by Phil Swann
“All right, that’s enough,” I shouted.
Everybody in the band, everybody on the soundstage, and I wouldn’t be surprised if everybody in Burbank, went silent and looked at me.
“What did you say?” the diva responded.
“I said that’s enough. It’s not our fault it sounds like it does. This so-called chart is ridiculous. There’s not a musician in the world who could make sense out of this mess. Who wrote this thing anyway, a monkey?”
Gabriella was so stunned, she could barely form words. “What is your name?” she asked, her face becoming nearly as red as her hair.
“Trip Callaway. Furthermore, who told you it was okay to talk to musicians that way? I’ve played for some of the biggest names in music, and I’ve never witnessed such disrespect. So, here’s the deal, missy. You’re going to cool your jets for a couple of minutes while I confab with my fellow musicians to see if we can figure out a way to fix this boneheaded arrangement for you. Or, we could all just get up and leave right now. It’s your choice, honey.”
I was certain the next words out of Gabriella’s mouth were going to be “you’re fired.” To my complete surprise and disappointment, it wasn’t.
Gabriella stared at me and then said, “Okay, fix it.” She turned and marched back to Cabaneri, who had been watching from behind the cameras.
“Really?” I replied, more to myself.
I motioned for Miriam and Sid to join me and Daniel, and asked them to bring along their chart. I took out a pen from inside my jacket and started making marks on everyone’s arrangements, crossing out more notes than I added. I’ll spare you the musical jargon, but what I basically did was smooth everything out so the four of us weren’t fighting with the rest of her band. I told Sid to keep it simple on the drums and notated where he could do some light fills. After a couple of minutes, I announced we were ready to try it again.
Gabriella said nothing. She stomped up to the microphone and nodded to the curmudgeon at the piano. We started the song again.
It wasn’t brilliant, but at least this time it didn’t sound like a bag full of doorknobs being thrown into a meat grinder. After we finished, Gabriella looked at the conductor, nodded, and then looked back at me.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Trip Callaway,” I answered.
She looked at the conductor. “Give Mr. Callaway the charts to all the songs we’re doing this week so he can rewrite the arrangements.”
I heard Chuckles speak for the first time. “Gabriella, I don’t think—”
“I want him to rewrite the arrangements,” she bit back, her tone as cold as the bell at the end of my trumpet.
Chuckles nodded.
She looked up at me. “How long will it take you to fix the other songs?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. To do it right? A couple of hours, I guess.”
“Very well.” She turned around, “The music rehearsal is over until this afternoon.” She turned back to me. “Mr. Callaway, before you begin, come by my dressing room. I want you to explain to me what you just did to that song.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I’m the monkey who wrote the arrangement."
As she marched off, a voice came over the loudspeaker. “Okay, everyone, we’re back at two. Set design, let’s get those music boxes painted red.”
Daniel slapped me on the back, and Sid gave me thumbs up from behind the drums. Before I knew it, I was the recipient of a kiss on the cheek.
“That was spectacular,” Miriam said.
“It was nothing,” I replied.
“You are quite the fellow, Trip Callaway.”
“Like I said, I have my moments.”
She smiled. “Well, you saved our jobs.”
And that’s when the bitter truth hit me. “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?”
Chapter 4
If I’m driving in my car and I see someone broken down on the side of the road, I stop. If I’m strolling down the lane and spot a kitten stuck up in a tree, no need to call the fire department, ma’am, Trip Callaway is on the case. If there’s something that needs to be fixed, big or small, and I believe I can fix it, then that’s what I do. I fix it. It’s just another one of those annoying little Callaway traits I’ve come to accept. I’m a serial helper-outer. It’s my curse. It wasn’t my intention to save the day, I just did it without thinking. Like I always do. I helped. Alas, if only I hadn’t.
Gabriella’s dressing room was outside the soundstage, several yards down a long hallway. As I approached, I heard voices shouting on the other side of the door. I couldn’t make out what was being said, and as much as I wanted to stand there with my ear planted to the plywood, I reasoned that would be in bad form. Therefore, I waited for a pause in the kerfuffle and then gently knocked three times. When the door opened, I was expecting to see Cabaneri. I didn’t. Instead, I was greeted by my happy conductor, Chuckles.
Gabriella sat at a lighted makeup mirror located on the far side of the spacious dressing room. Her chin was up, with her back properly arched. Her makeup was still perfect, even though her eyes appeared to be slightly moist. The white cape and sequin dress were gone, replaced by a floor-length, baby blue satin robe. As much as I resisted, the dreaded X Y chromosomes had their way, and I began to ponder if she had anything on underneath.
I waited for an invitation to enter, which came in the manner of a terse nod from Chuckles. As I walked in, Chuckles walked out, but not before looking back at Gabriella with what I could only assume was his natural, disapproving expression. She responded in a way only people who have known each other for a long time can respond, saying everything with just a look. Once he was out the door, she turned around and faced the mirror.
“Please sit, Mr. Callaway,” she said, dabbing her chin with a powder puff.
There was a wooden chair next to her makeup mirror and a small sofa located a more appropriate distance away, next to the door. I opted for the sofa.
“I’m not accustomed to being spoken to that way, Mr. Callaway,” she said into the mirror.
“That makes two of us,” I replied, reclining back into the sofa and crossing my legs. Yes, it was a cavalier move, bordering on the rude, but I was determined to make it clear she didn’t intimidate me.
“For a professional musician, Mr. Callaway, you don’t seem like you care if you keep this job or not.”
“The key word is professional,” I replied, keeping my voice relaxed. “I am a professional. In fact, everyone working on your show is a professional, and as such, deserve to be treated that way.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“Most fervently,” I responded, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
She turned around and faced me. After a brief stare-off, the corners of her ample lips began to move upward. “I think I like you, Mr. Callaway.”
Of all the things I thought she might say, that wasn’t one of them. “Excuse me?” I replied.
“You’re tough like me. You must have some Latin blood in you. You have passion, and a gift, and you refuse to compromise that passion, and your gift, for anything or anyone. Only the best for you, Mr. Callaway. That is your credo, am I right? I also suspect you believe your future holds more than just playing your trumpet in an orchestra for a silly television program. Yes?”
“You might think more highly of me than I do of myself.” Of course, that wasn’t true, and she was dead right about everything she said, but I saw no downside in exhibiting some false humility.
“I doubt that,” she replied.
I didn’t respond.
“Truce?” she said, extending her hand.
I didn’t immediately acquiesce, deciding the moment deserved some simmering, but Trip Callaway is not a barbarian, and I eventually accepted her hand in mine. “Truce.”
“Good. Now, you will explain what you did to my arrangements to make them better. Leave nothing out. I want to know everything you know about making a go
od…chart, I think you called it.”
“That might be—”
“But first, we have maté,” she interrupted.
“We have what?” I responded.
“Maté,” she said again, jumping up and prancing across the room.
“What’s—”
“Maté is the drink of my people,” she said, her back to me. “Have you never had maté, Mr. Callaway?”
“Not that I’m aware. It might be a little early for me.”
She chuckled. “Maté is not an alcoholic beverage, Mr. Callaway. It is tea.” She spun around and held up a clear canister filled with a greenish-brown herb. “It comes from the yerba maté plant. Good for your health.”
At a table in the corner, a kettle set atop a small electric burner. She turned on the burner and then opened the canister. She scooped out several heaping tablespoons of the herb into what looked to be an ornately painted gourd. She took the gourd in both hands and began shaking it.
She went on, “Maté is the drink of the Guaraní, the native people of my country. The Guaraní have a legend that says the Goddesses of the moon and the clouds came down to Earth for a visit, but not long after they arrived they were attacked by a yaguareté—you call it a jaguar. Just as the yaguareté was about to eat them, an old man came along and saved them. The Goddesses were so grateful that they gave the old man a new kind of plant from which he could prepare a drink of friendship. That is maté.”
“Fascinating,” I said.
“The secret to making good maté is to shake it like this until all the sticks and big leaves fall to the bottom of the cup. That way, they won’t get caught in the bombilla and end up in your mouth. You don’t want that.”
She stopped shaking the gourd and held up a silver straw with a strainer on one end. “This is the bombilla. You suck the liquid through it.”
I nodded.
“The other thing to remember is to never overheat the water. It should be just below boiling. Also, put a little cold water in the cup just before adding the hot agua. This will prepare the tea for infusion.” She poured in a few drops of water from a glass sitting next to the burner.
“Quite an undertaking for a cup of tea,” I said.
“Yes, it is. But all good things are worth the effort, don’t you think?”
“I suppose I do,” I answered.
She poured the hot water from the kettle into the gourd and then handed it to me. “Be careful, caliente.”
I took a sip. “It’s a little bitter, isn’t it?” I said. “But it’s good. I like it.”
“I’m pleased that you do.”
“Aren’t you making one for yourself?”
“You only make one at a time, and you share it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Here,” I said, handing her the gourd.
“No, no. You must drink all of it, then I’ll refill the gourd, and have mine. That is how we share maté.”
“That’s some ritual, but again, I like it.”
“Just as I thought. You are a Latin man, Mr. Callaway. It’s possible, no?”
“Anything’s possible,” I replied. “It’s also possible about five hundred ancestors in Scotland just rolled over in their grave.”
And with that, she let go a full-throated laugh.
I sat with Gabriella for roughly forty-five more minutes. Ultimately, we got around to talking about music, at which time I explained how I managed to turn her chart of “Midnight Tango” into something playable. At one point, she gave me some paper and asked if I’d notate my process. I did, and to my surprise, she grasped what I was saying rather quickly. In fact, the session could have gone on for hours. Gabriella didn’t want to stop. It was only after I explained that I needed to get to the business of rewriting her other charts and promised we could resume our lesson again anytime she wanted, did she finally allow me to leave. Gabriella’s persona might have been that of an airheaded sex kitten, but in truth she was forever curious and a reasonably well-schooled musician. That was my first hint the woman had more going on than she was letting people see.
I decided that before tackling the impossible task before me, I’d make a stop at the studio’s commissary. My plan was to pick up a sandwich, take it back to the soundstage, and eat it while working at the piano. You would think that having never been in the massive studio complex before, I would have had the good sense to ask for directions. I didn’t. Hence, I wandered down four dead-end hallways before I found myself in an area that was stingy with light and devoid of all humanity. It was then I declared myself properly lost. That wouldn’t have been the worst thing, had it not been for the other thing.
Dwelling deep within my innards is a little voice. Some people call theirs gut-instinct or just good old-fashion intuition, but I call mine Satchmo. Satchmo scolds me when I’m doing something I shouldn’t be and berates me when I’m not doing something I should. Satchmo also warns me when something isn’t right. I’ve learned the hard way that to ignore Satchmo is to do so at my own peril. So I don’t.
I slowed down and tried to walk lighter. Eventually I stopped, acted like I was checking my Timex, and then casually looked around in all directions. I saw nothing. I started moving again, but after a few steps turned my relaxed saunter into a half-run, and then into an all-out sprint. I darted around a corner and then came to an abrupt stop. I took a moment to catch my breath and to listen. Someone was behind me; I was sure of it. I clenched my fists, readied for whatever was about to happen, and then peeked around the corner.
There was nobody there. Only an empty hallway.
I let out a long breath and dropped my head. It appeared my imagination was having a little fun with me. I felt ridiculous and was thankful there was no one around to witness my asinine antics. I tried to console myself with the rationalization that given all I had been through the previous few days, not the least of which facing a near-fatal finale at Tiffany’s house, if anyone deserved to be a bit jumpy, it was me. Still, I felt stupid.
Once my pulse had returned to something resembling adagio, I straightened my tie and then stepped out from around the corner. That’s when I felt something push into my spine.
“Don’t turn around or you’ll get it in the back,” the voice whispered.
My legs became rubber. “Okay,” I replied.
“Relax, Callaway. It’s us.”
I turned around and saw not one, but two grinning mugs looking back at me—or at least grinning as much as these two particular ugly mugs could muster the expression. It was Clegg’s men, Agent Carson and Agent Stevens, a.k.a. Square Head and Tonto.
“You two!” I yelled. “I almost—you guys nearly gave me a heart attack. What are you doing here?”
“What else?” Square Head replied. “Looking out for your sorry butt. You think Clegg was going to let you do this without back up?”
Neither man had on his customary government-issued black suit, and instead wore light blue security guard uniforms. The same uniform old Burt at the main guard gate was wearing. “Nice duds. How’d Clegg get you guys hired at the studio?”
“He has his ways,” Tonto answered. “You got anything to report?”
“I just got here,” I replied. “What do you want from me?”
Square Head answered, “Hey, you’re the one always popping off about how amazing you are. So amaze us.”
I smiled. “Okay, watch this. Tell Clegg I’m already in with Gabriella. We’ve even had tea together. Also, tell him I’ve met Cabaneri. Well, I haven’t actually met him, but I have encountered him. You impressed?”
Tonto rolled his eyes.
Square Head asked, “That’s it?”
“I’ve been here two hours, fellas, isn’t that enough?”
The two men looked at each other and started to walk away.
“Hey, what if I do get into trouble? How do I contact you guys?”
Tonto looked back, “Here’s an idea, Callaway. Don’t get into trouble.”
“No seriously, what if I
need to find you?”
Square Head answered without breaking stride, “We’ll find you.”
“Comforting. Hey, either of you guys know where the commissary is?”
As they turned the corner, Tonto pointed behind him. “It’s that way.”
In any other business, the studio’s commissary would simply be referred to as a cafeteria. Why it’s not, who knows, but be it a cafeteria or a commissary, a rose by any other name, etcetera, etcetera. In the end, it was still just a dining hall with cheap tables and chairs under unflattering fluorescent lights.
I went to the cash register and put in an order for a chicken salad sandwich and soft drink to go. As I waited, I scanned the large, uninspired room and recognized the diners as being folks from the Gabriella set, which included the five musicians from her tango band, who were all huddled around a table under a gray canopy of cigarette smoke. I was about to head over to see if I could charm some civility out of the quintet when I saw Anthony Cabaneri sitting off in the corner with our cheery conductor. I couldn’t help but wonder why a lowly conductor was talking to the show’s producer. The star, sure. The director, perhaps. But the producer? I wasn’t an authority on the rules pertaining to television hierarchy, but I had been around long enough to know there were about a half dozen people in the chain of command before the conductor got access to the show’s producer.