“Strange Timings” – a short story by Terry Sanville

“Strange Timings” was a short-listed entry in our recently concluded 72nd Short Fiction Contest, and is published with the consent of the author.

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photo by ömer aliko/via pexels.com

Strange Timings

by Terry Sanville

From The Stage

…..All I seem to do is keep the beat, let the band carry the tune. My manager insists that I play short solos. I remember when I performed with Tommy, The Count, or later with my own band. I soloed as long as I wanted. It was me the crowds came to see, to hear my swift sticks smack every damn drum and cymbal in my kit and drive the music. In those big old ballrooms I could get their feet stomping, the crowd calling out for more. And at the end, their applause sounded like thunder, like a hundred toms being pounded to hell. It actually felt like people loved my playing, maybe even loved me.

…..The thunder is gone. Now all I get is gray-hairs at cheesy college gigs, like this one. They try and remember their sexy years, when swinging meant dancing to our music and not marrieds screwing around with a bunch of folks, when the singers sang songs about love and not some lame pop crap performed by brainless teenagers.

…..I wish the MC would just shut the hell up and let us get on with it. Some of the tunes I just learned this afternoon and my memory isn’t what it used to be. Blah, blah, blah, this guy’s driving me nuts.

…..Finally he’s done, the place is silent and I’ll call the first tune, an easy swing number to soften the crowd up. Now what! Damn it, she would show up late and wearing those heels that sound like sticks hitting the rim of a snare as she crosses the gym floor. And she’s walking in 5/4^th time. Nobody plays swing in that time. I’m so fucking tired of playing in gymnasiums. And now she’s walking the entire length of this one.

…..“Lady, will you sit the hell down?”

…..Oh great, she’s stopped and staring at me, wearing the fake mink stole from fifty years ago. She probably got it new from her hubby right after the war. Poor bastard. Just sit down already will you? Come on, lady, move your ass.

From The Bleachers

…..It took my wife three phone calls at the last minute to get us tickets for this show. Sitting in bleachers watching a big band perform feels weird. If some guy farts in the stands across the basketball court it’ll echo. If the star drummer is half of what he’s famous for, this gym will be intolerable. But you’ve really got to love swing to put up with the heat and racket in these old buildings.

…..“So what do you think of our seats?” my wife asks.

…..“At first I thought they sucked. But we’re high enough up and off to the side and I got a great view of the drummer.”

…..“So that’s your hero?”

…..She points, her voice thick with sarcasm.

…..I pull her arm down. “Yeah, he’s one of the last greats from the swing era.”

…..“He looks like he’s been through the wars.”

…..“He actually was in one for a while.”

…..“What happened?”

…..“I don’t really know. But the rumor is you don’t want to get on the wrong side of that guy.”

…..“Well, hopefully he’ll take it out on the drums.”

…..“Yeah, he’s a hard hitter.”

…..“You’re being strange tonight, you know that?”

…..I sit back and laugh. “No more than usual.”

…..“Yeah, you are. You’ve got a hard-on for this guy.”

…..“Do you mind keeping your voice down.”

…..“If you do, keep it going until we get home.”

…..“Very funny.”

…..The tiny gray-haired woman sitting next to my wife leans forward and glares at us just as the MC takes the stage and blathers on and on about the star and the groups credited with bringing him to our modest community college.

…..It looks like the drummer is about to call the first tune when the crash doors at one end of the gym rattle open. This white-haired babe walks in. She’s dressed as if this is the 1940s. The place is dead quiet. She minces halfway down the basketball court’s sideline, her high heels making a racket. The drummer freezes then yells at her to sit the hell down. The crowd remains silent. She stops, tilts her head back slightly, nose turned up. She stares at the stage, then continues her clack-clack-clack walk to the far end of the gym and sits in the front row of the floor chairs facing the stage.

…..The drummer mutters something, his mic picking up the word “bitch,” and the hall is filled with the smack of his drums and the blare of horns.

From The Floor

…..He treats people like crap. Yet he can be sweet and ingratiating when he wants to be. I got off easy walking in here tonight. I don’t think he recognized me, so my plan worked perfectly, showing him to be an insensitive bore, throwing him off his game like he used to do with me. When it comes to drumming, he’s Mr. Precision. When it comes to friendships, he’s sloppy and erratic. I was one, once, a friend and a lover, at least that’s what I thought. He hired me to sing in the Copa Room at The Sands in Vegas.

…..Rehearsals with his band were hell. He’d stop me in mid-phrase to correct me, to tell me how to sing it differently, with a different emphasis, a different beat. We did make some great music. But by the time I sang a tune the way he wanted, I’d grown to hate the damn thing. Still won’t sing them.

…..He probably doesn’t even recognize this funky mink stole he gave me in ’63. I figure it was some sort of guilt trip on his part because he dumped me the following week. Just told me he wanted a different singer with more spark, whatever the hell that means. He climbed onto the bus with the rest of the band and left me standing on the sidewalk holding my suitcase. Lucky for me, even though I was only 19, I was smart enough not to get pregnant. Hell, maybe that’s what he really wanted.

…..But I haven’t sung on stage in 40 years and my kids and grandkids hate swing. How can you hate something with such a great sound? Sure, much of the lyrics were mush, but the band sound and all those people, out on the dance floor dressed to the nines and actually touching each other, then going home to families and children, moved by just a bit of glamor and style. It was a crazy time for me. I’m glad I was a little part of it.

…..He looks worn and beaten after all these years. The anger shows in the seams of his face, in the way me sits on his stool and leans slightly forward to attack the snare and the rest of his kit. Just goes to show that even masters of their craft can be assholes. Hell, why am I thinking such crude thoughts? Maybe I just want to meet up with him one more time and tell him off … then fall into his arms. I’m such an idiot, so conflicted.

…..Damn, he keeps looking my way. Talk about a lack of spark. He’s playing flat. Maybe he’s saving his energy for one of his long solos … probably as part of the closing number. I don’t know if I can stay here that long. All of this has got me all stirred up. Coming here was a mistake.

From the Bleachers

…..I whisper in my wife’s ear, “What do you think of the music so far?”

…..“My grandparents would love it. We should have invited them.”

…..“Yeah, sorry, it was such a last minute deal.”

…..The gray-haired lady next to my wife hushes us but I glare back and she harrumphs and scoots away.

…..My wife sticks out her tongue at the woman and continues to speak. “He keeps looking at that woman in the mink stole.”

…..“Yeah. From here, she looks in great shape.”

…..My wife chuckles. “She’s wearing a bustier that pulls in her belly and pushes out her boobs. And those support stockings hide a lot.”

…..“Still, she’s impressive. There’s a story there and she can still walk confidently in heels. It’s incredible how you women can do that.”

…..The band plays a slow bluesy version of How High The Moon. The drummer lays back, working with his brushes and letting the saxophones take that tune. I slide a hand around my wife’s waist and she presses herself against me. Sitting in bleachers has its advantages.

…..The music stops. A crew sporting black T-shirts and jeans advances from the sidelines. Slowly the crowd sitting in folding chairs on the basketball court is ushered to the sidelines and the chairs are lined up there. The lights dim and a spotlight shines on a mirrored ball lowered from the rafters. The music resumes, slow numbers at first then picking up the tempo, the drummer coming alive on his perch, commanding again.

…..“Do you want to try?” I nudge my wife and she leans across and kisses me. She takes my hand and we clomp down the bleacher stairs and move onto the dance floor. It’s been since high school that we’ve danced, and not to ’40s or ’50s sounds. The crowd flows cheek-to-cheek on the slow numbers and some are doing amazing moves on the faster ones. I’m afraid that one of the gray-hairs will break a hip or something. But they look like they’re enjoying some special fantasy.

…..The mink stole lady is there, dancing with somebody’s husband; her partner changes with each tune. Up close she looks old. But it doesn’t matter.

…..My wife whispers in my ear, “I hope I look that good when I reach her age.”

…..“So do I, but many years from now.”

…..“Yes, years and years and …”

…..A brown woman, young and curvaceous with a flower pinned in her long auburn hair, takes center stage, sings That Old Black Magic. Her voice comes out clear and strong over the PA. More couples from the sidelines push onto the dance floor, some crowding the risers that form the makeshift stage. She sings four or five straight-ahead jazz standards with thunderous applause after finishing each tune.

…..“Now do you see why all these folks love this music?”

…..My wife kisses me and pulls me toward the exit door. “Yes, yes I do. Let’s go home and make our own black magic.”

…..“Just hang on, honey. I want to hear the drummer give his final solo.”

…..She made a face at me and stomped up the stairs to our bleacher seats. I pray that the damn drum solo will happen soon or there will be hell to pay at home.

From The Stage

…..Okay, one more number, the one these old goats have come to hear. And they’ll probably expect a 25-year-old drummer to pound out some fantastic solo. I can still impress, but not like I used to. My arms and wrists already hurt and my thumbs have gone numb.

…..Where’d that babe go? When they took up the chairs to make way for dancing she disappeared. Wait, there she is. That white hair stands out like a beacon; must be a wig. But who would buy a white wig? I thought women would dye their hair until their dying days. I like white hair. Not sure why. It seems more truthful.

…..Christ, I can’t quite catch my breath. Not a good sign. Better get this over with and relax on the bus. Jeez, I’m still riding with the band after fifty years. It’s what happens when you handcuff your life to a particular time, a particular generation, a particular art. Okay, here goes, one more time for Channel One Suite.

From the Bleachers

…..“I gotta admit, that drum solo was impressive. It wasn’t just a bunch of fast bashing and pounding. I could feel the energy and it kept me excited.”

…..My wife hugs me tighter and grins. “Go ahead and say it, ‘I told you so.’”

…..“Nah, I’ll save it for some other time.”

…..“But did you notice, the poor guy just about fell over when he stood to take his bows.”

…..“Yeah, he needs to get back to the bus and take a couple shots.”

…..I watch the band clear the stage and the roadies converge. I’m surprised that the drummer didn’t call for an encore. My wife is right, he looks in rough shape. But his playing was spot on. I can’t imagine doing something like that night after night for decades. I wonder if he dreams about drumming, or maybe about past gigs in big ballrooms with streamers and mirror balls. Maybe he doesn’t dream at all or even think about the next show down the road. His managers will probably have him performing until he drops, milk that asset until it goes sour. And it might not be that far off.

…..“Come on, honey, let’s get out of here,” my wife murmurs.

…..“I’m coming, I’m coming.”

From the Bus

…..I love these gigs. I can catch plenty of sleep, watch TV, check out Internet porn sites, and have this bus to myself for a couple of hours. Hopefully, I won’t have to listen to their leader grump about the past, about how I should drive fast so we get down the road in plenty of time for their next performance.

…..Here they come now. I’d better get out and open the storage bays. They’ll talk shop for a few minutes but will be asleep within twenty-five miles. Jeez, the boss looks pretty wiped out tonight. Must have played one hell of a solo. I’d better check on the trailer. Our roadies sometimes don’t pack it right and the sound equipment gets tossed around. Here he comes now.

…..“So, how’d it go boss?”

…..He gives me the thumbs-up signal but says nothing. He pauses at the bottom of the steps and uses both hands on the railings to climb aboard. At the top he stops next to me, his legs shaking.

…..“Listen kid, there’s this broad …”

…..I grin, “So you got a groupie hanging around, some ‘old flame?’”

…..“Yeah, something like that.”

…..“What about her?”

…..“She’s got white hair and is wearing this ratty mink stole.”

…..“So what do you want me to do?”

…..“If she shows … ”

…..“Yeah?”

…..“If she shows, invite her on the bus.”

…..This is a first for the boss. He never invites people aboard and refuses to let any of the band members have their girlfriends keep them company.

…..“Okay, boss. But we gotta get going to make the next gig.”

…..“I know, I know.”

…..“Do you want me to wait a while for her?”

…..“Just a little after we’re finished loading.”

…..“Okay, boss. I’ll keep an eye out for her.”

…..He shuffles down the aisle and slumps into his special seat, large enough to curl up in and go to sleep. He looks like he’s in pain, shaking his hands to get the blood flowing and rubbing his chest. I think about Googling the location and route to the nearest hospital. But he waves at me then closes his eyes, smiling.

…..I continue my Internet surfing, sticking to PG sites now that most are aboard and a woman might show up. And she does, standing at the bottom of the steps, staring at the ground.

…..“I’d like to speak to—”

…..“I know,” I say, “he thought you might show up and told me to invite you aboard.”

…..“Really?”

…..“Yeah, really.”

…..Even with all her makeup, I can tell she’s blushing. She hikes up her tight skirt, showing off nice pipes, climbs the steps and turns to stare down the shadowy aisle.

…..“He’s about halfway back,” I tell her.

…..“Yes, I can see him. He … he doesn’t look good.”

…..“I’m sure he’ll feel better after seeing you.”

…..“Thank you, young man.” She lays a hand on my shoulder.

…..The bus quiets. Her heels sound on the metal flooring. Her footfalls stop and I hear only the high keening of the valley wind buffeting the bus.

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Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing stories, essays, and novels. His stories have been published by more than 480 different journals, magazines, and anthologies including Folio, Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. He was nominated four times for Pushcart Prizes and once for inclusion in Best of the Net anthology. Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.

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