Summary
It takes a night out with Malcolm and his jazzmen for Angela to live again.
“Don’t give me ANY of that off-night nonsense! Patrons came for the revolution, and y’all gave them the glitter ‘n’ glue hour at Shady Oaks retirement.” Claire, moving like she had heard worse name-calling in her life, looked around for something to sit on. She settled on returning one chair from the nearest table to the ground. “—like wind-ups bashin’ away at toy instruments. God knows y’all played with more soul at practice.”
The backing players, forced to stand with their conscience, mumbled incoherently.
Claire continued. “Forcin’ yer’self into a box, t’make others happy by playin’ them standards? Trust me, from years of tryin’, that don’t work. All that ever comes of it is a room full of haters, hatin’ not even the real you. Gets t’where the part of you that’s kept you goin’ in this ‘world of cants’ can’t breathe.”
As she sat down, crossing her legs and arms, the backing players shared affirming, sideways glances, knowing half of Claire’s words were not for them.
Fats responded with a wobble in his voice. “So, what can we do about it?”
“All depends on you, huh? If it were me, and I had y’all’s talent and let myself down in such a train wreck sort of way, I’d be bustin’ t’prove my chops.” On her silent cue, the bright red RECORDING sign on its rectangular white background lit up over the bar.
Reg was the first to laugh, sharing a jive handshake with Malcolm, before saying, “She’s a natural born playa, cuz,” before re-saddling his bass. The other players did the same, taking his unspoken direction.
Phil cawed over the speakers. “So we’re spinning. What’s this called?”
Malcolm shot back, “Calling it ‘Angela.’ The one from practice, boys. Blake, count us in.”
That they used her real name justified a new, unhinged anger inside Angela. She looked like a pinball machine gone jackpot with all her visible freckles blazing. Lucky for them, she only had the tabled chairs to throw. A part of her would have done so, except she cooled quickly, realizing they had genuinely listened to her.
Even Tony chimed loudly from the bar, “Much, much better!”
The quartet started strong, up-tempo, tight, even with fresh ‘we care’ sweat breaking from their brows. Then, the jam bottomed out into a hush, with only Malcolm and Reg dueling. They took their time, building back up again—like a roller-coaster inching its way up the next hill. At the top was only Malcolm, lifting his song to God Almighty. He had something to say, using his clarinet to say it, and wasn’t holding back.
As Malcolm shared his soul through that most magnificent invocation, the last of Angela’s A-game melted away. Tears streamed down her face. She hunted around for something to wipe her face with and noticed her hands were steady and strong. Angela simply smiled and pressed them hard against her lap. This song wasn’t another jazz standard. It was release.
“This is the final boarding call for passengers flying flight 2501 this morning to Tokyo.”
“Claire…”
“You know it’s not Claire.”
“You’ll always be Claire to me. Look me up at BMG… when you’re ready.”
“I will.”
A freshly minted CD waited in her car. Written on it in permanent black magic marker were “Angela,” the date, and each player’s signature.
Malcolm made his way through furniture and folks, tapping out his walking stick like a metronome. A kind, red-headed stewardess met him at the end, placing his hand on her elbow, and led him down the gangway. There was a last glimpse of Malcolm’s regal knapsack, and then he was gone.
