Summary
It takes a night out with Malcolm and his jazzmen for Angela to live again.
Following Ray were Claire and Malcolm. He talked about the modern-day derivative of the Chitlin Circuit. That great pressure awaited Drake and Fats, whose hands and feet were about to share the same kit played by the greats like Howard Grimes or Ray Charles. He also explained that the digs Reg took were to keep them sharp, to keep them from getting comfortable. Malcolm said some other things but only had half of Claire’s attention.
There was no pattern to it, but Angela would catch up with Auntie Vee as often as their schedules allowed. There was this one time they had booked an adorable holiday cottage off-peak in Gulfport, Mississippi. It was her aunt who suggested Jazz to combat Angela’s complex post-traumatic stress disorder (CPTSD). And that weekend’s study was 1960s Mingus At Antibes.
With fresh reds poured, Auntie Vee shared—out of the blue, without prompting—this proverbial week in college where, by Thursday, folks had mastered where to go or how to study. Then came that once-in-a-lifetime weekend, filled with cheap eats and sleepless nights. People were free to say their piece, with egos checked by agenda-less arguments and laughs. A person and their voice mattered. But, by Monday, the gathering had scattered. Everyone was off and running the race again. After a long silence, her aunt shared that her deepest college regret was not appreciating the moment.
Back on the Deep Ellum walk, Claire encouraged Malcolm to loop his arm inside her own. Then, with kindness, she clamped her free hand down on his forearm, shutting him up immediately.
On reaching their destination down an unmarked alleyway, a pair of stereotypical bouncers blocked the only open door. Reg approached these walls of muscle first, greeting them in Arabic. “Assalamu Alaikum.”
“Wa Alaykum as-salam,” responded the senior in this deep, velvety voice before sharing a jive handshake with Reg. The two men exchanged a broken mix of English and Arabic. Anyone listening could half make out they were comparing Abu Dhabi stories. The younger of the two bouncers interrupted, nodding toward Claire in her worker bee whiteness.
“First Grip,” voiced Malcolm without prompting, then physically cut through their conversation. Claire tempered his charge, helping him down a short step and through a cellar door.
After shaking too many hands, the troupe exited onto the main stage and started arranging their stations. Reg was the first to chirp up. “Hey Grip, where’s our water?”
“Brah… don’t take it too far,” cooled Fats. “Don’t want her spitting in our drinks.”
Claire responded, “A lady never spits. But they do poison,” ending with a wink to Reg. The other players tried to squash laughter, sounding instead like a choir of throaty chuckles.
After settling the musicians, Claire took a patron seat nearest Malcolm—far left of the first row if looking at the stage. Then, she ran through an old high-school trick of torso stretching. This action allowed her to look around without being obvious. These were the days when celebrities like Cuban or Nowitzki could pop up anywhere.
