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a Melody An empty bottle, a weeping piano, a horn, a pair of legs under the next table—that's your life and has been for a long time. You've got everything figured out. Love, you know, is a lie made up by poets. People marry because they can't live alone, and you can't either. So there's got to be a marriage. But to whom? Every woman has something beautiful—her legs, her eyes, the way she talks and thinks. Or maybe she just likes you. That's always beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful thing of all. Yet every woman has something a man can't possibly live with. They're all ladies, women, but in some way, either obscure or not so obscure, there's something bitchy about every woman. Right now life is too damn long for any permanent mistakes. It's suicide to get married because that upsets a lot of plans—plans more important than life—plans that are life to a man who wants to play a horn. Hungry women don't understand this. So marriage comes later—later when you've got a name and can support the lady who lives with you. Unfortunately, though, you're not good enough and never could support a woman. Of course you'd like to have a woman support you, but you probably couldn't talk one into doing it. Saxophonists, many of them, blow more horn than you do. But this is something you never really admit because that would make it harder to go on. And when it's all settled—when you know exactly what has to be done—that's when you wander into The Plaid Radish. And that screws everything. It's Saturday night and you're sitting at a table with another unemployed musician. You like him because you know that when you put your tenor to your lips, you have more to say than he does. The conversation lags. At least a thousand times you've consoled each other, talked about the lack of poetic justice, criticized the musical taste of the world. There's no reason to say it again. You both sit, silently wondering why the other doesn't sell his horn and get a job. Someone plays the jukebox. While you sit there weeping because the ox-handed sax man on the record can afford scotch while you barely afford beer, three women walk in. One of them waves. You don't recognize the face, but you wave anyhow. She smiles. You decide she must be an ancient friend. When you cross to her table she explains that she heard you play last night. She's kind enough to wonder why she hasn’t heard you before. This is the one great mystery you've never been able to plumb, either. Then, in a moment of unprecedented candor, you tell her you were working last night only because the regular tenor man got sick. "Oh," she says, "don't you like to play?" "I only work," you tell her, "enough to keep myself moderately alive and moderately drunk." That sounds maudlin, melodramatic, stupid. You'd revise the sentence if you could, but the words already lie gaudily on the table. And luckily, she's seen world-weary cool so often she doesn't even notice. "But you should play more. Once or twice last night, you were laying down pure poetry. You shouldn't ever let anything die. Never let something valuable perish for lack of care. Especially talent like yours." It's possible she might have said it better. Still, you understand instantly that the lady's intelligent. For all practical purposes, a genius. She may not know anything about music, but she knows all about getting a free drink. You offer to buy. Then you notice her two friends. This is unfortunate for one seldom employed, but there's a certain poetic quality in poverty—especially after a few hours at the Plaid Radish. Or rather only after a few hours in a bar. No matter, though. You can't back out gracefully. Being a humanitarian of sorts, you invite your untalented friend to occupy the two excess girls. He, a man who deeply appreciates the beauties of nature, flies to the table immediately. About this time you reach into your pocket and make what to a lesser lad would be one horrifying discovery. Some bastard apparently ripped off your money. At any rate it's gone, and this calls for something that might be considered unethical. Or at least a minor violation of friendship. "I'm sorry I had to invite him over," you whisper, leaning confidentially toward the woman who has been so kind. You motion nastily toward your newly arrived friend. "Oh, really?" she asks. "He seems nice enough." "That's exactly what I thought, too—till I'd known him about four minutes. You see, he's a terrible bore." She looks at you, probably wondering why you're bothering to tell her what she could soon learn for herself. "All he can talk about is himself," you continue, Judas on your breath. "Really, I've never seen such a conceited ram's rump." "Oh, no problem. I like to hear about other people." "I understand that," you say, leaning closer, growing even more confidential. "But the fact that he bores people to acute pain is minor—compared to this other thing. Unfortunately he's so fat—inactivity, you know—he starts to sweat the second he moves. Smells foul, really." "Oh, well, that's a little different. I'm actually pretty squeamish about odors." "I knew you would be, and I think it's noble. Splendid. Admirable, even. But you don't have to worry. I've got a plan that just might save us. You've got to help, though." "Why not?" she asks, laughing. "What can I do to spare our noses?" "Well, at the first opportunity, which should be just about now, we'll stand, graciously excuse ourselves, and go for a walk. It'll give you a chance to see the city." "But I've lived here all my life." "Then it's a chance to be alone with me. You've never done that. Besides, you haven't seen my city." You walk, then, stopping frequently to examine the city you've both seen at least a thousand times. Lake Michigan, forever ancient, forever new. That dark lake tonight holds wonderful sea monsters. Its waves brood over the beginning and the end. The old man walking slowly down Michigan Avenue with a violin might be Jascha Heifetz. On this magic night it probably is Heifetz. And there goes Scott Fitzgerald, ecstatic and no longer dead, on his way to St. Paul. Ernie Banks and Billy Williams, young Cubs once more, wave as they jog by. As the two of you hold hands, you suddenly know beyond possible doubt that Picasso's giant iron bird might soar higher than the mundane creatures at O'Hare. And every room in the round Marina Towers is filled with lovers. The ranters and ravers in Bughouse Square make sense tonight. You wish them well, bequeath humor and sanity on every lunatic, tenderness and eloquence on every lover. Chicago suddenly becomes a city where you might meet anyone, where all things that have gone before could be happening right now, probably are happening right now. But no, not all things. No one is being raped or murdered or hurt right now. No one lies beneath the surgeon's knife. No one in the dentist's chair. No humiliation. Chicago is a city of singers and dancers and lovers and writers just for this one moment somehow free from the jaws of time. And all musicians are either working or loving on this night. That's when you know you're with a remarkable lady. In some inexplicable way she's exciting, even adding splendor to the vile drawbridge that so often stalls you on the wrong side of the river. How could you have walked so many miles, from lake to river? She's vastly alive. And she doesn't fit into any of the neat little categories you've reserved for the rest of humanity. You might want to see her again, will want to see her again, so you ask her name. "Judy," she replies, and you're surprised. You'd hoped it might be Faustina or something like that, but you don't really care. She's been Judy all her life, and now it's a magic name. You don't want to change her. The woman you've dreamed of had long, blonde hair, the hair of angels, but Judy's hair is short and brown. Again it makes no difference because this is Judy. And you walk on, surprised that a life-long ideal of beauty can be absolutely altered in an instant. From that night on you see a lot of Judy. When you work she goes along. The night goes quicker when she's out there, and you always play better than you did before you met her. You sacrifice your pride and work with bands that don't blow jazz. Sometimes the thought that you're giving up your integrity plagues you, but life is more fun without integrity. “What the hell good is anything,” you wonder, “that doesn't contribute to happiness?” It's time, then, to play for money alone and to give up all your stupid, romantic ideas about creativity. Judy is more important than anything. To hell with music. To hell with childish idealism. Straight to hell with everything except you and Judy. And just when you grow accustomed to thinking that way, Judy asks why you're wasting your time. "Forget money," she says. "Try to find the sound you know exists." That's when you know you love her. You start to explain that you don't play well enough to sport artistic integrity, but you kiss her instead. With her help, you decide, anything is possible. That great musical breakthrough multiplies in importance, expands geometrically, if you can share it with someone like Judy. And if it never comes, at least you'll have fun waiting. But waiting isn't at all fun—not when you know where you're going. Patience is a virtue born only of indifference, and since Judy, indifference lies six feet down. You practice, but not much happens. You get more jobs, but the sound you're seeking is no closer than it ever was. You'd quit trying, but Judy is always there. Somehow she makes it harder to quit than to go on, no matter how futile the effort. You practice till the horn becomes a tool of work. Gigantic in your mind is the obsession that each night you and Judy spend in separate rooms is a total loss. Time flees and is gone, and you're missing something that helps make life tolerable. Since you have the good fortune not to be a puritan, you ask Judy to move in with you. When she says no, you offer to move in with her. She has a bigger apartment. But again she says no. You ask for one good reason. To this she replies that if she moved in, the whole process would be slowed. She'll live with you, she promises, when you've finally found the sound you seek. So—she's setting herself up as a prize in a music contest. Instead of a trophy or a blue ribbon, you get a woman. Absurd! You don't understand why she feels that way, but the prize is worth all the trouble it's causing. Time passes and you play better than you deemed possible. A few months ago you had thought that to play this well would bring sky-leaping bliss. You actually feel creative, but still, you can't make enough money to pay even half share on any sort of civilized home. Your feelings toward Judy haven't changed, though in more rational moments you wish they would. You can live without her because you're still alive, but you don't like it. Something must be done. It's impossible to tell when you'll get a break and start earning large cash. Maybe never. When you've waited as long as possible, you've waited long enough. It's time to give up music and get a job. You've been to college. Big heavy myths overpaint reality, promise rare employment to all college graduates. Maybe some of the myths are true. So you decide to sell your horn, live with Judy, and even marry her if she wants an arrangement like that. You'll get a job and live happily ever after. You'd still love to blow your horn, but right now you want Judy more. That night she comes over to your apartment. You tell her what you've decided. She looks at you and asks," Do you know what you've just said?" "I think I said something about wanting to marry you. If it came out something else, I'll try again. I do want to marry you, Judy." "You can't give up music," she says. "You know that. Maybe for a while, but. . . ." "Come on, love. You underestimate me. Really, there's nothing I can't do. I can fly, walk on water, perform any sort of miracle you might want, and even. . . ." You stop, then, because she's crying. You think she's upset because you weren't serious about something that's probably sacred to her. You apologize and explain that proposing creates such monster trauma that you never could've gone through with it if it had to be done seriously. When she finally speaks, she says she doesn't care how you asked her. "That's not the point at all," she says. "It's just that I love you too much. Crazy, stupid romantic love. It's too wonderful to destroy. I can't stand to see things ruined. And if we got married, it couldn't last." "Oh, come on, Judy. Why not?" "It doesn't last. Not for anyone." "Maybe we're different." "Are we?" "Probably not," you admit. "But we can't just give up. Look, why don't you just move in for a month? If we like it, fine. We'll get married or something. If not, we've wasted thirty days." "It can't be that way. I don't want it that way." "All right, we'll give that up and get married right away. If it would work, we'd be stupid not to try. Judy, love's not something that either is or isn't. Even if I don't love you as much tomorrow as I do today, that still doesn't mean I wouldn't rather be with you than with anyone else—that I wouldn't love you more than anyone else. If it doesn't work, we made a mistake, that's all." You're congratulating yourself on the longest speech of your life, on the wisdom of your words when she says, "I don't want to make a mistake. Not about this. We can't keep love—or anything else. Only materialistic people keep things, and they don't have anything worth keeping. We can't touch dreams. We can't hold illusions. When we try, they disappear." "Okay. It's crazy. Every word you say is right, Judy, and every word is crazy. What good are dreams and illusions if we walk out on them? If we part now, we won't love each other in six months. You know that." "But at least we'll never hate each other. We won't have to face that horrid instant when we know, without a word being spoken, that we've hurt each other. It'll be all over then, and it'll be too late." "Judy, baby. Hey, you're afraid to live. Why?" She doesn't say anything. You sit, staring at space, listening. But space does not move and silence fails to buzz. Your eyes seem to cloud, but when she stands, you hear her. You're depressed, but somewhere in the back of your mind is a feeling of relief. You've escaped. You've kept your freedom, and she's turned you down without crushing your ego. Since you've just professed undying love, however, you're a little ashamed of these thoughts. She's walking away. You call her name before she reaches the door. She stops. "Are you sure it has to be like this?" you ask. "Yes," she says. "Please don't be hurt—or mad." "Oh, hell no.” Your laughter is nasty, jagged, and cruel. “What ingrate feels pain just because someone comes in and amputates half his life? How could a man be pissed off just because the most important person in his life slaughters his hopes?” She gestures weakly, pitifully, makes a tiny hand movement of helplessness. Silence comes. There must be something to say or do, but you don't know what. You're not going to beg her to stay, and you'd never give anyone the satisfaction of counting your tears. It's over, then, this great love, but this seems an embarrassingly flat way of ending it. "Judy," you say. "I have a perfectly brilliant idea. Since you insist on being so damn romantic, we can't just quit like this. There's not an ounce of romance in just walking out." She looks at you, worried, half afraid you'll suggest a suicide pact or something. "There's no reason we have to split right this minute, is there?" you ask. "No," she says, "but since we have to do it, we might as well get it over with as soon as possible." "All right. Tomorrow at dawn, the very second the sun comes up, I'll stroll out of your life forever. Until then, the rest of the night, we'll live it poetically." "How can we live poetically for just one night?" "As you've just said, we can only live poetically for one night. Tonight, anything we feel like doing, that's exactly what we'll do. We'll be together tonight, and in the morning, I'll vanish." Surprisingly she agrees. • • • Together, then, you begin the gargantuan task of transforming your apartment into an Eden for the night. “It’s a noble cause,” Judy says. “But if this is really going to be an Eden, we must throw off our clothes before we prepare a splendid feast.” “She’s brilliant,” you think, soaring as if you’d just scored ten million on the lottery. Her hands transform you into a smoldering volcano as she undresses you, and you do the same for her as you bare her body. Inch by inch her flesh appears as you peel her blazing red dress up her body and over her head. Your blazing joy that could melt the moon. A sensual queen, Judy stands before you in black panties and bra. Your hands tremble as you unhook the bra, and you can barely breathe as you slowly slide the panties down her exquisite legs. This moment, you sense, will become the archetypal seduction scene in your life. “You’ve answered all my fetishes,” you tell her, “and created a dozen more.” You call grocery store to deliver the ingredients for bouillabaisse, the most regal soup to emerge from the sea. The delivery boy also brings what you need for Cornish game hens with sauerkraut, an elegant, if simple dish. You remove the backbone of each fowl, separating them into two halves and Judy browns them in olive oil. You turn the meal into a feast when you add sauerkraut, juniper berries, thyme, bay leaf, and white wine. Passionate kisses and ravenous embraces slow process, but no matter. You’ve got the entire night and there’s nothing you’d rather be doing. There is no sleep on this magical night, a night you must fill with a lifetime of love. You take your hands off each other only to get more bottles of wine and to change the CD from Coltrane to Miles to Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers. Chet Baker’s “My Funny Valentine” becomes a hymn, and Nancy Wilson’s “Never, Never Will I Marry” unexpectedly makes you both cry. The night ends on Miles Davis’ “Kind of Blue.” When the sun comes up, it’s over. She kisses you and walks out. You lie to yourself, tell yourself it’s all for the best. You try to tell yourself that she won’t really be gone, that she’ll linger like a melody, and when you play, you’ll try to capture that melody. You try to convince yourself that you’ll be laying down some of the major jazz sounds of the Western world. You’ll be blowing heavy horn because Judy’s a creative lady. Even as you’re saying this to yourself, you know it’s forty carat bullshit. Without Judy, your magic apartment suddenly is ugly and bare—like your life. Without her, the last thing in the world you want to do is get your horn out. A week goes by and your misery deepens. “To hell with pride,” you say and sit down to write a letter that will sell yourself to the lady you love. You write for five hours, sensing that it’s not good enough, fearing that from here on out your life will be empty. You’re about to give up in despair when someone knocks at the door. You’re almost too sapped to get up and answer, but somehow you drag yourself to your feet. And there in the hall stands Judy, naked and holding an armful of her clothes. She steps in and hands you the letter she has written. You show her yours. In each of your letters, you have mentioned that seeing the wonders of the city is no longer magnificent because there’s no one to tell about it. No one to share it with. You also both admit that the price of romantic illusions is too high. If the cost of trying to hold on to an illusion is misery, you might as well take a chance on whatever reality might bring. A mortal man, mortal woman, together. It’s been several years now, and occasionally you still shudder at what you almost lost because you were both too timid to embrace life. You never again achieve the ecstasy of that one magnificent night, which is probably a good thing because you’d both almost certainly be reduced to a pile of ashes. And you’ve also emphatically learned the utter stupidity of your easy, cynical dictum, “There’s something bitchy about every woman.” But best of all, you’ve convinced the owner of the Plaid Radish to unplug that musician-staving jukebox. You’re sleeping with your muse, and you’re blowing your sax at the Plaid Radish six nights a week with Orphic Earl Tenorman and the Sophisticated Rabbits. And superstitiously, you hope the universe doesn’t notice how happy you are.
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