Willie Dixon be showin’ up later on to sit in on a few numbers.
“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven!” Cole said, giving the bar a slap.
The bartender reached out his hand, “Name’s Edgar, this is my place.”
“Cole Sage. Nice to meet ya.”
Several of the older men at the bar looked Cole’s way. The bartender gave them a grin and said, “There’s at least one white boy in Chicago who knows what’s good!”
The men at the bar nodded with approval.
At straight up 9:00 a large, greying man with ebony skin came out from the back room with an acoustic guitar in his hand. He stopped at the edge of the stage and then looked down at Cole.
“Can I borrow this?” the man asked, in a voice like gravel crunching under tires.
“Absolutely,” Cole said, indicating the chair in question.
“Thanks, ‘preciate it.”
Cole watched as Howlin’ Wolf, the man he first heard years before with the Rolling Stones and Eric Clapton on a scratchy LP called The London Sessions in a friend’s dorm room, take the stage.
“I want to thank my cousin Edgar for having me here tonight.”
“You owe me, Chester! You owe me!” Edgar teased, using his cousin’s real name.
Behind Cole came whoops and hollers from the men at the bar. The irony of Wolf’s opening was not lost on them. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a harmonica. He started with a low, mournful wail. The notes seemed to bend, contort, and moan with grief as he played a blues number that Cole didn’t recognize. When he finished, Cole applauded enthusiastically.
“Thanks son, but it’s just you and me. No need for that.”
Cole turned and looked back at the men at the bar.
“Don’t give them any mind, they’re just old friends. You’re the audience tonight.” The big man on the old chrome chair didn’t seem disappointed. This is what he does, Cole thought, as he smiled and nodded accommodating Wolf’s request.
“Now, what would you like to hear?”
“Spoonful?” Cole asked.
“How ‘bout we wait until Willie gets here. His song, you know.”
“Killing Floor?”
“There ya go! That one’s mine.”
Cole sat for nearly a half hour mesmerized by the swirling vocal shouts, stomps and blues harp. Howlin’ Wolf’s guitar was more for rhythm than melody, and Cole smiled as a string broke and was simply wound around the head of the guitar. Wolf kept playing on the five that were left.
The big man shifted on his chair and stretched his leg out. He winced in pain. “It’s a bitch to get old, boy.”
A group of voices rose above the respectful chatter and soft laughter at the bar. Cole turned to see five young, black men enter the tiny club. They were loud and swaggered with cocky intent. Cole turned back around and tensed as he heard chairs scoot across the floor. A large, boney knuckled, hand slapped Cole across the shoulder.
“You in my seat white bread.”
Cole looked up into the angry face of a tall, thin man with a huge Afro and eyes that looked like they were about to bleed. The man wore a broad brimmed hat and a wide collared, polyester shirt. Cole didn’t move for a long moment trying to decide what to do, so as not to completely humiliate himself, and still get home alive.
“You wrong, boy. This young man’s been in that seat from the start. I suggest you find yo’self somewhere’s else to listen.” Wolf’s words were firm but friendly.
“You think so?”
“That’s what I said.” Wolf nodded and winked at Cole. He started to hum low, and blow the familiar introduction of Moanin’ at Midnight.
“Hey, bartender! What is this shit? We came here thinkin’ we’d hear some real music, not this field nigger shit.” The voice behind Cole did not belong to the one who slapped his shoulder.
“Bring us some beer here,” shouted another voice.
As he nervously looked to the door that Howlin’ Wolf entered from, Cole wondered if there was a back door out. The tone of the young men and their loud, mouthy attitudes, made it clear to Cole that it wouldn’t be long before he was going to be in an unhealthy situation.
“Who payin’?” Edgar growled, bottles clanging as he set a tray with five bottles on an unoccupied table.
“Start a tab.”
“We don’t do tabs.”
“Taylor, you pay the man,” one of the young men shouted.
“Why me?”
“‘Cause you been drinkin’ free all night.”
The group laughed and Taylor, the one with the reedy voice asked, “How much?”
“Ten,” Edgar said.
“Ten!”
“Dollar for the beer and a dollar cover charge.”
The guy at the door already got three! A piece.”
“That’s for the talent,” Edgar replied.
The young man lifted two fingers holding a twenty dollar bill. “Shee-it! This place ain’t worth ten bucks, chairs and all.”
Edgar took the bill. “If you want change you best follow me.”
“You can’t bring it back?”
Edgar just glared at the young man.
All the way to the bar Edgar l
istened to the swearing and complaining of the young patron.
“If you don’t like it, then you best leave.” Edgar’s voice deepened and his hand casually reached below the bar. “Here’s your ten,” Edgar began.
“You listen to me, boy, that man on the stage is a legend. I suggest you show him some respect. Otherwise, you’ll be sportin’ some serious scarring on the pretty face of yours. You get my meaning?”
“We ain’t lookin’ for no trouble.”
“I hope not,” Edgar nodded. Howlin’ Wolf played on.
The strong, angry eyes of Howlin’ Wolf looked straight at Cole as he slapped his harmonica on his thigh. The unspoken communication, was a combination of reassurance, and response to insult.
“Next up, an old thing called Little Red Rooster.” Wolf looked at the man returning from the bar and began the song.
“Play some Marvin Gaye!” one of the young thugs barked.
“Wilson Pickett!” shouted another.
The voices behind Cole taunted. Wolf jerked his head to the right hard, and then to the left and Cole could have sworn he heard his neck crack.
“I can’t see! White bread gityo’ ass out my chair.” It was the voice of the Slapper.
Cole ignored the request and didn’t move.
“This ol’ man’s caterwaulin’ makin’ you deef?”
The group laughed and chimed in with cat calls and profane remarks.
“Thought ya said you boys didn’t want no trouble. Time for y’all to leave.” Edgar was back and his voice showed negotiation was out of the question.
“Says who?” said the slapper.
It was time for Cole to move. He stood and backed toward the side of the stage.
“Me,” Edgar growled like an old lion claiming his territory. “I own this place and I choose who stays and who goes.”
“You kickin’ us out and you lettin’ white bread stay? What kind of Uncle Tom bullshit is that?”
“Boy, I justa ‘bout had enough of you and yo’ mouth.”
“Zat so?” The Slapper stepped toward Edgar and gave him a shove. “I think we’ll stay.”
Heart of Cole Page 5