Summary
It takes a night out with Malcolm and his jazzmen for Angela to live again.
“Heavens! That’s a sound BEGGIN’ for a bandleader.”
The men already in the shed spoke over each other. “Hey!” “Malcolm!” “My cousin’s car got turned away… whoa, Reg! Check out—”
“Claire, that’s Fats on piano, Reggie on bass, and Drake on skins,” Malcolm spoke loud enough so everyone could hear their introductions. “—making us ‘The Coffee Four’ until we come up with a better name.”
Drake and his caramel-colored bald head saluted her from behind the drums, with his body-building muscles moving snugly under a tan-brown sweater. Fats, nearest to Claire, blew out a puff of smoke before standing to shake her hand. Even though slightly obese, he presented well with round-thin-metal glasses, an afro-fade haircut, and a ‘kinda blue’ button-down shirt.
Last was Reg, who had the most similarities to Malcolm except for longer dreadlocks and a malnourished frame. He did not budge from his standing bass, saying, “This gig’s gettin’ rent by the minute. Now, Malcolm’s bringin’ in white—”
Malcolm cut him off. “Watch your tongue, Reggie. Claire’s a lady.”
“Am guessin’ the Lady of the Marching Baton?”
Fats fumbled to change the subject, “Hey, Malcolm? What’s our cut tonight?”
“Wasn’t that settled? When we left Kansas City?”
That kicked off a rage between them, like feral cats. Claire let it go for a bit. Then, she interrupted with, “Look, I know y’all will work this out eventually—” as her corporate negotiating skills kicked in. Like an elite athlete taking a morning swim, she had command of the situation within three proverbial laps, getting them past the ick of money and any prejudice against her.
Except for one awkward moment when Malcolm needed help to get to his station—solved by Drake—the quartet moved on to practicing. Claire took a casual lean against a building support beam and could have been there for hours, at the wings of their creativity, enjoying a free concert. On reaching one piece, they made three attempts, stopping each time on a Malcolm “Not ready” quip.
On the final stop, Reg yelled at Malcolm. “Nigga! What’s wrong with you?”
Malcolm replied, full of confidence and without a quiver, “I’m just not feelin’ it. You lead tonight, Reggie. Like Mingus.”
“Alhamdulillah!” proclaimed Reg. He parked his bass against its stand so he could squat down and search through its carrier. “I’ve got the perfect setlist for tonight. Now, where is it?”
Claire’s demeanor reflected someone deep in character study. She even witnessed the desperate exchange of looks between Fats and Drake with the leader change. Her only mistake was moving off the beam, perhaps looking for a seat, which jostled Reg.
“Hey, ain’t this yo’ town, Claire? What do Y’ALL do for food?”
She blurted out, “Heavens!” before dashing out the door. Twenty minutes later, Claire returned, carrying two pizza-shaped boxes and a six-pack of soft drinks. She placed all sensibly on the folding table nearest the door.
“Here’s the finest nachos twenty bucks can buy courtesy of Yesenia’s College Eats.”
The men needed no other prodding and gathered around the table in seconds. Praises of “Thank the Good Lord!” and “Negotiations! Food! Malcolm, she’s hired!” overlapped.
