Roadside Bodhisattva

by Di Filippo, Paul

  I had crossed the diner to get a closer look at the box. Sid grabbed me by the elbow and said, “Kid, feast your eyes on these classics!”

  I read a few names, but didn’t recognize a one, not the singers, not the songs. “Who are these jokers? How come nobody asked my opinion about choosing some tunes?”

  “We’re trying to attract customers, Kid, not scare them away with that godawful crap you listen to. These are all classics of jazz, everything from Dixieland to Big Band to bop to fusion. Beautiful, gorgeous music. Perfect for the new, improved Deer Park dining experience. Listen to this one.”

  Sid fed a quarter into the machine and punched his selection. Some kind of rootlely-tootlely garbage filled the diner. I scowled and stuck my fingers in my ears to show what I thought of it. Sid made like he was going to slap me upside the head, so I took my fingers out, but still kept scowling.

  “That’s better. Show some respect. You’re listening to Louis Armstrong and his Hot Seven. Hear that trombone? That’s Kid Ory.”

  “Nuh—no, it’s nuh—not. That’s Juh—jack Tuh-teagarden.”

  Sid turned to Sonny. “How’s that?”

  Sonny smiled his goofy smile. “I know thi—this song. Tha—that’s Tuh—teagarden.”

  “No way!”

  Sonny failed to look crushed at Sid’s confidence. He just kept grinning. “Wuh—wanna buh—bet?”

  “Okay, friend, you’re on. Five dollars says that’s Kid Ory. Now, how we gonna prove it?”

  “Cuh—come to my huh—house tonight. I’ll sh—show you the ruh—record.”

  “Done!”

  The song ended, and Sid started another one up. “Okay, who’s this?”

  “Eric Duh—dolphy. ‘Eclipse.’ Ron Cuh—carter on cello, Ruh—roy Haynes on dru—drums.”

  Sid grunted. He seemed a little PO’d because Sonny was stealing some of his glory. “Lucky guess. Well, jazz boy, I could stand here all day playing name that tune, but I’ve got work to do, and so do you. We’ll see tonight who’s right.”

  “Tha—that’s for shu—sure!”

  We all went back to our jobs. The jukebox continued to play through the lunch hour. Customers seemed to like it. But I was gonna have to start wearing my earbuds in back here.

  Finally it was time to close the diner. I took off my apron and went out front.

  Sue was sitting down for lunch with Ann and Yasmine. She wore a Winnie the Pooh shirt under her bib overalls. Sid and Angie were over inspecting the jukebox, while Sonny kept busy at the grill. This was the first time Sue and I had seen each other since last night, and I didn’t know what to expect.

  Sue gave me a regular smile, nothing too big, nothing too fake. “Hey, Kid. What’s up?”

  “Nothing much. Just keeping busy.”

  “Whadda ya doing tonight? I thought maybe we could listen to some music together.”

  “Aren’t you going into Lumberton?”

  “Naw, don’t need to for a while.”

  I didn’t answer Sue right away. I realized that she was making a gesture to get closer to me, maybe even in a way apologize for last night. Maybe if we hung out together tonight it would lead to hooking up for real. But I wasn’t sure I wanted that. Or if I did, I wanted it on my terms. So I kinda surprised myself by saying, “Sorry, Sue, I can’t.”

  “How come?”

  “I’m, ah, I’m going with Sid to Sonny’s house tonight. He invited us over.”

  Sid turned around. “You’re coming along, Kid? You know we’re going to be spinning a lot of platters, don’t you? I thought you hated jazz.”

  “‘Spinning platters?’ Even if you mean listening to more of this snooze music, I’m up for it. It’s never too late to learn to appreciate new things, right?”

  Sid said, “Well, Sonny’s gonna bike home in a few minutes like usual. Let his sister know to expect us, dig out his Armstrong records, whip up some munchies, stuff like that. And then Angie’ll drive you and me in the truck around six. That okay, Ange?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  Sue didn’t seem too bothered by me playing hard to get. She just shrugged and said, “Whatever. I know boys need their night out. I just feel sorry for poor Evelyn. Maybe another time for you and me, Kid.”

  I changed the subject then by asking Sonny for a BLT and some onion rings.

  Toward the end of our lunch, a truck pulled up outside and started beeping. It seemed to be towing something, but I couldn’t quite make out the trailer from where I sat.

  Sid jumped up. “That’ll be the sign. Ange, the Kid and I’ll see you at six.”

  Sid headed for the door. I crammed the last onion ring down, wiped off ketchup from my fingers onto my shirt and said, “Wait for me!” This looked like a good chance to get Sid alone and talk about Sue.

  Yasmine hailed me on the way out. “I’ll leave your share of today’s tips with Ann, Kid.” Amazing. She actually sounded friendly.

  Behind the pickup truck trailed one of those mobile signboards on wheels, a big white expanse of plastic that could hold letters on each side and light up. Sid had the driver of the truck position the new sign right next to the pole that held the original deer park diner sign, so that drivers on Route 1 could get a good view of it. Sid unhooked the trailer from the truck, scribbled his name on a delivery slip the driver offered, and the truck took off.

  I followed Sid over to the sign. Two bags of flat plastic letters were duct-taped to the chassis. A coiled electrical cord stuck out of one end of the sign. Sid uncoiled the cord and plugged it into an outlet on the pole. He took out a pocket knife, sliced the duct-tape and removed the bags of letters.

  “You do one side, Kid, and I’ll do the other. I’ll tell you what to spell out.”

  “Okay.”

  I took my letters to the far side of the sign. Not being able to see Sid would make it easier to talk about Sue, I realized. But I didn’t bring up that topic right away.

  “Sid, about the juke box—”

  “One second. Okay, first line, ‘Jazz up your meals, exclamation point.’”

  I looked for a “J” in the bag, found it and slid it under the retainers on the sign that held it in place. “Sid, how come a juke box and not a regular sound system? You probably could’ve got a good deck and several speakers for a lot less than the rent on that juke. Then we could’ve played any cd we wanted to.”

  “And then how would the customers have felt they were participating, Kid?”

  “Huh?”

  “To use a buzz word I normally hate, the juke box is interactive. The customer gets to decide what’s playing. It’s more of a democracy. One quarter, one vote. Your way is like a musical dictatorship. Some almighty dj forces the customers to listen to whatever he wants them to hear. Even if he picks stuff they like, they’re still disenfranchised from the whole process. That’s no way to get people excited about the restaurant. Which is what I’m trying to do.”

  “But the juke box has all your selections in it to start with. What’s the difference?”

  “Only most of the choices are mine, there’s still some songs I never would’ve picked. And there’s a thousand selections, Kid. And don’t forget the sequence. The way the songs play off against each other is important too. I don’t determine that.”

  I thought about Sid’s points. “Okay, I can see the difference between my way and yours. But did all the songs have to be that Sting shit?”

  Sid laughed. “Sting! If you think Sting is jazz, Kid, you’re gonna get an education tonight! Now pay attention. Second line, ‘Bop at breakfast.’ Third line, ‘Swing at lunch.’ Fourth line, ‘Boogie down at Deer Park Diner.’ Now, get a move on. I wanna squeeze in a shower before Angie shows up.”

  “How do you spell ‘boogie?’”

  “Kid, you are so square.”

  “Only geezers say square.”

  “What would you say?”

  “Lame.”

  “Okay. Kid, you are so lame.”


  “Gee, thanks. Coming from a geezer like you, that’s a compliment.”

  Just as we were finishing laying out the message, a squad car pulled up, and out climbed Officer Vakharia, stuffed into his uniform like some kind of bloodless worm, his face half-concealed by his shades. He came over to us with one thumb stuck in his belt next to his gun. I thought of the yardbulls that used to hassle Jack when he was hopping freight trains.

  “What’s up with the sign, Hartshorn?”

  “Just letting the world know about the new attractions at Deer Park, Officer. We laid in a juke with some classic stuff on it. Gillespie, Coltrane, Miles. You should check it out some morning over ham and eggs. Perk you up better than a double shot of espresso. I predict this new feature’s gonna really make Miz Danielson’s business boom.”

  Vakharia appeared to consider this news before he spoke. “Seems like maybe Deer Park’s coming close to needing an entertainment license. You got a permit for this signage, by the way?”

  I could see Sid trying to stay cool and calm. “A permit? Nobody mentioned anything about a permit at the rental agency, Chief. Hell, half the businesses up and down Route One have these signs. They all got permits?”

  “We’re not talking about all those other places, we’re talking about Deer Park.”

  Sid squinted. “Maybe you should speak to Miz Danielson about all this, Officer. I’m just the hired help.”

  “I’ll do that thing,” Vakharia said. He walked away toward the office.

  Once the cop couldn’t hear us, I said, “What’s up with that?”

  Sid shook his head and looked sad and frustrated. “Seems Officer Vicarious has itchy palms that need greasing. Looks like my brilliant idea has, at the outset anyhow, caused some headaches for our boss lady. I hope to hell this scheme pays off in the end. Otherwise I’m gonna be kicking myself for a top-notch jerk.”

  I thought of some words of the Prophet. “‘You cannot separate the just from the unjust and the good from the wicked. And the robbed is not blameless in being robbed.’”

  Sid sighed. “Kid, that guff might be true on some cosmic level where none of us actually live. But when some asshole mugger, whether he’s in a uniform or not, sticks his pistol in my back and takes my wallet, I’m not gonna beat up on myself for walking innocently down his street. You see, this is exactly the kind of thing that makes Gibran so fucking useless.”

  I didn’t get angry at Sid’s words so much as disappointed. “Sid, you just won’t admit anybody could have more insight into the way the world works than you do.”

  “Kid, I’ll learn from anyone who’s got something to teach me. But I won’t endorse airy-fairy philosophizing that directly contradicts my own experiences. Your problem is, you just don’t have enough experience yet.”

  “Now you’re just back to the whole age thing again.”

  Sid flung his hands up in defeat. “You’re absolutely right. I’m just a sour defeated geezer who’s forgotten what it was like to be young. Thank Christ I’ve got you around to remind me.”

  Vakharia came out of the office then, looking smug. He went to his car without bothering to talk to us again, got in and drove off.

  “He didn’t tell us to take down the sign,” I said.

  “Must mean he got what he wanted. Oh well, there’s nothing for us now but to make all this investment pay for itself and turn a profit.”

  “How much did Ann have to invest in the jukebox and sign?”

  “Just a few hundred. But that’s a lot for her. I kicked in some too.”

  “Out of your pay?”

  “Sure. What better thing could I spend the money on?”

  “Aren’t you saving up for the road?”

  “The road will provide in its own good time, Kid. There was need for that money right now, right here.”

  I didn’t say anything to that. I was too confused about whether I wanted to stay or go to accuse Sid of betraying our ultimate goals.

  Then, almost like he was reading my mind, Sid said, “How did you and Sue make out last night?”

  “It was pretty fucked up.” I told him everything about our night in Lumberton and the gang Sue was chilling with. The only thing I didn’t mention was Lita and the gas huffing. That part seemed private, not relevant to anything developing between Sue and me.

  When I had finished, Sid stayed quiet for a few seconds before finally saying, “Shit. It’s not the worst I could’ve imagined, but it’s not the best either. I can assume that both of us would prefer that Sue was not getting down with these losers. That girl has too much brains and potential to waste it all on getting stupid twenty-four-seven. She just needs some direction in her life, a star to aim for. If someone could show her that, she’d drop those bozoes in a flash.”

  “And who’s gonna show her this shining star? I don’t have a clue about what would really turns her on. We haven’t really gotten into that kind of stuff yet.”

  “Well, if you haven’t sussed what gets her creative juices flowing yet, neither have I. But that doesn’t mean I won’t get inspired. Especially if you try to sound her out and fill me in on whatever you can learn. Now listen, let’s get cleaned up before Angie gets here.”

  Sid bent over and flicked a switch on the sign, and it came alive.

  I wished getting Sue to come alive with me could be that easy.

  * * *

  “Angie, do you like jazz too?”

  Once again I was sandwiched between Angie and Sid in the cab of the tow truck, driving down Route 1. It wasn’t dark yet, and I could see landmarks that told me Sonny’s house wasn’t far away, assuming I was remembering Sue’s tour last night correctly.

  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.