Going Bovine

Page 8

“He doesn’t play there anymore?”
“Hard to play when you’re dead. Here, check this out.”
From a black plastic milk crate, Eubie pulls out an LP so old and worn that I can see the outline of the vinyl in a white ring on the cardboard cover, which shows Junior Webster standing in front of a painting of the galaxy. In the center of those stars is a black hole.
“Huh,” I say.
“Huh,” Eubie mocks. “You won’t say ‘huh’ in a minute, son. I’m-a school you.” Eubie eases the record lovingly from its sleeve and places it on his turntable. “‘Cypress Grove Blues.’ If you had on a hat I’d ask you to take it off, ’cause you ’bout to hear some church.”
He drops the needle. A mournful horn blows, high and sharp, like a woman’s wail at a funeral; then the whole thing crashes into a wild jazz ride that has Eubie, eyes closed, head forward, hitting some imaginary cymbals like the drummer I know he is on weekends. I don’t get jazz. It always sounds to me like a bunch of toddlers let loose in a music room. I try to be polite, though. When the song ends, Eubie pulls the needle off and waits for my reaction.
“Pretty cool.”
Eubie arches an eyebrow. “Damn right it’s cool. That all you got to say?”
“Really cool,” I say, hoping it passes for enthusiasm.
“Cam-run,” Eubie says, shaking his head so his dreads wiggle like dancers. “You need help, my man. You hearin’ me?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m tellin’ you, if I had another life to live, I would live it in New Orleans, making music with Junior Webster, makin’ holes in space with a wall of sound. Music has the power to save the world.” Eubie rubs at his soul patch for a second before breaking into a grin. “I tell you what, I’m-a let you borrow this album for the weekend. You listen to the whole thing and see what you have to say then.”
My palms start to sweat. I don’t want to be trusted with Eubie’s favorite album, especially since I know I’ll never listen to it, and I’ll have to come up with some excuse for why I didn’t. I put up my hands, back up a little. “I don’t want to take your best album, Eubie …”
Eubie tries to hand it off, like a baton in a race he’s the only one running. “Go on, it’s okay.”
“I don’t know, Eubie. That’s a big responsibility.”
“No, my man. Child support is a big responsibility. This is a record.”
I shake my head. “What if it gets broken?”
“I’ll kill you.” He winks. “But it won’t get broken. You’ll treat it like a baby girl.”
I know Eubie. He is anal about his LPs. The fact that he is offering it to me is a Big Deal. But I’m not comfortable with the Big Deal. I just want to keep things as they are—no expectations equals no failed expectations equals no hurt feelings equals everything’s cool.
I put my hands in my pockets and rock on my heels. “You know, things are kinda busy at school this week, and I’m working an extra shift at Buddha Burger and stuff, so … you know. But thanks anyway.” I give a half-assed smile. “So … did you get that new Tremolo I ordered?”
Eubie’s disappointed. I can see it in the way he puts the LP back and sighs, and I feel kind of crappy about it. I’m used to disappointing everyone else, but not Eubie.
He shimmies an album out from under a stack on his desk. The cover is a picture of cheesy perfection: two wineglasses, soft candlelight, and a feather. Viver É Amar, Amar É Viver. There’s a little asterisk after the title along with the English translation, To Live Is to Love, to Love Is to Live.
“What is it about this guy?” Eubie asks.
“I have a secret thing for the recorder.” When Eubie doesn’t laugh, I explain, “Have you ever listened to this guy? He’s a joke.”
“So you buy it to mock him.” Eubie plops his long frame down in one of the folding chairs and bites into a health-food bar he’s had in his shirt pocket.
“No. Not really. Sort of. Well, yes.”
“To him that shit’s sacred, you feel me? He’s writing about pain, about the loss of love, the injustice of life. About hope. I’m not gonna sell you this if you’re just gonna make fun of it. That’s not what music’s about, my man.” He gives me a disapproving look.
“Well,” I say, swallowing hard. “He does play a mean recorder.”
Eubie shakes his head. He polishes off the last of the health-food bar and pushes me out through the curtains and toward the cash register with my new Tremolo record. “Here. Take the damn album. And get yourself a girlfriend.”