Pie Beats Hawk

It’s a small world, late afternoon in a neighborhood diner.

Steve lived around Chicago long enough to know the Windy City had a nickname for that wind: “The Hawk.” Shielding his bare face, he hurried around the corner from where he found a parking spot and ducked inside Kaps, a near westside diner to escape the Hawk’s sharp beak and talons. 

He slid into an empty window booth rubbing his hands and waited for the waitress to bring coffee. Steve was just hanging out until his job later that evening. He gazed out the foggy window at a blurry cityscape, letting his thoughts drift, and didn’t notice a huddled figure hurry past. Stamping feet drew his attention away from the window to the diner entrance, where a young woman stood with her arms wrapped around her shivering body. 

She looked the small diner over, sniffed her reddened nose a couple times, and then saw Steve. She approached, slow, tentative, one foot in front of the other until she stood next to Steve’s booth. Steve looked up at her but said nothing. She was young, maybe in her mid twenties, slim, and had stringy, nondescript blonde hair dangling from a red beret.

     “Mind if I sit with you?” She asked in a quiet tone. There were no other patrons in the diner.

     “Sure, have a seat” said Steve and gestured to the opposite side of the booth. 

     “Thanks.”

     “No problem.” He watched as she shrugged off her winter coat. After examining the label on a creamer cup, she began shuffling sugar packets in a container set on the table.               

      “You drink coffee?” Steve asked, pretty sure she wanted something warm. The young woman nodded. Steve waved to the counter and held up two fingers. The waitress nodded and grabbed a second cup. 

     “I’m Gingi” said the young woman as she snuggled into the Naugahyde upholstered booth. 

     “Steve” said Steve with a nod. The girl smiled and kept rearranging the condiments and sugar packets on the table. 

     “What brings you out on this cold day?” Asked Steve. 

     “Just out. My roommate is in one of her moods- had to bounce before I lost it.”

     “I see. Then coming here was a good choice.”

     “I guess” replied Gingi. 

The waitress delivered the coffees. Steve drank his black and Gingi loaded her cup with three sugars and two creams. The diner was empty this time of day, settling from the lunch rush. The coffee machine gurgled, the fry cook busy scrapping hamburger off his grill and the counter girl filled salt shakers. Paul McCartney sang Elenor Rigby over the Muzak. Other than that, the diner was calm and peaceful. 

Muffled street noises filtered through the foggy plate glass, and for a while, the two strangers sipped their coffee in silence. Steve was curious, but not nosey and didn’t press Gingi for any personal details. In return she didn’t ask any questions of him. Both stared out the window at different things, lost in quiet rumination.

     “I didn’t mean to crash your privacy,” Gingi said breaking the silence. “I just didn’t want to sit alone. I don’t really know why.”

     “No problem” said Steve, “I don’t mind the company. So what’s up with your roommate, if you don’t mind my asking.”

Gingi bowed her head and shook it, then Steve heard a short giggle. 

     “Man, that girl is a hot mess. I have no idea what goes on in her head. Calling her “spacey” would be an understatement. If you’re really interested, I’ll give you an example.” 

     “Go ahead” nodded Steve and motioned to the counter girl to top off their cups. 

Gingi shook her head and straightened her posture with a wiggle. She looked out the window once more, then began:

 

     “Well, a couple days ago, Marsha, that’s her name, or the one she gave me, was waiting for a text from someone, I think it was her boyfriend, whom I’ve never met.” Gingi paused just long enough to see if Steve was listening. Steve sipped his coffee and returned her gaze over the rim of his cup. “She didn’t get any texts. I’m not really sure what her deal is, we met at a friends party last week, and she said she needed a place to stay for a short while. Something about needing a break from her boyfriend and the whole situation. I guess he’s a piece of work.” Gingi took a sip from her cup, and welcomed Steve’s attention.  

     “Well, Marsha was getting impatient to hear from her boyfriend. He hadn’t called for a couple days. She paced around the apartment acting all pissy. Yesterday, out of the blue, she says she’s going to the zoo, the zoo at this time of year! I don’t know why, claustrophobic or something, but I asked if I could go along. She says sure, so we go. She’s one of those Starbucks addicts, so she gets a mocha latte Grande and we’re off to the zoo. She keeps checking her IPhone, like she’s expecting a call from the president or something. So self important. We stop at the great ape cages, and she stares at them like they’re supposed to entertain her, do tricks or something. Get this, they totally ignore her.” Gingi giggles and takes a pause to drink a few gulps of coffee. Steve’s unassuming expression encouraged her to continue. 

     “All of a sudden she gets a text. Its short, and she looks up and stares at the apes, their backs all turned, still ignoring her. Then- now get this- THEN from somewhere, somebody lets out with this Johnny Weissmuller, Tarzan yell, which triggers Marsha and she starts yelling at the monkeys, who kept ignoring her. I don’t know, maybe the zookeeper forgot to give them their daily bunch of bananas. To top it off, she slams her expensive IPhone to the ground, it explodes like a grenade, and she starts screaming until veins stand out on her Botox-ed forehead.” Gingi stops and opens up a huge, incredulous smile, eyes wide in disbelief and shakes her head. Steve smiles back and shakes his own head. Catching each other’s eyes, they quickly look into their coffee cups. 

 Steve couldn’t help but laugh at such a comedic story. He liked frequenting Kap’s diner because it was located in a neighborhood full of colorful characters like Gingi’s roommate Marsha. 

     “You want some pie?” Steve asked Gingi, who was staring quietly out the window again. 

     “Um, sure, you buyin’?” Gingi asked. 

     “Absolutely, I hear the cherry pie here, is to die for.” Gingi answered with an enthusiastic nod. 

The plates of pie were set at their booth and their cups topped off with steaming, fresh brewed coffee. After taking her first bite, Gingi said, “mmm, this IS good. I’ve never been here before. You come here much?” Steve washed down his first bite with fresh coffee before answering. 

     “Often enough. I’ve performed around this neighborhood quite a bit over the years.” Gingi cocked her head like a Maltese puppy, trying to understand, when she suddenly noticed a leather instrument case hiding next to Steve in the corner of the booth. 

     “Oh, you’re a musician? What kind?” She seemed genuinely curious. 

     “I play trumpet, I’m a freelance jazz musician.” Steve waited for a reaction. Gingi had just put a bite of pie in her mouth but replied around the crust, 

     “Cool. I like jazz. Funny, huh, I mean for my age, liking jazz instead of rock or something.”

     “Maybe not as funny as some might think” said Steve. In high school, he liked jazz and swing music over rock-and-roll. 

They ate pie until it was gone. Gingi pushed her plate away, the back crust remained. Steve ate all of his pie including the crust. Outside, The Hawk kept circling the streets. Pie and hot coffee was a fitting nosh to ward off Chicago’s biting October wind. Neither Gingi or Steve wanted to leave the diner just yet. Steve motioned for another refill. Gingi stole a glance at Steve, then considered his leather trumpet bag before asking: 

     “How long have you been a musician? I’ll bet you’ve got lots of cool stories.” Steve chuckled. 

     “Well, I’ve been playing professionally now for 12 years, I’m thirty-six, by the way, and yeah, I suppose I’ve collected a few tales here and there, mostly inside musician stuff, civilians wouldn’t get it.”

     “Hey, who you callin’ a civilian? Got any stories you can share?” Gingi flashed a taunting, side-mouthed smirk. 

     “Well, I don’t know, let me think. Most musicians are an eccentric bunch, kind of like your friend Marsha.”

     “Wait, she’s not my friend, she’s just an annoying, temporary roommate.”

     “Sure, of course” replied Steve and then thought a moment. “Ok, I’ve got one. And stop me if you’ve heard it before.” they both laughed and Steve began his story. 

     “Back in the sixties, there was this trumpet player named George, who’d made a bit of a name for himself on the music scene here in Chicago. He even made it to television, got a spot on the Al Hirt show. Al Hirt was a famous Dixieland trumpet player in the fifties and sixties. Well, Jumbo, that was Hirt’s nickname because of his rotund size, invited all the hip trumpeters of the day to his show for a jam session. There was Don Ellis, Pete Condoli, Dizzy Gillespie, and old George, all playing along side Jumbo. 

So there was George, wearing a Nehru jacket, love beads, thick black glasses- the type the beboppers all wore- and his balding hair pulled back into a pony tail. George was always too hip for any room. In a phrase, George was WAY out there. Far out. But he could play jazz with the best.” Steve pulled a smile and noticed Gingi was listening closely. He continued: 

     “Well after the TV appearance, George was quite the celebrity back home. He was a cerebral kind of guy, very abstract, and probably frequently, if not perpetually high. In a word, an acquired taste. But that was George. Here was a guy that had great chops, could play all the high notes and improvise his a*s off. From the mid sixties into the eighties, George enjoyed the fruits of his celebrity. But somewhere along the way, old George got too far out there. His legacy became riddled with wild stories. For instance, one time, while playing a dinner and dancing club, on break, he and another notorious trumpeter sat down at a random table and ate the guest’s dinner while the couple were up on the dance floor. Another time, he was playing a big band gig, and the bar’s air conditioner hummed at a dissonant pitch to the key of the tune the band was playing…George couldn’t abide by that, so he flat out left.” Steve stopped and raised his eyebrows at Gingi to see how she was taking it. 

     “Man, he was, how did you put it, out there, huh” she said.  

     “Well, yeah. But his problems began when he started not showing up for gigs, using lame excuses like, he forgot his comb, and had to drive back to get it. Once back home, he’d be late for the gig, so, he decided not to show up at all. Dig, a bald guy, forgetting his comb. Yeah, that’s just not done in the music jobbing scene, no matter who you are.” 

     “So what happened to him?” 

     “Well good question. George is now in his early sixties, and rumor has it that about a year ago, he got some 24 year old, neighborhood girl pregnant. I think they’re living together, but not sure. George is reportedly supporting the girl and the baby. No one has seen him on the jazz circuit since.”

Gingi was quiet as she sat soaking the story in. She shook her head slowly and then abruptly stopped. A quizzical look spread across her face. 

     

     “Oh my god. Wait a minute.” She looked up and bit her lip while still trying to figure something out. “Oh my god… this guy, this OLD guy, you say his name is George? Holy crap, my roommate said she recently had a baby, and I saw the name George on her cellphone text. Oh, you don’t think- do you?”

They both started laughing. 

     “I guess its a small world, isn’t it Gingi?”

     “VERY small” she replied. “Hey, you want some more pie, Steve? My treat… and tell me more about this crazy old trumpet guy, George.” 

Author's Note

Just tellin’ stories… anecdotes, pull up a chair, eat some pie. Critiques and comments welcome.

Reviews

[emmajoygreen]

'The diner was empty this time of day, settling from the lunch rush. The coffee machine gurgled, the fry cook busy scrapping hamburger off his grill and the counter girl filled salt shakers. Paul McCartney sang Elenor Rigby over the Muzak. Other than that, the diner was calm and peaceful.

Muffled street noises filtered through the foggy plate glass, and for a while, the two strangers sipped their coffee in silence. Steve was curious, but not nosey and didn’t press Gingi for any personal details. In return she didn’t ask any questions of him. Both stared out the window at different things, lost in quiet rumination.'

The above is a perfect 'how to' to inspire yet more and more reading!

A wonderful description throughout a budding friendship or perhaps, merely a temporary connection via knowledge released and exchanged. A coincidence that made me smile. The added nuances and fine wording made this a joy to read.

[roarke]

Thank you so much Em, your take after reading this piece is exactly what I hope readers to enjoy about it. When people read my stories, I’d like them to be entertained and have fun.

[Philip Gaber]

The trumpeters always get all the girls with all your triple tonguing and fancy embouchure. Drummers, we do all right, too, but brass players belong to an elite corps. God bless, George.

[roarke]

Heh, we do ok… but the real competition is between the drummers and bass players, at leas in the last seventy years…. lol. thanks for the read Phil.

[Philip Gaber]

True. The bond between them is both deep & shallow.
The rhythm dou of Slap Bass & Pa rum pum pum pum.