“Whatever.” Abe shrugged. “Just so you know, you don’t need to come down here to check on me. I mean, I told you to count me in, right? Well, one thing about Abe is his word is his bond. So you can just disappear and show up when you’re ready for me. That is, if you’re ever ready for me.”
“Oh, I’ll be ready for you, sooner than you expect. I’m keeping the faith, brother. By the way, just in case you decide you want to reach me, I moved in with Charlie, so you can reach me there. Here’s his phone number.” Bert extended a hand with his business card to Abe, then suddenly realized that Abe couldn’t read it. “I mean, well, I know you can’t--”
“Chill out,” Abe reassured Bert. “I can get someone to read it to me if I need to find you. So I guess you’ll be going now?”
“Yeah, I’ll be going. But don’t worry, I’ll stop back to check in on you. You know I can’t keep away from your sunny disposition.” Bert finished with a warm laugh that turned the sarcasm to humor.
“Whatever,” replied Abe. He picked up his milk jug, cleared his throat a few times, and started singing. Bert listened for a few minutes and then headed up the stairs to the street.
* * *
On Friday evening, Bert and Charlie headed out of the shared apartment. It would take a solid half hour to walk to Aaron’s place over on Divisadero Street, and being on a low budget, both Bert and Charlie walked whenever possible.
The late summer sun was low in the sky, and the residential neighborhoods through which the two men walked were quiet. With school back in session and the carefree days of summer ended, people seemed to be settled indoors.
Bert pulled the napkin from his pocket as they got close and reread the address. “Number 2502, Apartment 3R.” The street was dimly lit, and Bert and Charlie struggled to make out the numbers on the narrow row houses. It wasn’t the best section of the city, but it wasn’t the worst either, just one of the many working class neighborhoods.
The two men finally came upon the brick row house with the 2502 nailed onto the white wooden door frame, the last digit of the number dangling upside down as a result of a missing top nail. The house had obviously been converted into apartments, and inside the small vestibule, Bert pressed the buzzer next to “3R.” No tenant’s name had been filled in on the panel and Bert wasn’t convinced they were even in the right place until he heard Aaron’s static-distorted voice through the intercom.
Bert and Charlie passed through the buzzing door, walked the two flights of stairs to the third floor rear apartment, and knocked.
“I wasn’t sure you were really coming,” said Aaron as he opened the door. “I thought you might be yanking my chain.”
“No. We’re completely serious,” answered Charlie earnestly, as he and Bert surveyed the one-bedroom apartment.
The place was in disarray, and Bert sensed that this was probably the norm. Dishes were stacked high in the kitchen sink. The main living area consisted of a threadbare light-orange sofa whose cushions were permanently depressed, a small, rectangular particle-board-and-veneer dining table with chairs, and a wooden coffee table covered with magazines and CDs in no particular arrangement. In one corner of the room he saw a drum set. Two cymbals sat next to it on the floor. It was clear from the unfinished state of the drum kit that Aaron had not been practicing.
Aaron grabbed a magazine and a flannel shirt off the sofa and offered Bert and Charlie seats. He dropped the magazine onto the table and tossed the shirt through the darkened bedroom entranceway before going over to the drum set.
“Excuse me. This won’t take more than a couple minutes.” He began to attach the two cymbals to their proper locations, extended to the left and right of the bass drum.
“Been here long?” asked Charlie.
“Couple of years.”
“Uh huh. So what’s your background?”
“You mean musically?” Aaron asked, looking up at Charlie. Charlie nodded. “Like I said, I haven’t played much since I moved back to San Francisco. I used to play a lot though.”
“So…you lived in San Francisco awhile and then moved to…?”
Aaron continued answering Charlie’s questions while he worked on the drum set, not looking up as he spoke. “Ohio. Yeah, I grew up here. I started playing music, you know, the drums, when I was ten.” He grunted as he twisted the bolt that tightened the last cymbal in place. “Mostly in the school bands in junior high and high school.”
“Then you took off for Ohio?”
“Yeah, after high school. I went to a music school there for a couple of years, but I didn’t like it much so I came back here.” Aaron had finished building the drum set and now sat on the stool behind it with sticks in hand.
“Did you get a scholarship or something?” Charlie persisted.
“Yes, to Oberlin. You know it?”
“Oberlin?” Bert exclaimed. “The Oberlin Conservatory of Music?”
“That’s right. But like I said, it didn’t really work out, so here I am. So, you guys want to hear me play or do you have more questions?”
Charlie started to utter something, but Bert quickly interrupted, not wanting to make Aaron feel like he was being interrogated. “Of course we do. Go ahead!”
Aaron got up from the stool and pressed the play button on his iPod. Instrumental music filled the room, a bit more loudly than Bert guessed the neighbors might enjoy. Bert didn’t recognize the music, which he guessed most probably came from an instructional recording, but it had a fusion jazz tone to it. Aaron sat down at the drums and started to accompany the music.
Boom-boom-boom-ba-boom-boom-pa-tat, boom-boom-boom-ba-boom-boom-pa-tat, boom-boom-boom-ba-boom-boom-pa-tat, rat-a-tat-a-rat-a-tat-a-boom-boom-pa-tat.
Bert and Charlie looked at one another. Charlie gave a little shrug. “Not bad,” he said to Bert. As the song continued, Aaron continued to accompany the music, occasionally shifting off the ‘boom-boom-boom-ba-boom-boom-pa-tat’, but not often.
At one point, a couple of minutes into the audition during one of the few deviations, Aaron hit a cymbal with a loud crash and found his drumstick flying through the air onto the floor behind him. He sheepishly uttered, “Okay, maybe I’m a bit rusty,” but quickly got back into the rhythm.
As he played, Bert and Charlie periodically whispered, or more appropriately, shouted into one another’s ears.
“What do you think,” Bert asked Charlie.
“I don’t know. Kind of rudimentary, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. He did say he hasn’t played in a while.”
“Let’s ask him to improv something when he’s done.”
Bert nodded.
When the music ended, Aaron added a quick flourish across the toms and closed with the requisite cymbal crash. He looked to Bert and Charlie for their reactions.
“Nice work!” began Bert with feigned enthusiasm. “That didn’t sound too rusty. How long did you say it’s been since you’ve played?”
“I don’t know…two, three years. I kind of lost touch with it. But it did feel good to play again.”
“Hey,” Charlie jumped in, “let’s hear you do a solo.”
“Um, sure,” answered Aaron somewhat hesitantly. He paused for a few moments in thought and then started in. Boom-pa-tat, boom-pa-tat, boom-pa-tat boom boom. And on Aaron played, adding a little variation to the beat, occasionally running the sticks across the skins and periodically pausing to let the pounding of the bass drum be heard.
The performance wasn’t bad. It was, however, just mediocre, and both Bert and Charlie knew it. Bert whispered to Charlie, “I need you to trust me on this one,” preparing Charlie for what he was about to say. The drum solo came to a halt.
Bert started clapping. “Very impressive, I mean, for someone who’s been out of action for awhile. What do you think, kid, would you be willing to play with a couple of old geezers like us?”
There was little hesitation from Aaron this time. In the laid back tone of his age, he answered, “Sure. That�
�d be cool.”
A knock sounded on the door. Aaron went to answer it. It was one of the neighbors in the converted house complaining about the racket. Bert quickly came to the rescue and apologized to the woman, explained the situation, and told her that he and Charlie were just about to leave anyway.
Bert slipped Aaron one of his business cards. “We’ve still got a few musicians to round up, but I’ll be in touch with you in a few weeks. I know where to find you. This is going to be great! Thanks.”
Charlie and Aaron then exchanged pleasantries and the two visitors took their leave. Out on the street, a misty fog had enveloped the area, adding an eeriness to the neighborhood.
Bert braced himself for the confrontation he saw coming.
“What are you thinking?” started in Charlie. “We can’t carry this guy!”
“He’s not that bad,” countered Bert.
“He’s unproven!”
“He deserves a chance.”
“He’s a kid!”
“He’ll grow.”
“He wasn’t even ready when we showed up! In fact, he knew we were coming and it didn’t even look like he practiced! I don’t know. He seems like a slacker to me.”
“Okay, Charlie. I’ll give you all that. But I have a good feeling on this one, and my radar is seldom wrong. If he doesn’t work out, we’ll find a new drummer. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that if you want a first-rate band, you can’t hold it together with a second-rate drummer,” Charlie said, finally calming down.
“I know. I know. I won’t jeopardize the band. You have my word. If he can’t carry his weight, I’ll personally get rid of him and find a replacement.”
What Bert left unsaid was that he knew he was taking a big risk. He needed to be credible with his judgment of talent and his high aspirations for the band, but right now, what he needed more was a warm body. He needed Bongo Joe in the band to affirm that progress was being made, not just to Abe or to Charlie, but to himself.
Chapter 5 – Ethan
Nearly a month had gone by since Bert and Charlie had hooked up with Aaron, and Bert didn’t have much to show for it. He and Charlie had followed their routine, scouring the subway concourses and corridors, wandering through parks and strolling along busy commercial streets, hoping to happen upon musicians who might fit into the band.
A number of potentials emerged along the way, but all they’d amounted to were false starts and failed hopes. Nonetheless, Bert maintained his cheery demeanor, driven by his faith in the mission. Charlie, on the other hand, sometimes wondered aloud if Bert had a mental imbalance that played a role in his ability to remain confident.
One fall afternoon, Bert and Charlie had hurriedly closed up their card-playing operation and hopped aboard the BART train, folding table in tow, in order to avoid a security officer they had spotted across the platform. They disembarked at the Embarcadero, one station ahead, and at the top of the stairs, across the brightly lit concourse, they saw a young man bent over his acoustic guitar case, fastening the clasps. Bert and Charlie assessed him as he put his arms through the two straps of his brown canvas backpack and then slung the guitar over his left shoulder.
He looked to be in his late teens or early twenties, was dressed in jeans, skateboard sneakers, and a loose-fitting, olive and brown flannel shirt, fully unbuttoned with a beige T-shirt underneath. He had blue eyes and short brown hair, gelled just enough to stay combed upward at the front, as was the current fashion. He was clean shaven and handsome. Bert guessed him to be a student.
The young man started to walk away. Bert and Charlie looked at one another.
“Follow him!” Charlie called out as the young man increased his pace. “I don’t want to slow us down with all this stuff.”
The young man, hearing the loud exchange, looked over his shoulder, evidently unsure whether the two men were conversing about him. He turned back and continued walking. Bert quickly started weaving through the dwindling crowd. The young man looked back, saw Bert coming, and instinctively started to put some distance between the two of them.
Bert caught up to him as the young man slid his pass card through the subway turnstile. “Excuse me. I’m--”
“Sorry, buddy. I can’t help you,” he said, and he passed through the turnstile, which locked back into place with a thunk.
Bert realized that the young man must have thought he was a panhandler. He watched through the iron bars momentarily as the guitarist took the stairs toward the northbound train. Bert glanced over each shoulder, and not seeing anyone of authority in the immediate area, vaulted over the turnstile.
Bert scurried down the subway stairs as the sounds of the incoming train rumbled down the tracks. He leapt the final four steps as the cars screeched to a stop and sprinted for the open doors of the train, squeezing inside seconds before they closed.
As the train gathered speed again, Bert looked around to see if he could spot the guitarist. A cursory scan of the car in which Bert rode showed that the young man wasn’t in that car. Unfortunately, Bert had entered the train at a car near the middle and wasn’t sure which way to begin searching. He started walking car by car in the direction opposite to which the train was moving. In each car, he studied the passengers as he hurried toward the next car in line.
The train eased to a halt in West Oakland. Bert felt a moment of panic! He couldn’t lose his quarry. Unsure whether to stay on board or not, he pressed his face against the window, straining to see if he could spot the guitarist on the platform. It was difficult to see through the crowd. Not seeing him, Bert made an instinctive decision to stay on the train. He hoped he hadn’t lost him already.
Bert again moved between the cars, unable to find the young man as the train rolled on to each of the next several stations. Each time, when the doors opened, Bert looked out the windows to no avail. Each time Bert stayed put.
Bert reached the end of the train without finding the guitarist and hustled back through the cars until he reached the one in which he had begun. He then continued the search through the cars ahead of his, getting all the way to the other end without success. As he worked his way back, the train came to a stop in Berkeley.
There he was! Looking through the train window, Bert spotted the guitarist making his way toward the subway stairs. He wondered if the guitarist had spotted him on the train and actively evaded him for the entire ride. Bert jumped off the train just before the doors closed again and hustled after him.
Momentarily trapped behind a crowd of people plodding up the subway stairs, Bert kept an eye on the young man as best he could. He emerged into the daylight. There he was! Up ahead waiting for a traffic light to change. Bert broke into a light jog and caught up again as the guitarist was crossing the street onto the University of California-Berkeley campus. Bert matched him stride for stride, perspiration beading on his face. The young man looked over at Bert, then drew back, startled.
“Listen, buddy. I told you I can’t help you. Stop following me!”
“No, no. You misunderstand. I’m the manager of this rock band that--”
“Leave me alone or I’m going to call the police.” Then he sighed, felt around in his pocket, and pulled out a five-dollar bill. “Here. If I give you this, will you go away?” he said desperately.
Bert stopped walking, deflated. He was trying to leave this life behind him, but the world continued to conspire against him. No. He would hold his ground. Reaching out, he gripped the young man’s fingers, closed them around the bill, and looked him in the eye.
“Look, kid. In thirty seconds, I’m going to walk away. I just want you to listen to me for that long. I’m not here for your money. You have the chance to be part of something special. Something that will change your life. There’s a band forming that will be like no other. I’m here to offer you a chance to audition for it. That’s all.” Then he let go of the hand.
“Are you done?” replied the young man.
“I’m done,” B
ert answered, continuing to hold a steady look in the young man’s eyes. “I promised you thirty seconds. Thank you for listening.”
The young man turned his back to Bert and began to walk along the path that cut through the expanse of greenery that stretched across the college campus. Bert watched him walk away until the young man faded into the crowd.
* * *
“So now what?” asked Charlie after Bert returned to the apartment and filled him in on the brief conversation with the guitarist.
“I don’t know. I mean, on the one hand, he was pretty hostile and condescending. On the other hand, he was playing in the subway, which makes him one of us. Bert laughed, “I suppose we ought to at least find out if the kid can play before we start crafting any plans to get him.”
“You think he’ll be back?”
“Who knows? I’ve found in life that people tend to stake out their territories and stick with them. Just look at you and me. And Abe. My guess is if we hang around the Embarcadero Station long enough, we’ll see him play.”
Sure enough on Wednesday, two days later, Bert and Charlie found the young guitarist playing in the same spot. This time, having timed their arrival better, they found him still strumming and singing. And the two men now had the answer to their question. The kid could play.
As he belted out the lyrics to Crosby, Stills, and Nash’s “Southern Cross,” a small but enthusiastic crowd created a semi-circle in front of him, stomping along to the music. A couple of onlookers strummed air guitar.
“…as big as the promise, the promise of a comin’ day…” The words of the song echoed through the corridor, the crisp, clear chords filling the cavernous station.
Charlie gave Bert a knowing look. “Okay, my fearless leader. Now we need a plan.”
Bert looked back at Charlie, acknowledging the comment, but remained silent in deep thought as the young man’s song ended and he started another. A few minutes later, Bert said, “Let’s stick with Plan A for now -- the direct approach. Let’s talk to him when he’s done.”
When the young man finished his set and packed up his things again, Bert and Charlie were met with the same icy reception. This time, though, on the walk to the turnstiles, Bert was able to fill in the young man on his vision for the band, though it was hard to tell how much was being absorbed. The guitarist kept his gaze fixed forward while Bert and Charlie sidled alongside him, alternatingly looking at the side of his face and looking forward so as to not collide with anyone else in the corridor.
Ladies and Gentlemen...The Redeemers Page 5