Short Fiction Contest-winning story #37: “Homage,” by Kenneth Levine

November 5th, 2014

.

.

New Short Fiction Award

Three times a year, we award a writer who submits, in our opinion, the best original, previously unpublished work.

Kenneth Levine of Wethersfield, Connecticut is the winner of the thirty-seventh Jerry Jazz Musician New Short Fiction Award, announced and published for the first time on November 5, 2014.

.

.

 

levine

Kenneth Levine

.

*

.

Ken Levine is an attorney who writes short stories in his spare time. “Homage” was inspired by his appreciation of the artistry of Chet Baker. His short stories have been published in print and online, including venues such as the .New Plains Review, Thuglit, and Imaginaire.

.

.

_____

.

.

photo by Siarhei Malets/via Pexels.com

.

.

Homage

by

Kenneth Levine

.

___

.

.

I deplaned in Amsterdam to confront my father. In 1990, the year I was born, after the likes of Stan Getz and Freddie Hubbard dubbed him “the reincarnation of Chet Baker,” he quit his part-time job repairing cars in Gilbert, Iowa to go on a worldwide tour from which he never returned.

From the airport I boarded a train to Centraal Station, across from which the Prins Hendrik hotel is situated at the Northern end of Zeedijk Straat, and by early evening I had navigated through the designated lanes over which walkers, bicyclists, and motorists coursed to stand before a bronze tablet on the hotel’s brick front that featured a haggard Chet Baker playing the trumpet over an inscription that read: “Trumpet player and singer Chet Baker died here on May 13th, 1988. He will live on in his music for anyone willing to listen and feel.” In the lobby I viewed a framed print showing the worn Baker facing right and a younger, handsome Baker facing left, each playing the trumpet, with the initials “CB” in between, a small bronze plaque with “1929-1988” beneath his name, and other Baker memorabilia.

The clerk at the reception desk gave me the key to the room I had reserved. I rode the elevator to the second floor and entered Room 210 through a door with a sign on it that read, “The Chet Baker Room.” Bright yellow walls and a simple dresser and nightstand underscored rather than muted an aura of otherworldliness; it was as if Baker’s ghost occupied the place. I dropped my backpack on the bed, stood at the window, and as I stared at the distance from the ledge to the brick walkway below, imagined with sadness the long discordant shriek that must have been the last note sounded from Baker’s lips as he either fell or jumped to his death.

That night I lay sleepless in bed, wishing I could have brought my stash of heroin on the plane so I could experience the thrill of injecting myself in the room where Chet Baker shot up, perhaps even on the same mattress where he sat and felt the evening air breeze through the window and caress his sleeveless arm as he did the deed. I grew up listening to my father’s two CDs that were issued in 1991 and 1996, reading about him on the internet and the microfiche of old newspaper and magazine articles, playing Baker’s CDs, watching the Baker documentary, “Let’s Get Lost,” and clips of Baker performing on YouTube, and reading the two Baker biographies and his autobiography. Heroin was my only other connection to Baker and my father, who had been arrested twice for drug possession.

The next evening I passed a flyer on the brick front of the Huis van Koel that announced the Tom Drake Kwintet was performing and stepped through its doors beneath a red sign that set the bar’s name in big white capitalized letters. I walked past a long wooden bar tended by a young black man and sat on a chair at a table beside others that surrounded a small stage on which the drummer, bassist, pianist, and flutist stood waiting by their instruments. The place stunk of beer and marijuana. As it filled to its capacity of about sixty people, it became stifling hot.

My father appeared at the rear of the stage and walked with his trumpet in hand to the microphone stand that was center stage to a roomful of applause. He placed the trumpet on the floor beside his feet and the pianist began to play. He stood silently for a moment, then he hunched over the stand, turned his head sideways, then forward, grasped the stand and tilted it backward until the microphone was against his lips, shut his eyes, inhaled, and bemoaned in song that he was a fool to want you. The flutist, bassist, and drummer joined in and my father’s voice rose from the cocoon of their accompaniment like a butterfly with a fluttering wing span that unfurled the colors of the loneliness and despair of the heartbroken. As he sang sweat poured from his face and ran down the inlets of his cheeks and onto the microphone and his shirt. Next the flutist blew a solo that quivered with sadness while my father lit and smoked a cigarette or dangled it from his lips and the others tapped their feet or swayed. The bassist and drummer fell in with the flutist, the bassist slapping his fingers against the fingerboard of his double bass to create a slow thudding rhythm, and the drummer tapping the cymbal foot pedal and swirling the brushes on the snare to smooth out the beat, while my father placed his cigarette in an ashtray at his feet, wet his lips, and lifted his trumpet. After the pianist added his fingering of the ivories for a few bars, my father placed the trumpet to his lips and his horn split the air with groans that made the pain in the song so vivid that when he shook the spit from the trumpet, I was sure the spit was tears. Then my father sang to their accompaniment, and with each exhalation he filled the room with a stream of words dammed by an occasional pause where the notes seemed lodged in his throat and his face tensed with the effort of dislodging them, or a pause within a pause where they seemed to accumulate in a death gurgle and his face contorted with fear and urgency. I worried he would choke or suffocate in the midst of song, but each time the words burst from his lips and his face slackened with relief.

I was startled by my father’s appearance. On his CDs he was a young man who was handsome enough to be a movie star. Bent over the microphone he was a man whose hair was grey and sparse, what was left of it slicked greasily back, whose skin was thin and translucent, with visible veins and brown spots, whose forehead and cheeks, which were indented when he wasn’t blowing into the trumpet, were lined like the slats of a Venetian blind. He wore huge plastic frame glasses and his brown and chipped teeth were set within swollen red gums. Although he was still a few years shy of fifty, he looked older than the fathers of my friends, even old enough to be my grandfather.

After the quintet finished playing “I’m A Fool To Want You,” “Easy Living,” “Look For The Silver Lining,” and three other Chet Baker songs, each to thunderous applause that made me wonder if they were clapping because he was able to stand and perform despite their waiting for him to fall and fail, my father cleared his throat and said, “We just played five days at a big club, one hundred, maybe one hundred fifty people.” He cleared his throat again, and his voice slurred, “And you could hear a pin drop.” Again he cleared his throat, this time as if he had a hair ball stuck in it, and slurred, “I know I’m not playing good enough for that tonight, but you guys have more,” and he moved his fists like an aged over-the-hill boxer, “enthusiasm.” He coughed and slurred, “We’re going to take a break now,” and I thought how odd it was that a stutterer can sing without stuttering and a slurring junkie can sing without slurring.

When my father turned and walked off the back stage into darkness, anxiety shot through my body, like cannon fire, and I felt nauseous enough to wonder if I would vomit. Realizing this was my chance to confront him. I willed myself to rise but remained stationary. I watched the second hand twitch twice around the clock on the wall, while I wondered why he had only played his Chet Baker repertoire and not “Wicked Game,” “Forever Blue” and other songs on his CDs. I endured another two rotations of the second hand, thinking each twitch was a tangible representation of my opportunity slipping away. If I wanted to turn potential into reality, whatever that reality might be, I had to act.

I pushed myself off the chair and strode to the back of the stage and past the curtain through which my father had disappeared. I turned right down a hallway to follow the throat clearing I had heard on stage. Through a slightly open door on the left I spied my father slouched on a chair beside a table. He drank beer from a bottle with one hand while the other transferred a syringe, cotton, a spoon, a bottle of alcohol, and heroin from the table to a satchel.

I walked into the room and stopped in front of the table and across from him. He sank into the chair and slurred, “Who are you?”

I looked down and said, “Jonathan.”

“Jonathan who? I don’t owe you any money, do I Jonathan?”

“No.”

“Good. If you want my autograph, it’s ten Euros for each signature.”

“I already have your name.”

“Probably before I started charging.”

“No, it cost me.”

He laughed. “I hope it was worth it.”

A surge of anger replaced a lifetime of hurt and longing for him “It wasn’t. I’m Jonathan Drake, your son,” I grumbled.

His drug-shrunken pupils widened as he looked me over from head to toe and back again. He removed his glasses, wiped their lenses clean with his shirt, and put them back on. “Johnny? My son?” He studied me again, lingering, I thought, on the faded blood blister that had formed a couple of days ago when I injected the needle too horizontally across the vein, and added, “I used to look as good as you. How’d you know I’d be here?”

I rotated my arm to better display the needle’s tracks. “I Googled you on the internet.”

He looked me in the eye. “And here you are. So? Why?”

After years of wanting to ask him face-to-face why he deserted me, suddenly I was too nervous to speak. I shifted from foot to foot, my mouth agape.

He laughed. “Tell me about yourself.”

I murmured, “I sing and play guitar.”

“Jazz?”

“Rock.”

He leaned forward, tossed his head back, and played air guitar. “Are you any good?”

Wondering whether he had mocked me, I said, “I have a band. I like to think so. Mom says I am.”

He smirked. “Does she?” He looked at the ceiling. “They,” he spit, “said I was great,” and then his head seemed to slide into his shoulders, like a turtle’s retracts into its shell, as he groused, “It’s too difficult to even be good.” Despite the smirk, I felt sorry for him. While I searched for comforting words, he proclaimed, “I thought I would die without seeing you again.”

My anger resurfaced. “I’ve been around for twenty-two years. You could have seen me anytime you wanted, or called or wrote or something,” I charged.

He rubbed his forehead. “I couldn’t do anything for you. It’s not who I am.”

I shivered with cold and groped my stomach.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked.

“You chose being a junkie over being my father.”

“No, I chose the music. I didn’t choose smack; smack chose me.”

“Bullshit!”

“It did. I was born melancholy. Smack was my siren, music my salvation.”

I ran to the sink in the corner of the room and vomited. He stumbled toward me. “You okay?” he asked.

I turned on the water and watched the remnants of my dinner disappear down the drain. I faced him. Touched by the sincerity of his concern, I said, “I’ve been feeling a little sick.”

He took hold of me and studied the crook of my left arm. “You’re using,” he angrily slurred as he released me.

“Yeah, like father, like son. So what?”

“You’re in withdrawal.”

“I’m not. I’ve only been chipping.”

“You’ve been chipping too much.”

“Then this is your chance to finally give me something.”

“No.”

“I saw you put it in your satchel. Give me some.”

“I don’t want you using.”

“What? Belated parental concern? You hypocrite,” I yelled.

“You make money in your band?”

“No.”

“You have a job?”

“I fixed cars like you did.”

“You have a job now?”

“No.”

“I didn’t use until I was doing gigs that could support my habit. You don’t have enough money.”

He had never paid child support, given me a present, or spent time with me. Suddenly I had to possess something of his that was important to him. “I need it,” I shouted, as I reached for the satchel.

He placed his hand on my shoulders and held me at arm’s length, jostling me backward, while mumbling, “You’ll have to learn not to.”

A tall, brunette woman in her early forties stood at the door. “Is everything alright sweetie?” she asked.

He released me and slurred, “Vera, this is my son, Johnny. Johnny, this is Vera.”

Vera’s eyes widened and her head tilted sideways. She composed herself and said, “It’s nice to meet you,” as she extended a hand that I shook. She faced my father and said, “It’s time to go on stage.”

I stared at him and asked, “Is she your girlfriend?”

He grinned and nodded.

I blurted, “For my mother and me,” as I punched him in the face, aiming for his teeth. He landed on his back, and when I looked down, his forehead and right eye were swelling and turning blue. As he began to rise, I grabbed the satchel and ran from the room and out of the bar, stopping outside its door to consider whether I should go back inside to check on his condition.

When a patron exited, I heard my father’s trumpet wail, “The Thrill Is Gone,” and I believed him. I stood with my foot wedged in the door and listened as he strung each sung syllable and each blown note into a chain of infinite sadness that bound us. I was glad I hit him, but happier I didn’t punch him in the mouth.

.

___

.

.

Click here to help support the continuing publication of Jerry Jazz Musician, and to keep it ad and commercial-free (thank you!)

.

Click here to read “Ballad,” Lúcia Leão’s winning story in the 65th Jerry Jazz Musician Short Fiction Contest

Click here to read more short fiction published on Jerry Jazz Musician

Click here to read The Sunday Poem

Click here for information about how to submit your poetry or short fiction

Click here for details about the upcoming 66th Jerry Jazz Musician Short Fiction Contest

Click here to subscribe to the Jerry Jazz Musician quarterly newsletter (it’s free)

.

.

.

___

.

.

 

Jerry Jazz Musician…human produced (and AI-free) since 1999

.

.

.

 

Share this:

Comment on this article:

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Your Support is Appreciated

Jerry Jazz Musician has been commercial-free since its inception in 1999. Your generous donation helps it remain that way. Thanks very much for your kind consideration.

Site Archive

In This Issue

photo of Rudy Van Gelder via Blue Note Records
“Rudy Van Gelder: Jazz Music’s Recording Angel” – an essay by Joel Lewis...For over 60 years, the legendary recording engineer Rudy Van Gelder devoted himself to the language of sound. And although he recorded everything from glee clubs to classical music, he was best known for recording jazz – specifically the musicians associated with Blue Note and Prestige records. Joel Lewis writes about his impact on the sound of jazz, and what has become of his Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey studio.

The Sunday Poem

photo via RawPixel

”Bebop Salvation,” by Tobi Alfier


The Sunday Poem is published weekly, and strives to include the poet reading their work.... Tobi Alfier reads her poem at its conclusion


Click here to read previous editions of The Sunday Poem

Poetry

photo via pickpik.com
And Here We Are: A Post-election Thanksgiving, by Connie Johnson

Short Fiction

Stan Shebs, CC BY-SA 3.0 , via Wikimedia Commons/blur effect added
Short Fiction Contest-winning story #67 — “Bluesette,” by Salvatore Difalco...The author’s award-winning story is a semi-satirical mood piece about a heartbroken man in Europe listening to a recording by the harmonica player Toots Thielemans while under the influence of a mind-altering substance.

Interview

Interview with James Kaplan, author of 3 Shades of Blue: Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Bill Evans and the Lost Empire of Cool...The esteemed writer tells a vibrant story about the jazz world before, during, and after the 1959 recording of Kind of Blue, and how the album’s three genius musicians came together, played together, and grew together (and often apart) throughout the experience.

Community

Nominations for the Pushcart Prize XLIX...Announcing the six writers nominated for the Pushcart Prize v. XLIX, whose work was published in Jerry Jazz Musician during 2024.

Publisher’s Notes

photo by Rhonda Dorsett
On turning 70, and contemplating the future of Jerry Jazz Musician...

Essay

“Gone Guy: Jazz’s Unsung Dodo Marmarosa,” by Michael Zimecki...The writer remembers the late jazz musician Michael “Dodo” Marmarosa, awarded Esquire Magazine’s New Star Award in 1947, and who critics predicted would dominate the jazz scene for the next 30 years.

Community

Notes on Bob Hecht’s book, Stolen Moments: A Photographer’s Personal Journey...Some thoughts on a new book of photography by frequent Jerry Jazz Musician contributing writer Bob Hecht

Feature

Excerpts from David Rife’s Jazz Fiction: Take Two – Vol. 8: “Jazz’s International Influence”...A substantial number of novels and stories with jazz music as a component of the story have been published over the years, and the scholar David J. Rife has written short essay/reviews of them. In this seventh edition of excerpts from his book, Rife writes about jazz novels and short stories that feature stories about jazz music's international influence.

True Jazz Stories

Brianmcmillen, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
True Jazz Stories: “Hippie In a Jazz Club” – by Scott Oglesby...The author relates a story that took place in San Francisco's jazz club the Keystone Korner in 1980 that led to his eventual friendship with the jazz greats Sheila Jordan and Mark Murphy…

Book Excerpt

Book Excerpt from Jazz Revolutionary: The Life & Music of Eric Dolphy, by Jonathon Grasse...In this first full biography of Eric Dolphy, Jonathon Grasse examines Dolphy’s friendships and family life, and his timeless musical achievements. The introduction to this outstanding book is published here in its entirety.

Playlist

“‘Different’ Trios” – a playlist by Bob Hecht...A 27-song playlist that focuses on non-traditional trio recordings, featuring trios led by the likes of Carla Bley, Ron Miles, Dave Holland and Jimmy Giuffre...

Interview

Interview with Larry Tye, author of The Jazzmen: How Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, and Count Basie Transformed America...The author talks about his book, an intensely researched, spirited, and beautifully told story – and an important reminder that Armstrong, Ellington, and Basie all defied and overcame racial boundaries “by opening America’s eyes and souls to the magnificence of their music.”

Poetry

John Coltrane, by Martel Chapman
Four poets, four poems…on John Coltrane

Feature

photo of Art Tatum by William Gottlieb/Library of Congress
Trading Fours, with Douglas Cole, No. 22: “Energy Man, or, God is in the House”...In this edition of an occasional series of the writer’s poetic interpretations of jazz recordings and film, Douglas Cole writes about the genius of Art Tatum. His reading is accompanied by the guitarist Chris Broberg.

Short Fiction

photo by Jes Mugley/CC BY-SA 2.0
“The Dancer’s Walk” – a short story by Franklyn Ajaye...The world-renowned saxophonist Deja Blue grew up a sad, melancholy person who could only express his feelings through his music. When he meets a beautiful woman who sweeps him off his feet, will his reluctance to share his feelings and emotion cost him the love of his life?

Feature

photo of Lionel Hampton by William Gottlieb/Library of Congress
Jazz History Quiz #177...This saxophonist’s first important jobs were during the 1940’s with Lionel Hampton (pictured), Fletcher Henderson, Louis Armstrong’s big band, and Billy Eckstine’s Orchestra. Additionally, he was a Savoy Records recording artist as a leader before being an important part of the scene on Los Angeles’ Central Avenue. Who was he?

Poetry

“Revival” © Kent Ambler.
If You Want to Go to Heaven, Follow a Songbird – Mary K O’Melveny’s album of poetry and music...While consuming Mary K O’Melveny’s remarkable work in this digital album of poetry, readings and music, readers will discover that she is moved by the mastery of legendary musicians, the wings of a monarch butterfly, the climate and political crisis, the mysteries of space exploration, and by the freedom of jazz music that can lead to what she calls “the magic of the unknown.” (with art by Kent Ambler)

Interview

The Marvelettes/via Wikimedia Commons
Interview with Laura Flam and Emily Sieu Liebowitz, authors of But Will You Love Me Tomorrow?: An Oral History of the 60’s Girl Groups...Little is known of the lives and challenges many of the young Black women who made up the Girl Groups of the ‘60’s faced while performing during an era rife with racism, sexism, and music industry corruption. The authors discuss their book’s mission to provide the artists an opportunity to voice their experiences so crucial to the evolution of popular music.

Short Fiction

photo by The Joker/CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
“Second-Hand Squeeze Box” – a short story by Debbie Burke...The story – a short-listed entry in our recently concluded 66th Short Fiction Contest – explores the intersection of nourishing oneself with music, and finding a soul mate

Art

photo of Johnny Griffin by Giovanni Piesco
The Photographs of Giovanni Piesco: Johnny Griffin and Von Freeman...Beginning in 1990, the noted photographer Giovanni Piesco began taking backstage photographs of many of the great musicians who played in Amsterdam’s Bimhuis, that city’s main jazz venue which is considered one of the finest in the world. Jerry Jazz Musician will occasionally publish portraits of jazz musicians that Giovanni has taken over the years. This edition is of saxophonists Johnny Griffin and Von Freeman, who appeared together at the at Bimhuis on June 25/26, 1999.

Short Fiction

bshafer via FreeImages.com
“And All That Jazz” – a short story by BV Lawson...n this story – a short listed entry in our recently concluded 66th Short Fiction Contest – a private investigator tries to help a homeless friend after his saxophone is stolen.

Essay

“Like a Girl Saying Yes: The Sound of Bix” – an essay by Malcolm McCollum...The first time Benny Goodman heard Bix Beiderbecke play cornet, he wondered, “My God, what planet, what galaxy, did this guy come from?” What was it about this musician that captivated and astonished so many for so long – and still does?

In Memoriam

Hans Bernhard (Schnobby), CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
“Remembering Joe Pass: Versatile Jazz Guitar Virtuoso” – by Kenneth Parsons...On the 30th anniversary of the guitarist Joe Pass’ death, Kenneth Parsons reminds readers of his brilliant career

Book Excerpt

Book excerpt from Jazz with a Beat: Small Group Swing 1940 – 1960, by Tad Richards

Click here to read more book excerpts published on Jerry Jazz Musician

Community

photo via Picryl.com
“Community Bookshelf” is a twice-yearly space where writers who have been published on Jerry Jazz Musician can share news about their recently authored books and/or recordings. This edition includes information about books published within the last six months or so (March – September, 2024)

Contributing Writers

Click the image to view the writers, poets and artists whose work has been published on Jerry Jazz Musician, and find links to their work

Coming Soon

An interview with Larry Tye, author of The Jazzmen: How Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, and Count Basie Transformed America; an interview with Jonathon Grasse, author of Jazz Revolutionary: The Life & Music of Eric Dolphy; A new collection of jazz poetry; a collection of jazz haiku; a new Jazz History Quiz; short fiction; poetry; photography; interviews; playlists; and lots more in the works...

Interview Archive

Ella Fitzgerald/IISG, CC BY-SA 2.0 , via Wikimedia Commons
Click to view the complete 25-year archive of Jerry Jazz Musician interviews, including those recently published with Judith Tick on Ella Fitzgerald (pictured),; Laura Flam and Emily Sieu Liebowitz on the Girl Groups of the 60's; Tad Richards on Small Group Swing; Stephanie Stein Crease on Chick Webb; Brent Hayes Edwards on Henry Threadgill; Richard Koloda on Albert Ayler; Glenn Mott on Stanley Crouch; Richard Carlin and Ken Bloom on Eubie Blake; Richard Brent Turner on jazz and Islam; Alyn Shipton on the art of jazz; Shawn Levy on the original queens of standup comedy; Travis Atria on the expatriate trumpeter Arthur Briggs; Kitt Shapiro on her life with her mother, Eartha Kitt; Will Friedwald on Nat King Cole; Wayne Enstice on the drummer Dottie Dodgion; the drummer Joe La Barbera on Bill Evans; Philip Clark on Dave Brubeck; Nicholas Buccola on James Baldwin and William F. Buckley; Ricky Riccardi on Louis Armstrong; Dan Morgenstern and Christian Sands on Erroll Garner; Maria Golia on Ornette Coleman.