It was one of those
magical, star-filled nights, the moonlight shimmering across the tops of
the trees
and filtering like angel hair down upon the parking lot of
the motel we were staying at somewhere outside Philadelphia.
Earlier in the evening it had lightly rained,
which accentuated the heady ambrosia of the flowers lining
the driveway.
The concert we had just performed at a local high school had ended around
11:30 so
the night was still young.
Neither
Stan nor myself was ready for bed, needing the next few hours to unwind.
We waited patiently
on the bus while the rest of the guys, smiling and
happy the concert had gone so well made their way
off the bus on their way
to do things guys do when the night beckons.
As we watched Dalton
Smith's broad shoulders fill the well of the bus doorway then disappear
across the
parkway Stan stood up, lifted down a bottle of J&B Scotch
he had stashed away in the overhead
compartment atop his seat, turned and
said:
'Are you coming?'
'Yes,' I replied.
We
walked slowly across the parking lot savoring the sweet pleasure of a
concert gone well and moved
toward one of
the side doors of the motel which opened into an expansive conference
room. At the far end of the deserted room a concert grand piano, which had
seen better days was draped against the wet bar.
As I turned on
the small lamp beside the music rack Stan began pouring out two stiff
drinks. He passed one to me, then slid onto the piano bench. The 40-watt
glow from the piano light illuminated his face just enough for me to note
his facial expression. He was extremely happy and up, no doubt about it.
'Certainly was an appreciative audience,' I said in attempt to get
some conversation going.
'Yes, they were,' he responded as his
right hand began flicking lightly across the keys. 'The guys played
their hearts out this evening. 'I think even Fitz had a
ball,' he laughed, 'Did you catch all the marvelous things
he did on 'Malaguena?'
'Yes, our
resident curmudgeon was in rare form tonight.'
'Play something,' I
told him, 'I love to hear you fool around with different chords and
melodies.'
He laughed, took a long pull on his drink and asked:
'What you do you want to hear?'
"I've Got You Under My
Skin," I told him with a faraway look in my eyes.
'Christ, when
the hell are you going to get over that chick?' referring to the blazing
torch I was
still carrying for Virginia, who had begun divorcing me two
months ago in Baltimore, where we
had made our home following graduation
from college the year before.
'I am over her! What's done is
done.'
'Bullshit!,' he replied.
'Play what you want,' I
said quietly, 'It's cruel for you to just sit there and not play.'
He laughed again. Then he
leaned sideways into the keyboard and
ever so effortlessly began running
his right hand across three octaves.
Magically, light, airy grace notes
began dancing lyrically across the
empty room and began turning that dark,
dank chamber into a musical
wonderland locked in time and space. As he got
more into what he was doing
and was thoroughly pleasured by what he was
hearing he swiveled his body
around to the keyboard and began adding a
series of mahogany-rich chords
with his left hand.
If I was
enthralled, he was in another world as he worked out the intricacies
of a
score of complex, superbly-designed passages which floated down the
long
corridor of the room. As he came to the end he rested his right hand
on a
minor, dissonant chord which rose up and sprang toward the ceiling.
'Nice,' I said. 'What is it?'
'Just a little bit of
nothing,' he smiled as he got up and re-filled our drinks.
As he handed me
mine, I looked at him sheepishly and asked:
'Were you ever in
love? Truly in love?'
'Once,' he replied, caressing the keys
again. 'I was very much in love with Violet, but I blew it. I was
too
young, too stupid, too god damn involved to realize I was sacrificing her
for the Band.
'Do you miss her?' I asked.
'Yes,' he mused,
gazing off in the haze of cigarette smoke which surrounded us. Then, quite
abruptly
he said: 'Let's change the subject. I hate living in the past.
Too many ghosts. Too many demons.'
I knew at that point not to
probe any deeper. That I had hit a very sensitive nerve which jangled his
psyche. Yet, being young and a bit self-absorbed I couldn't help blurting
out 'Now, you know how I feel.'
'Of course I do,' he said
sympathetically, 'but the thing you have to remember is that when a chick
decides it's over. It's done. Finished. It's best to come to grips with it
and move on.' Then he reached
over, squeezed my arm and laughed. 'Just
keep in mind we always have the Band. Our great, big
love machine.'
I, too, laughed, thinking about his analogy that the Band was a
'love machine.' Yet, the more I thought
about it, the more I knew he was
right. Nineteen wandering minstrels sure as hell could spread around
a lot
of love, thanks to their extraordinary talent.
As I let my mind
drift off to happier days with Virginia he began playing again. Holding
his cigarette
in his left hand he began constructing one of his neat,
little Kenton-inspired themes. Spreading the
fingers of his right hand out
in block chord style he began adding big-band complimentary phrasing.
Always the composer he often used the piano to hear how the
Orchestra might sound before all the
pieces were assembled. We had been
talking for about 25-minutes when a soft voice called out
from a shadowy
corner of the room:
'I love to hear you play, Mr. Kenton. You
should do it more often.'
Surprised that someone else had been in
the room without our knowledge we watched as a willowy,
elegantly dressed
woman in her early 30s approached the piano from out of the dark recesses
of the room..
'I hope you don't mind,' she whispered in a soft
voice, 'but I followed you back to the motel, hoping
I might have a chance
to meet you.
'Did I startle you?' she asked with a mischievous
twinkle in her eyes.
'Yes and no,' replied Stan, laughing. 'We
were unaware we had an audience. Would you like to
join us?' he asked
without waiting for a reply as he reached for another glass.
'I'd
like that. Yes, I'd like that very much,' she said, tossing her long
blonde hair off to one side as
she removed a cigarette from an expensive
gold case, then held it expectantly against her lips
waiting for one of us
to light it. She laughed as two matches flared
simultaneously.
'Would you play something for me, Mr. Kenton?, she
asked.
'Sure, if I know it,' Stan replied.
'Anything by
the Gerswhin's. That should make it easy, she said lightly.'
With
that Stan began creating a dazzling George and Ira musical mosaic which
included "Soon,"
"For You. For Me. Forevermore," and "How Long Has This
Been Going On?"
I could tell by the expression on our fascinating
lady's face she was captivated by Stan's expressive
playing. It was
apparent she was in another time and place as she kept her eyes closed,
softly
mouthing the lyrics. To say I had instantly fallen in love with
this enchanting, mysterious woman
was putting it mildly. I could have
cared less that she was at least 8 years older than me. I was deeply
affected by her presence and I wished to know more about
her.
Before I could get her attention Stan threw her a big smile as
he brought his little medley to an end.
It had taken him about 14 minutes
to work his way through the three Gershwin melodies which had
turned that
dingy, god forsaken room into a mythical place of shimmering romance,
thanks in no
small measure to the gorgeous woman sitting alongside
him.
As he finished, he turned, picked-up his drink and asked
her name
'Melissa,' she replied quietly and ever so sweetly.
'Melissa Rockingham.'
Then quite abruptly she rose to leave. As
she thanked us for being so kind and attentive we nodded
like two
babbling, schoolboy idiots and walked her out through the room to the
parking lot. There,
waiting for her was a somber, giant of a man, holding
open the rear door of a long, sleek limousine.
It was
obvious he was part confidant, part bodyguard; no
doubt armed and all
no-nonsense. As the limousine slithered into the late night she slowly
rolled her window down, leaned forward, brushed her fingers to her lips
and blew us a kiss.
We never saw her again. |