Ma’Kentu surprised the band with the announcement that their record company had arranged for them to travel in one of its four specially designed forty-four foot luxury tour buses. The tour bus featured GPS tracking system, a wet bar, a combination shower and bath, a modern kitchen, coffee maker, a combination washer/dryer, microwave oven, a refrigerator/freezer, room to sleep six easily, several posh reclining chairs and sofas, a satellite TV system and an onboard computer. Experienced driver included. They would travel like rock stars…in style. All agreed that their rise to national prominence had apparently increased with each tour. It just did not get any better than this.
Though they had smoothed over things, Margo’s guilt ate at her. Not only had she insulted the man she loved with her refusal to wear the gifts he bought for her but she also missed out on a night that could have been pure romantic bliss between them. No doubt, this called for an emergency session with D’Sandra. Though the skies threaten rain, she drove the six miles to D’Sandra’s condo, parked the car and got out.
With her best friend towering over her, arms folded, she tried her best to explain why she had not worn either one of the two outfits Ma’Kentu had bought her, as advised by her friend. Picking up a glass of ice-cold lemonade, D’Sandra paused and took a sip. Taking a seat at the kitchen table she placed her elbow on the tabletop and rested her head against the ball of her small fist. Opening an Ebony magazine on the counter, with her free hand, she shook her head slightly. For a brief moment she looked at, but did not focus on the colorful pictures in the magazine. Introspectively, she regarded Margo and said, “You know, I really think you missed a great opportunity to put your past behind you.”
“I realize that now,” Margo replied, looking momentarily down at her clasped hands. After taking a sip of her beverage, she said, “Damn. I feel like such a loser right now.”
“Look, you’re not a loser, honey,” her friend assured her. “Your reasons are completely legitimate for having the hang-ups you have about lingerie. However, at some point, if you want to hold onto this man, you just might want to consider changing your views on this issue.”
“I know. I just don’t know how to.”
There was a pause.
“Hey, care for some bread pudding?” D’Sandra asked, sensing a need for a timeout.
“Sure, why not? After all, I lost seven pounds the past five weeks, just by exercising and dieting and worrying. One sinful piece of dessert won’t hurt.”
Rising up, D’Sandra went over to the refrigerator and took out the bread pudding. After cutting a square, she placed it on a dessert dish and handed it to Margo. She then rejoined her at the table.
Taking a mouth full, Margo sighed. “Oh man, this is so good. I can even taste the rum.”
“I remembered you liked rum in your bread pudding.”
“Oh, Ma’Kentu would love this,” Margo added.
Serving herself a square, D’Sandra took a bite and leveled her eyes on her friend.
“Oh, I just love this!” Margo exclaimed. “You have to give me the recipe.”
“Sure thing. Speaking of love, are you sure you’re in love with him?” D’Sandra asked, as she regarded her reaction.
Without hesitation, Margo answered, “So much that it hurts not having him here.”
“I see!”
“So, what can I do about my predicament?”
“Sacrifice!”
“In what way?”
“You have to be prepared and willing to go the extra mile. Believe me honey. If a woman is lucky enough to find a good man, she should please that man, and he will find a way to please her two-fold. I have seen in his eyes that he wants to please you.”
“You just don’t know how much he has already,” Margo added, with a warm smile.
“Well, it’s your turn now, honey,” D’Sandra said. “When are you two planning on seeing each other again?”
“They’re going on tour tomorrow. I plan to meet them in Los Angeles in twelve days for the Grammy’s.” With an animated look, D’Sandra bellowed, “Good! Just remember the gifts he bought you. And wear them this time, Margo. I’m not kidding.”
With conviction evident in her voice, Margo said, “I will.”
“You go girl!”
The two laughed.
The hometown concert went off without a hitch. Ma’Kentu and his ensemble could not have been happier. Along with the honorable mayor, his family, and distinguished city council members, ten thousand paying fans had come out to Municipal Arena to hear their renowned hometown band play. The enthusiastic crowd was able to squeeze out three encore performances from the band. After the performance, Ma’Kentu learned that the head of a major Indiana newspaper was in attendance. Good press was certain to follow for days after their concert, he thought. And that was always a good thing.
The luxury tour bus rolled into the Chicago downtown district just before dusk. In minutes, they were parked in the crowded parking lot of the Marriott Hotel. It had been a long night, certainly a much longer day. Ma’Kentu was grateful that he was able to get several hours of sleep on the bus, though several members of the band ribbed him about his light snoring. That aside, he was ready to go onstage and perform.
An hour later there came a knock at the door of his suite. Al promptly answered it. A tall saloon-tanned college-age man dressed in a white shirt and tie and blue blazer greeted him. An employee of the hotel, he was there with a special delivery for Ma’Kentu. Probably worked here part-time to put himself through college, Al reasoned.
“Bassman, it’s for you!” Al belted out.
Turning to face the man, Ma’Kentu rose from the chair and approached the door.
“Special delivery for you, sir,” the messenger repeated. “Please sign here.”
Signing the slip, he tipped the young man and thanked him. Closing the door he opened the envelope and read the wired message.
“Everything alright?” Al inquired, from his chair.
With a big smile, Ma’Kentu replied, “It’s from my brother Baba’la. He heard we were going to be touring again. He called the company to find out our schedule. Sonava-gun! He’s going to be in New Orleans around the time we perform there, as well as Los Angeles.”
“That’s awesome!” Al said, with a broad smile. “Sounds like a possible onstage reunion to me.”
“It would be nice if we got a chance to perform with my brother again.”
The road to New Orleans was laced with memories for members of the band. Sold out concerts, rave reviews at the local and national press level, and now a chance to perform in the home, the very birthplace of jazz. It was his dreams come true. Add to this the distinct possibility that they could walk away with a Grammy or two in Los Angeles. Ma’Kentu and Al were so wired they almost stayed up all night talking about the possibilities associated with winning a Grammy. This would almost guarantee them worldwide acclaim, both agreed. What more could a band ask for? Furthermore, their Los Angeles trip would be a chance for him to be reunited with both Margo and his brother Baba’la. Talk about being on seventh heaven.
When Ma’Kentu finally closed his eyes, he could barely sleep more than three hours, at any given time. Then came a light rain. By the time they rode into New Orleans, it was pouring rain. The heavy downpour was enough to awaken him. Still tired, he stretched and yawned. Love had a way of making a person restless.
Later that night, he lay across his hotel bed glazing out at the rainy window. Margo was on his mind. His private thoughts came to an abrupt halt when a call came through on the phone. Rising up, he took the phone and acknowledged the deep baritone voice on the other end. It was Chris ‘B Jam’ Peterson, a renowned bass guitarist with his brother’s band. Chris was one of the best bass men around in the business. He was strumming contra bass professionally long before Ma’Kentu was half the size of one.
“Man you’re a hard cat to get a hold of,” Chris said.
“Yeah, we’ve been making our rounds,” Ma’Kentu repli
ed, then with a sense of foreboding urgency, he said, “What’s up? Where’s Baba’la?”
“That’s what I called about Bassman,” Chris answered. “After our gig last night your brother started complaining about his health, saying he was not feeling well. We thought he was going to be all right but we decided to take him to the hospital to get him checked out. Just to be on the safe side. The doctor decided to admit him.”
“Did they say what could be wrong with him?” Ma’Kentu asked, standing up to pace about. Knowing Ma’Kentu might erroneously conclude that Baba’la’s hospitalization was drug related, especially with his brother’s past battles with drugs; Chris wisely preempted him with the following statement, “No. Not yet. But whatever is ailing your brother, I can assure you it has nothing to do with what you’re thinking, Bassman. Your brother has been clean ever since he got out of rehab. Of all people, I can vouch for that.”
After a long thought, Ma’Kentu concurred. “B Jam, you’ve always been straight with me. I have no reason not to believe you. You’ve been there for my brother over the years. And I appreciate that. So, what hospital is my brother in?” Ma’Kentu received the information, then hung up the phone.
Turning to his artistic collaborator and lifelong friend, Ma’Kentu shared the news of his brother’s sudden hospitalization for an unspecified ailment. “What the hell are we standing around here for? Let’s go!” was Al’s duly response. Throwing on their light summer jackets the two headed for the hotel entrance to flag down a cab.
They arrived at the university hospital a short time later. Upon seeing his brother, a slow smile curved Baba’la’s lips. Somewhat surprised to see his younger brother up and about in the best of spirits, Ma’Kentu approached him and gave him a generous greeting, along with a warm bear hug. Al followed suit.
Clearing his throat, Baba’la regarded his brother, saying, “Whatz up, big brother?”
“Hey, that’s what I’m supposed to ask you,” Ma’Kentu shot back with a grin. “Just tell me what’s going on. You look just fine to me.”
“And I feel fine, too,” he said, sitting on the edge of his hospital bed, his long robe draped over his frame. “But last night was a different story. I had these chest pains that came sporadically. They were pressure-like pains. So I had the boys bring me in.”
“What happened next?” Ma’Kentu asked soberly.
“They wired me up. My initial EKG reading was slightly abnormal so they ran several other tests, including a thallium stress test, all which came back negative.”
“So what caused the pain?” Al injected, from his seated position.
“Someone mentioned PVC’s.”
“What’s that?”
“A nurse assistant said it meant premature ventricular contractions. Nothing too serious.”
“What do you think brought this on?” Al asked.
“I imagine I just overtaxed myself. Anyway, I’m supposed to get out of here tomorrow morning.”
“That’s good. They put you on any medication?” Al chimed in again.
Baba’la turned around, briefly, and picked up his chart at the foot of his bed. “Something called Metoprolol Tartrate and Fosinopril.”
“I’ve heard of those, Bee,” Al injected. “My father-in-law is on that stuff. He suffers from high blood pressure.”
“I tell you one thing, they work!” Baba’la exclaimed. “That is if you take them.”
“So your heart is fine?” Ma’Kentu stated.
“Fine!”
“No blocked arteries?”
“None!”
“Cholesterol level fine?”
“That’s what the doc says.”
“Sodium and potassium levels fine?”
“As fine as can be for a thirty something year old man.”
“I don’t get it?” Ma’Kentu added, scratching the side of his head.
“And your blood pressure? It’s normal?” Al injected.
“Now it is. It was sky-high before I came in here,” Baba’la said, looking
in Al.’s direction. “But like I said, it’s back to normal.”
“What about aspirins? Do they have you on those?” Ma’Kentu asked, as if he were his brother’s surrogate mother.
“One aspirin a day, along with 25mg of Hydrochlorothiazide,” Baba’la frowned back. “It’s a water pill. I’ll tell you this much, that stuff keeps me running to the bathroom. Less fluid in my body helps keep the pressure down.”
“Listen, I have an uncle who is into all-natural remedies,” Al said. “Once they diagnose him as having high blood pressure, he started taking garlic and 800mg of vitamin C a day. Can you believe it dropped his blood pressure down 15% with no side effects?”
“I think I’ve heard of that treatment,” Ma’Kentu murmured. “It’s inexpensive, too.”
“I’ll look into that as soon as I get out of here,” Baba’la said spiritedly.
“You know, you really gave me a scare, when I got that phone call.” Ma’Kentu said, after a pause.
“Thought I fell off the wagon, huh?”
“I’m going to honest. I did.”
“Look, don’t worry yourself so much. I’m off that shit, brother.”
“I’m so glad to hear that Bee,” Al injected.
“I’m a survivor, man. And I believe I can keep my head above all of this. I just need you to believe in me, as well.”
“I will, from now on,” Ma’Kentu said, with a broad smile
“I’m here for you, Bee,” Al added.
“Good!” Baba’la said, looking down as he adjusted his blanket. “Well, are you guys ready for New Orleans?”
“I imagine,” Ma’Kentu said, thoughtfully.
“It won’t be the same without you, Bee,” Al uttered just as thoughtfully.
“Hey, cheer up! I’ll be back on the J-O-B in a few days.”
“I’m sure,” Al said.
“Besides, I know a nice club not far from my hotel.”
“Don’t you think you need to slow down for a while?” Ma’Kentu teased.
“Hey, there’s honeys are all over the place. What about it Al?”
“Well, you know me, I’m a dedicated husband and father,” Al returned. “But I guess there’s no harm in sharing an innocent conversation with a nice looking gal, once in a while.”
“I won’t tell your ole lady,” Baba’la jested, adding…”innocent conversation my ass!”
The three laughed.
“Speaking of honeys, where’s that fine looking newspaper woman, Margo? The one who has a ring in my big brother’s nose.”
“She is going to meet us in Los Angeles for the Grammys. And by the way, she doesn’t have a ring through my nose,” Ma’Kentu chuckled, placing his brother in a playful stranglehold.
“She’s a good woman, bro,” Baba’la said, having liberated himself. “Don’t let her slip through your hands like I just did.”
“Look, don’t you worry about me. You just try to get healthy and get yourself out of here. You understand?”
“I hear yah!”
“You know you blew this performance. The two of us, along with the band, could have really rocked the house. But I’m counting on you being with us at the Grammys.”
“I’ll be there, bro. Believe me, I’ll be there.”
Chapter 14
The long flight to California capped a very exhilarating tour, which ended the day before in New Orleans. It had been a twelve-day, fun-filled, hit-the-road type of love-fest for the band and their loyal fans. Seated next to one another, as they soared at an altitude of 38,000 feet, Ma’Kentu and Al took this rare opportunity to touch bases on several topics unrelated to jazz. Though the best of friends and quite familiar with one another’s personal interest neither had ever made it a habit to pry into the other’s personal life. Information was always volunteered. It was a formality by which they felt comfortable sharing one another’s thoughts. It was Al who broke the ice this time.
“How’s Margo?”<
br />
Ma’Kentu’s initial impulse was to keep the conversation general but after thinking about it he decided to be more specific in nature. “She’s doing fine,” he replied, glancing momentarily at a huge cloud formation.
“That’s good,” Al said, taking a moment to glance out at the clouds too.
After a lingering thought, he murmured, “Al, can I ask you something personal? It’s about lingerie.”
“Lingerie?”
“Yes, lingerie,” he quietly repeated.
“Sure, thing,” Al replied with an inquisitive stare, then more jokingly added, “But I can assure you that I’m not wearing any at this time.”
The two chuckled.
“I just wanted to know if you’re into Yvette wearing lingerie and if so, has it ever been a problem, on her part.”
“Bassman, sometimes I think I live just for the moment we return home from a lengthy tour. And you know why? It’s because Yvette always greet me at the door in a provocative teddy, or sometimes a heart-stopping sheer negligée. Hell, just over a month ago, when she met us at the bus terminal, beneath her maxi winter-coat she was wearing the sexiest negligée you could ever imagine seeing a woman wear. Man, I’m telling you, I was ready to get busy right then and there. Anyway, what’s up with you and lingerie?”
“It’s not me, Al,” Ma’Kentu grimaced. “It’s Margo. I bought her a pair of sexy nightwear and she told me, though in a nice way, that she wasn’t into that scene. But man, the way she said it left me feeling like I was some kinky low life or the sort. Al, my interest in lingerie is above gutter level. I’m telling you, she must have had a very bad experience involving lingerie. There is definitely a psychological hang-up about lingerie, on her part. To this day, she has refused to wear any of the lingerie I bought her. What’s a man supposed to do? I mean, I love Margo very much but should I feel guilty for wanting her to wear sexy lingerie? It’s not like I’m asking her to be a full time freak, or the sort. You know what I mean?”
Bassment Deep Page 22