Sweeter Life (9 page)

“Who, me? I’ve done my time, I’ve reached the end.”

“Easy now.”

“It’s not easy, it’s hard. It’s over and I can’t do it no more so don’t be talkin’ like that. Me? You’re outta your mind you think I’m goin’ near that shit again.”

The more he was pushed, the more Jimmy resisted, so Ronnie tried a different tack. It was easy enough to find musicians who might be interested in jamming with Jimmy Waters—he was still a big name, a respected star—so night after night Ronnie invited drummers and bass players and guitarists
around to the apartment to see if he could find some chemistry that worked.

Jimmy ignored these strangers, hiding in his room or treating them like riff-raff. But then, on a whim, Ronnie invited a keyboard player to drop by on his own, a grizzled veteran. Rumour was he had been a hotshot at one time but had stopped getting calls. Bad attitude was the rap, not exactly a team player. But this guy, Sonny Redmond, sat down at the battered Heintzman and played “Rainy Night in Georgia,” even managed a bit of vocal in a raspy echo of Brook Benton, and Jimmy seemed to perk right up. He eased out of his bedroom and stood in the doorway, rocking to the rhythm. And when Sonny shifted into a mournful blues tune, Jimmy moved away from the doorway and into the middle of the room. He stood there with eyes closed, fingers twitching, until finally he opened his arms and, in the deep, warm voice of a preacher, said, “I’d like to tell you a story now, if I may, about a man …”

It was such a surprising thing to do that Sonny stopped playing and turned around to listen. But as soon as the music stopped, the spell was broken, and Jimmy hurried back into his bedroom and refused to budge.

Next night, Sonny dropped by the apartment again. The first song he played was “Stormy Monday,” and right away Jim moved to the centre of the room, his fingers going a mile a minute, his head thrown back. Just like before, the words began to spill out. “I’d like to tell you a story now, if I may, about a man, you know …”

This time it was Ronnie who fouled up. He misunderstood those dancing fingers and tried to guide Jimmy closer to the piano. With an almost frightening power, Jimmy knocked Ronnie sprawling on the floor and then fled to the bedroom.

On the third night, Sonny shuffled into the apartment and sat at the piano bench, cracking his knuckles. “So what’s the deal, professor? Is there a gig or what? I ain’t doin’ this for my health.”

Ronnie sat beside him on the bench and explained as briefly as possible what he had in mind.

Sonny squinted at him. “You want me to put together a band, and we’ll jam every night for your freaky friend here in case he maybe decides to play again?”

“I was rather hoping it wouldn’t take very long. Once he hears the right music, I am willing to wager that he won’t be able to resist. If you leave an attractive space, I am certain he will rush forward to fill it.”

Sonny looked at him dubiously. “I hate to be the fly in your ointment, pal, but just one obvious question: Who’s going to be picking up the tab? I ain’t the Welcome Wagon.”

Ronnie laughed. “I can appreciate that, Mr. Redmond. No, I have some cash set aside for this purpose. I would appreciate it, however, if you could assemble a duo for now.”

One week later, Sonny arrived with a drummer named Chuck Ray. They set up their gear in the apartment. Ronnie had rented a small Farfisa organ, too, and had it all ready to go in the centre of the room, just in case Jimmy got inspired.

To warm up, Sonny and Chuck slid easily into some highly syncopated funk. When they got bored with that, they ran through a few jazz standards. After an hour or so, Ronnie was pacing up and down the apartment. Jimmy had yet to leave his room.

“Any requests?” Sonny asked.

Ronnie shrugged and said, “Why not try the magic number?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, they kicked into a souped-up version of “Don’t Look Back.” And just as quickly a blood-curdling scream came from Jimmy’s bedroom.

Next night they set up again, but this time Ronnie discussed with Sonny what they might play. “We are dealing with a delicate sensibility here, my friend, so please do not take this as a reflection on your musicianship. I, for one, thought your performance last night was sublime. However, it did not do the trick. Now, whatever it was you played those first nights on your own seemed to be more in the right direction, did it not? You were able to coax him from his room at least.”

Sonny nodded and settled into a slow gospel tune. There was nothing fancy to it at all, just blocking out the chords, riding the soothing groove. But right on cue, Jimmy walked out of the room and over to the Farfisa, his fingers alive, his eyes rolled back. In a deep, rich voice, he said, “I’d like to tell you a story now, if I may, about a time when I was not much older than five or six …”

They played all night, and Jimmy never once stopped talking. Sonny and Chuck clued in to the challenge right away, matching their music to the rhythm and tone of Jim’s stories. That meant opening up and listening hard, to not only hear what was going on in that moment but to feel what would happen in the next. By the end of the night they were all exhausted. But twelve hours later they were right back at it, working on grooves that were more R&B this time. And Jimmy came out and told a different batch of stories.

That night as Sonny and Chuck were packing up to go, they were laughing and shaking their heads. They didn’t really understand what was going on, but they were kind of digging it, too. After Ronnie handed them an envelope containing their evening’s pay, he jammed his hands into his pockets and said, “Here is the sad part, my friends. I believe we are witnessing something special here. I am sure you feel it, too. Alas, I have run rather short of discretionary funds. In short, I am broke and may not be able to afford another night like this for quite some time.”

Sonny said, “Yeah, well, we’ve all got problems, right?”

“You are indeed correct, my keyboarding friend. But I was hoping you and your associate here might be able to assist me with mine. Perhaps, if you thought about it, you might know of a suitable venue where we could showcase this little performance of ours. Surely others would find it as entrancing as we do. A paying audience would allow us to keep body and soul together while we wait for our man to come back to his calling.”

Sonny looked at Chuck, and then back at Ronnie. “You’re crazier than I thought.”

“Just think about it, my friend. That is all I ask.”

Sonny did think about it and arranged a test gig at the Ithaca Tavern, just to see if Jimmy would do his thing in public—which he did. Then Sonny suggested they book the Dunes, a smallish roller-skating pavilion down by Coney Island with hardwood floors, a soda fountain up front and glittering stars painted on the ceiling.

Ronnie thought it was a splendid idea. He drew on all the talents he had developed back in Scotland, arranging the publicity, the posters, the tickets (not an easy thing to do without signalling Nate Wroxeter and the musicians union), and managed to fill the Dunes for three nights.

He still didn’t know what to make of the performance, and neither did the audience; but each night he watched with satisfaction as Jim stepped further out of his shell, the trickle of words becoming a flow, and by the third gig, a flood. And while Jim had yet to play a single note on his keyboard, Ronnie was willing to wait for that—they were at least making a little money. Two weeks later they took their show out of town with the idea that they would ride that fading name as far as it would take them and maybe, if they were lucky, witness a miracle.

C
yrus opened his eyes with a blink and stared at a white pebbled ceiling where sinuous cobwebs danced on currents of air. Early-morning sunlight spilled in through sliding glass doors that led onto a concrete balcony. He sat up warily, gazed about the room—paint-by-number art and Swedish-style furniture, a colour television and mini-bar, a Gideon Bible on the night table beside him—and was relieved to see his clothing and guitar sitting where he had left them. In that moment, his presence in the room seemed a mistake so vast and complex he could not even begin to grasp its enormity. He was wondering if he should grab his gear and split, when Ronnie came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around him.

“Ah, my friend,” he said, “I hate to disturb you after only a few hours sleep, but we are in for a busy day, I fear. Before I go down for breakfast, perhaps we should discuss a few of the particulars we neglected last night.”

Ronnie slid into the bathroom again and emerged a minute later wearing dark slacks and a black knit pullover with a triangle of white T-shirt showing above the collar. He sat across from Cyrus and pulled on socks and a pair of black high-heeled boots. When he noticed they were spattered with mud, he wiped them with the edge of a blanket until they were polished to his satisfaction. He said, “I am sure you must be curious how much you will be paid, that sort of thing.” He raised an eyebrow and reached across to pat Cyrus’s
hand. “Worry not on that point, young man. We pay a fair wage—one hundred American dollars a week, whether you have been with us a decade or a day. In addition we pay your hotel accommodation plus breakfast. Dinners are provided backstage after sound check. We offer lunch to the crew during set-up, naturally, and you are welcome to partake if you care to show up for it. Mostly the musicians don’t—sound checks are not until four or five. In that case, lunch is your own responsibility, as are phone calls, meals on non-show days and dry cleaning. We will pay to keep your gear in order. New tubes if you need them, repairs when necessary. Strings are your domain. Clear?”

Cyrus nodded, relief spreading through him like a drug. This was sounding more like the real thing all the time.

“There is one small proviso,” Ronnie continued. “You may earn a hundred a week, but you will receive only seventy-five. The rest is held in reserve. Enforced savings, if you will. A little something for a rainy day. If you need extra cash for an emergency, we can discuss some temporary arrangement to cover your expenses. I am sure I don’t need to tell you, my boy, that life on the road is full of temptations, with plenty of time to indulge them. Money is just the nudge that can set so many people down the wrong road. So naturally we do our best to nip that sort of thing in the bud.”

Of all the gigs Cyrus had played with Janice and the others—at the high school, the Purple Pad—the whole band had never made more than thirty bucks. A hundred a week plus expenses, while nothing like the big time, still sounded like a step in the right direction. And this Ronnie character seemed pretty cool. He reminded Cyrus of the manager the Beatles had, what’s his face, Brian Epstein. Sharp dresser. Fancy boots. Proper, too. Kind of dignified.

Sitting up straighter, Cyrus rubbed his eyes and said, “You’re talking about crews and shows and sound checks, and I still don’t know what kind of show you put on.”

Ronnie laughed, which seemed to be his standard response to Cyrus. “Isn’t that crazy?” he said, shaking his head with disbelief. “I am sorry. I keep assuming that everyone has heard of the Jimmy Waters Revival.”

“So it’s like what, an oldies show?”

“Oldies, yes, I like that. In a manner of speaking, that is exactly what it is. But so much more. I quite frankly don’t know how to explain, other than to say there has never been a show quite like ours, so that makes comparisons difficult. You will just have to see for yourself. I can promise you one thing, however: you have never played with better musicians.”

Ronnie got to his feet and slid into a dark jacket. “Now,” he said, “it is past my breakfast hour. If I were you, I would think about a little nourishment as well. And if you need to call someone, you know, so they don’t worry, you can charge it to my room. Considering our rather impromptu meeting and departure, I think that would be wise.”

After Ronnie left the room, Cyrus sat in stunned silence. Finally he picked up the phone and called home. Ruby answered on the first ring.

“Cyrus? Honey, where are you? We’ve been worried sick. I thought you had gone to the hall to sleep the way you’ve done before, but when I went there this morning it was locked, and I was so worried, I went over to see Janice, and she came back to the hall with me, and all your equipment was gone. And then, well, then we figured you had maybe stayed with Isabel, you know, but when I phoned, of course, she didn’t know, and then this morning I heard about this business over there by the pumping station and I didn’t know what to think and—”

“Ruby, I’m fine. Don’t worry, okay?”

“Well, I don’t know what that would be like, not worrying. What with all we’ve been through, I don’t think we could ever spend another day, any one of us, without worrying …”

Cyrus took a deep breath and let it out slowly. In a calm, measured tone, he said, “I’m not Hank, okay? I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“But where are you?”

It was the hurt in her voice, the soft quaver, that brought the necessary tenderness back to his words. “I’m working, Ruby. I’m in Campenola. I got a job as a musician. So don’t worry, okay? Everything’s fine.”

“Oh, Cyrus.”

“Come on, cheer up. I have to run now, but I’ll call again.” Then he quickly hung up and fell back on the bed. When he had regained his composure, he dialled Izzy’s office number.

“Where the hell are you?” she scolded.

“Hey, lighten up. I’m in Campenola a few days.”

“Campenola? That’s 250 miles. What are you doing there?”

“I got a gig with a band, Iz, a lucky break. I can’t believe it, really, it’s so cool. But look, that’s not why I called. I want you to go see Ruby and calm her down a bit. She seems pretty upset.”

“I wonder why. It’s funny how men have a talent for getting people all excited, and it’s women who have to calm them down.”

“It’s not like I wanted to upset everyone. Anyway, I’m nineteen, Iz, an adult. Why’s she have to make such a big deal? This is good news.”

In a softer tone, she said, “Seems to me she’s got good reason to be upset. That scene last night was almost word for word the kind of shit we used to hear from Hank.”