Charles Beaumont: Selected Stories (16 page)

We played across the States and back, and they loved us-thanks to the kid. Called us an "institution" and the disc-jockeys began to pick up our stuff. We were "real," they said-the only authentic jazz left, and who am I to push it? Maybe they were right.
Sonny kept things in low. And then, when he was sure-damn that slow way: it had been a cinch since back when-he started to pay attention to Rose-Ann. She played it cool, the way she knew he wanted it, and let it build up right. Of course, who didn't know she would've married him this minute, now, just say the word? But Sonny was a very conscientious cat indeed.
We did a few stands in France about that time-Listen to them holler!-and a couple in England and Sweden-getting better, too-and after a breather, we cut out across the States again.
It didn't happen fast, but it happened sure. Something was sounding flat all of a sudden like-wrong, in a way:
During an engagement in El Paso we had What the Cats Dragged In lined up. You all know Cats-the rhythm section still, with the horns yelling for a hundred bars, then that fast and solid beat, that high trip and trumpet solo? Sonny had the ups on a wild riff and was coming on down, when he stopped. Stood still, with the horn to his lips; and we waited.
"Come on, wrap it up-you want a drum now? What's the story, Sonny?"
Then he started to blow. The notes came out the same almost, but not quite the same. They danced out of the horn strop-razor sharp and sliced up high and blasted low and the cats all fell out. "Do it! Go! Go, man! Oooo, I'm out of the boat, don't pull me back! Sing out, man!"
The solo lasted almost seven minutes. When it was time for us to wind it up, we just about forgot.
The crowd went wild. They stomped and screamed and whistled. But they couldn't get Sonny to play any more. He pulled the horn away from his mouth-I mean that's the way it looked, as if he was yanking it away with all his strength-and for a second he looked surprised, like he'd been goosed. Then his lips pulled back into a smile.
It was the damndest smile.
Freddie went over to him at the break. "Man, that was the craziest. How many tongues you got?"
But Sonny didn't answer him.
Things went along all right for a little. We played a few dances in the cities, some radio stuff, cut a few platters. Easy walking style.
Sonny played Sonny-plenty great enough. And we forget about what happened in El Paso. So what? So he cuts loose once-can't a man do that if he feels the urge? Every jazz man brings that kind of light at least once.
We worked through the sticks and were finally set for a New York opening when Sonny came in and gave us the news.
It was a gasser. Lux got sore. Mr. "T" shook his head.
"Why? How come, Top?"
He had us booked for the corn-belt. The old-time route, exactly, even the old places, back when we were playing razzmatazz and feeling our way.
"You trust me?" Sonny asked. "You trust my judgement?"
"Come off it, Top; you know we do. Just tell us how come. Man, New York's what we been working for-"
"That's just it," Sonny said. "We aren't ready."
That brought us down. How did we know-we hadn't even thought about it.
"We need to get back to the real material. When we play in New York, it's not anything anybody's liable to forget in a hurry. And that's why I think we ought to take a refresher course. About five weeks. All right?"
Well, we fussed some and fumed some, but not much, and in the end we agreed to it. Sonny knew his stuff, that's what we figured.
"Then it's settled."
And we lit out.
Played mostly the old stuff dressed up-Big Gig, Only Us Chickens and the rest-or head-arrangements with a lot of trumpet. Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky…
When we hit Louisiana for a two-nighter at the Tropics, the same thing happened that did back in Texas, Sonny blew wild for eight minutes on a solo that broke the glasses and cracked the ceiling and cleared the dance-floor like a tornado. Nothing off the stem, either-but like it was practice, sort of, or exercise. A solo out of nothing, that didn't even try to hang on to a shred of the melody.
"Man, it's great, but let us know when it's gonna happen, hear!"
About then Sonny turned down the flame on Rose-Ann. He was polite enough and a stranger wouldn't have noticed, but we did, and Rose-Ann did-and it was tough for her to keep it all down under, hidden. All those questions, all those memories and fears.
He stopped going out and took to hanging around his rooms a lot. Once in a while he'd start playing: one time we listened to that horn all night.
Finally-it was still somewhere in Louisiana-when Sonny was reaching with his trumpet so high he didn't get any more sound out of it than a dog-whistle, and the front cats were laughing up a storm, I went over and put it to him flatfooted.
His eyes were big and he looked like he was trying to say something and couldn't. He looked scared.
"Sonny… look, boy, what are you after? Tell a friend, man, don't lock it up."
But he didn't answer me. He couldn't.
He was coughing too hard.
Here's the way we doped it: Sonny had worshiped Spoof, like a god or something. Now some of Spoof was rubbing off, and he didn't know it.
Freddie was elected. Freddie talks pretty good most of the time.
"Get off the train, Jack. Ol' Massuh's gone now, dead and buried. Mean, what he was after ain't to be had. Mean, he wanted it all and then some-and all is all, there isn't any more. You play the greatest, Sonny-go on, ask anybody. Just fine. So get off the train…"
And Sonny laughed, and agreed and promised. I mean in words. His eyes played another number, though.
Sometimes he snapped out of it, it looked like, and he was fine then-tired and hungry, but with it. And we'd think, He's okay. Then it would happen all over again- only worse. Every time, worse.
And it got so Sonny even talked like Spoof half the time: "Broom off, man, leave me alone, will you? Can't you see I'm busy, got things to do? Get away!" And walked like Spoof-that slow walk-in-your-sleep shuffle. And did little things-like scratching his belly and leaving his shoes unlaced and rehearsing in his undershirt.
He started to smoke weeds in Alabama.
In Tennessee he took the first drink anybody ever saw him take.
And always with that horn-cussing it, yelling at it, getting sore because it wouldn't do what he wanted it to.
We had to leave him alone, finally. "I'll handle it, . . I-understand, I think… Just go away, it'll be all right . .
Nobody could help him. Nobody at all.
Especially not Rose-Ann.
End of the corn-belt route, the way Sonny had it booked was the Copper Club. We hadn't been back there since the night we planted Spoof-and we didn't feel very good about it.
But a contract isn't anything else.
So we took rooms at the only hotel there ever was in the town. You make a guess which room Sonny took. And we played some cards and bruised our chops and tried to sleep and couldn't. We tossed around in the beds, listening, waiting for the horn to begin. But it didn't. All night long, it didn't.
We found out why, oh yes…
Next day we all walked around just about everywhere except in the direction of the cemetery. Why kick up misery? Why make it any harder?
Sonny stayed in his room until ten before opening, and we began to worry, but he got in under the wire.
The Copper Club was packed. Yokels and farmers and high school stuff, a jazz "connoisseur" here and there-to the beams. Freddie had set up the stands with the music notes all in order, and in a few minutes we had our positions.
Sonny came out wired for sound. He looked-powerful; and that's a hard way for a five-foot four-inch baldheaded white man to look. At any time. Rose-Ann threw me a glance and I threw it back, and collected it from the rest. Something bad. Something real bad. Soon.
Sonny didn't look any which way. He waited for the applause to die down, then he did a quick One-Two-Three-Four and we swung into The Jim jam Man, our theme.
I mean to say, that crowd was with us all the way-they smelled something.
Sonny did the thumb-and-little-finger signal and we started Only Us Chickens. Bud Meunier did the intro on his bass, then Henry took over on the piano. He played one hand racing the other. The front cats hollered "Go! Go!" and Henry went. His left hand crawled on down over the keys and scrambled and didn't fuzz once or slip once and then walked away, cocky and proud, like a mouse full of cheese from an unsprung trap.
"Hooo-boy! Play, Henry, play!"
Sonny watched and smiled. "Bring it on out," he said, gentle, quiet, pleased. "Keep bringin' it out."
Henry did that counterpoint business that you're not supposed to be able to do unless you have two right arms and four extra fingers, and he got that boiler puffing, and he got it shaking, and he screamed his Henry Walker "Wooooo00000!" and he finished. I came in on the tubs and beat them up till I couldn't see for the sweat, hit the cymbal and waited.
Mr. "T," Lux and Jimmy fiddlefaddled like a coop and capons talking about their operation for a while. Rose-Ann chanted: "Only us chickens in the hen-house, Daddy, Only us chickens here, Only us chickens in the hen-house, Daddy, Ooo-bab-a-roo, Ooo-bob-a-roo…"
Then it was horn time. Time for the big solo.
Sonny lifted the trumpet-One! Two!-He got it into sight-Three!
We all stopped dead. I mean we stopped.
That wasn't Sonny's horn. This one was dented-in and beat-up and the tip-end was nicked. It didn't shine, not a bit.
Lux leaned over-you could have fit a coffee cup into his mouth, "Jesus God," he said. "Am I seeing right?"
I looked close and said: "Man, I hope not."
But why kid? We'd seen that trumpet a million times.
It was Spoof's.
Rose-Ann was trembling. Just like me, she remembered how we'd buried the horn with Spoof. And she remembered how quiet it had been in Sonny's room last night…
I started to think real hophead thoughts, like-where did Sonny get hold of a shovel that late? and how could he expect a horn to play that's been under ground for two years? and-.
That blast got into our ears like long knives.
Spoof's own trademark!
Sonny looked caught, like he didn't know what to do at first, like he was hypnotized, scared, almighty scared. But as the sound came out, rolling out, sharp and clean-new-trumpet sound-his expression changed. His eyes changed: they danced a little and opened wide.
Then he closed them, and blew that horn. Lord God of the Fishes, how he blew it! How he loved it and caressed it and pushed it up, higher and higher and higher. High C? Bottom of the barrel. He took off, and he walked all over the rules and stamped them flat.
The melody got lost, first off. Everything got lost, then, while that horn flew. It wasn't only jazz; it was the heart of jazz, and the insides, pulled out with the roots and held up for everybody to see; it was blues that told the story of all the lonely cats and all the ugly whores who ever lived, blues that spoke up for the loser lamping sunshine out of iron-gray bars and every hophead hooked and gone, for the bindlestiffs and the city slicers, for the country boys in Georgia shacks and the High Yellow hipsters in Chicago slums and the bootblacks on the corners and the fruits in New Orleans, a blues that spoke for all the lonely, sad and anxious downers who could never speak themselves…
And then, when it had said all this, it stopped and there was a quiet so quiet that Sonny could have shouted:
"It's okay, Spoof. It's all right now. You'll get it said, all of it-I'll help you. God, Spoof, you showed me how, you planned it-I'll do my best!"
And he laid back his head and fastened the horn and pulled in air and blew some more. Not sad, now, not blues-but not anything else you could call by a name. Except - . . jazz. It was jazz.
Hate blew out of that horn, then. Hate and fury and mad and fight, like screams and snarls, like little razors shooting at you, millions of them, cutting, cutting deep .
And Sonny only stopping to wipe his lip and whisper in the silent room full of people: "You're saying it, Spoof! You are!"
God Almighty Himself must have heard that trumpet, then; slapping and hitting and hurting with notes that don't exist and never existed. Man! Life took a real beating! Life got groined and sliced and belly-punched and the horn, it didn't stop until everything had all spilled out, every bit of the hate and mad that's built up in a man's heart.
Rose-Ann walked over to me and dug her nails into my hand as she listened to Sonny…
"Come on now, Spoof! Come on! We can do it! Let's play the rest and play it right. You know it's got to be said, you know it does. Come on, you and me together!"
And the horn took off with a big yellow blast and started to laugh. I mean it laughed! Hooted and hollered and jumped around, dancing, singing, strutting through those notes that never were there. Happy music? Joyful music? It was chicken dinner and an empty stomach; it was big-butted women and big white beds; it was country walking and windy days and fresh-born crying and-Oh, there just doesn't happen to be any happiness that didn't come out of that horn.
Sonny hit the last high note-the Spoof blast-but so high you could just barely hear it.
Then Sonny dropped the horn. It fell onto the floor and bounced and lay still.
And nobody breathed. For a long, long time.
Rose-Ann let go of my hand, at last. She walked across the platform, slowly, and picked up the trumpet and handed it to Sonny.
He knew what she meant.
We all did. It was over now, over and done…
Lux plucked out the intro. Jimmy Fritch picked it up and kept the melody.
Then we all joined in, slow and quiet as we could. With Sonny-I'm talking about Sonny-putting out the kind of sound he'd always wanted to.

And Rose-Ann sang it, clear as a mountain wind-not just from her heart, but from her belly and her guts and every living part of her.
For The Ol' Massuh, just for him. Spoof's own song:
Black Country.

Introduction to

GENTLEMEN, BE SEATED
by Frank M. Robinson

There was a time, not too long ago, when people talked about short stories and television shows-that is, the individual stories on television shows-with as much enthusiasm as they do today about movies or the latest novel by Stephen King or, for that matter, the most recent Batman or Superman universe.
They really did.
"Did you read that story by Bradbury in the Saturday Evening Post? The one about the dinosaur and the foghorn?"
"Did you catch Harlan Ellison in the recent Rogue? The girl who only carries folding money and doesn't have a dime for an emergency phone call?"
"Did you watch Twilight Zone last night? Where the old lady tries to escape Mr. Death?"
It was during the fifties and the late sixties and short stories were one of the major pillars of popular culture. We talked about them, we told the plots to one another, we waited for the magazines when they hit the newsstand and, of course, we never missed Twilight Zone. That was a period when the men's magazines were a little racy and a lot of fun (before they traded in a casual wink and a chuckle for short courses in gynecology and exercises in "personal journalism') and the last mass market for short fiction.
There were giants in those days and their names were Ray Bradbury and Richard Matheson and Charles Beaumont and Rod Serling. .
Then Twilight Zone died in 1 965 and Charles Beaumont died in 1967 and when they were gone, an era started to die. Night Gallery, Serling's last anthology series, died in 1972 and about the same time, fiction as a mainstay of the mass market men's magazines also began to vanish. (Everybody knew the magazines sold because of the stapled-in-the-navel nudes and the latest exhaustive interview with some transient VIP. Fiction was given the old heave-ho. None of the publishers noticed that when you took out the works, the old watch might look the same but it no longer kept time very well. By the mid-80's, circulation had plummeted. Readers turned on by soft-core porno were renting the real thing to watch on their VCR's)
Of all the disasters to hit the short fiction market, one of the saddest was the decline and death of Charles Beaumont. A mainstay of Twilight Zone, he was also a mainstay of Playboy and Rogue.
He was a prolific talent and a unique one. Every writer reaches into himself for his characters, mines his own childhood for dramatic nuggets that he can adapt for his latest story.
Charlie's talent was broader than that. He could reach beyond his own life-he could reach into the hearts of the friends he knew and the people he met and construct his characters and stories from the living tissue of the everyday life around him.
Some musicians are credited with "soul," which is a very personal, internal thing. Charlie had that but he also had empathy, which is external. If you were hurting, he knew it. More importantly than that, he knew why-without you ever saying a word. It was this quality that gave his characters life, a quality that enabled his characters to engage the reader in a way those of few other writers could. In the science.fiction and fantasy field, dominated by mechanical plots and senseless action with cardboard cut outs going through the motions, stories by Charlie Beaumont stood out in vivid contrast.
It's with a great deal of bitter personal regret that I have to admit that both soul and empathy were not the sort of qualities that two-fifteen-year-olds in Chicago would notice in one another. I had to wait until my 30s to discover them in Charlie.
Harlan Ellison was largely responsible for Charles Beaumont appearing as "C.B. Loveh ill" in the old Rogue. We loved his stories and we bought every one he submitted (Playboy had first pick-they paid more-and we took the leavings. But Beaumont was so consistently good that purchase by Playboy reflected editorial taste more than innate quality).
Of all the stories we published, I especially loved, "Gentlemen, Be Seated." Dated only slightly, it deals with the death of humor and the Society for the Preservation of Laughter and could serve more as a metaphor for the late 1 980s than for the early I 960s, when it was written.
A clever idea…
Bur far more than that, it's the pathetic story of man who finally Got It (like most of us)-one day too late.