Ladies and Gentlemen...The Redeemers Read online

  “And how do you propose going about making this change?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered tentatively, wrestling with the thought. “I’ll figure something out. I just want to play for myself for awhile.”

  A few days passed, until the following bright, comfortable Tuesday. Dave wrapped up his teaching obligations for the day by noon and decided to find a nice outdoorsy spot to relax and play some music. He chose Union Square, the wide open park that featured a mix of concrete and greenery in the perimeter, a granite central plaza, and a lone Corinthian column at its center. The square was flanked by rows of shops and cafes, and tourists and locals alike flocked to the square to take a break from shopping, to read, or to eat.

  Dave found a spot on the park’s tiered concrete steps and sat down with his portable keyboard. As he played a variety of music, ranging from his own compositions to those of Mozart and Bach, he received affirming looks from the passersby. He also noticed two men on the steps across the walkway who sat intently watching him, listening, and occasionally speaking to one another without taking their eyes off him.

  One was formally dressed in a jacket and tie, albeit clearly not in touch with any recent trends of style. The other was a tall, thin man more casually, but stylishly, attired, who was carrying a saxophone case. After a short while, they took a knowing look at one another and, without a word, walked over to Dave.

  * * *

  Bert and Charlie had formed a bond. Perhaps it was the hustler in each of them that brought them together, but whatever it was, they clicked right from the start. Bert had become a regular at Charlie’s hangout in the 16th St. Mission Station, and the two talked frequently about the band. Charlie had offered to help in the search and recruiting of the other members and Bert was more than happy to have some assistance, and just as importantly, some companionship.

  Over the few weeks that followed their meeting, Bert and Charlie devoted a portion of their day to riding the BART from station to station and wandering the corridors, looking and listening for musicians.

  Some days there were no musicians to be found, but every couple of days or so, the two would come across one of San Francisco’s many subterranean performers.

  To their increasing frustration, however, Bert and Charlie were finding the search fruitless. There was an elderly, spritelike man with a long gray beard playing “Oh Susannah” over and over on the accordion. There was a three-chord guitarist who appeared unable to handle anything but the most basic of songs. They saw a saxophone player and a couple of singers with talent, but these slots were already filled in the band. And they heard some genuinely skilled musicians, a guitarist and a trumpet player, both of whom Bert refused to pursue, much to Charlie’s consternation. When challenged by Charlie about his lack of interest in these two, Bert offered nothing more than, “I’ll know when it’s right. You’ll have to trust me on this.”

  Then one day, Bert and Charlie came across a talented young woman playing acoustic guitar in the open concourse above the Civic Center stop. Her guitar case lay on the floor by her feet, and an impressive collection of money had accumulated in the felt-lined interior. The two men watched from a short distance and observed more than a few admiring passersby dropping coins and bills into the case.

  The woman played 1960s folk tunes, not exactly what Bert and Charlie had in mind. However, Bert had a conviction. He strongly believed that it was much easier to teach a great musician a new style than to teach a mediocre musician to be great. The guitarist they watched was extremely skilled, and Bert was most interested in raw talent and passion.

  When she took her break, Bert and Charlie approached her. After overcoming her initial reservation about conversing with two strange men in a train station, they got to talking. Her name was Nicole, and she was the guitarist in a folk band that played small venues around the city. Unfortunately for them, while she appreciated Bert and Charlie’s interest and wished them great success with their band, she was happy with her current musical outfit.

  On the way out of the station, Charlie said to Bert, “You know what you need, man? You need some business cards. When we meet these folks, they’ve got no way to reach us.”

  “Great idea, Charlie,” answered Bert. “But what’s the card going to say? Bert Ingram, Band Manager. Address: Steam Vent at Sixth & Howard?”

  Charlie laughed. Then he stopped suddenly and grabbed Bert’s arm. “Hey, I just had a great idea. Come move in with Randy and me! You can use a sleeping bag on the carpet!”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to be taking advantage of anyone. I promised myself I’d get back on my feet on my own terms.”

  “Look. If we’re going to make this work, you’ve got to be a little more flexible. Think about it. You need some way to be reached to be credible. We’re going to have equipment and a bunch of other band stuff. You can’t just leave everything in the alley. Besides,” he smiled, “we’ll let you contribute to the rent.”

  “You make a compelling case, my friend. Let’s do it. And I won’t forget this. I really appreciate it.”

  And so the two men carried what was left of Bert’s personal belongings over to Charlie’s apartment. Randy, who wasn’t around that much anyway, didn’t really seem to care. He was just as happy to have his rent now split three ways.

  A couple of days after making the housing change, the two men were passing by Union Square and heard keyboard music. They entered the park to locate the source of the sound, and with affirming nods, took up residence on the steps opposite a bookish-looking man, dressed in blue jeans, an argyle sweater vest, and boat shoes.

  Bert and Charlie sat patiently watching and listening, while the man, who appeared to be roughly in his forties, played for fully an hour. When the man had stopped long enough so it was clear he was either taking a break or getting ready to leave, Bert and Charlie approached.

  “Hi,” began Bert. “Do you mind if we join you for a minute,” he continued, gesturing toward a spot on the steps next to Dave.

  * * *

  Dave nodded hesitantly, trying to assess the two men, the dapper African-American and the tall, thin Caucasian with leathery skin, which Dave surmised was the result of a lifetime of sun exposure. The two introduced themselves as Bert and Charlie. Dave’s instinct told him he was about to be asked for money. On the other hand, Dave wasn’t quite sure what to make of the saxophone case.

  “You’re a great talent,” Charlie said, as the two men sat down next to Dave.

  “Thanks,” answered Dave. “I was really just messing around. It feels good to get out here and just play for the sake of playing.”

  “Are you with the San Francisco Symphony?” asked Charlie.

  “Close,” Dave said with a laugh. “I’m a music teacher.”

  “Really? You’re not a performer?” Bert asked. “But you’re amazing!”

  “Thanks, but no, I’m really not a performer. I mean, I have performed. Little stuff, you know, like small city and county orchestras. But I’m not even doing that these days. What about you two? Is it a safe guess that there’s a saxophone in that case?”

  Dave looked toward Charlie, but Bert answered. “Charlie plays the sax. Do you want to hear him?”

  Dave shrugged and said, “Sure.”

  Charlie took a quick look at Bert and then pulled out the saxophone. As he played a jazz number, the horn looked as if it were on fire, glowing in the midday sun. Bert and Dave watched and listened attentively.

  When Charlie finished, Dave spoke first. “I’m not much of a jazz buff, but that was tremendous,” he said enthusiastically.

  “Thanks,” said Charlie with a smile that reflected little humility.

  “Listen,” said Bert. “Charlie’s the sax player in a funked-up rock band we’re putting together. I know it’s not exactly Beethoven, but we could sure use you.” He paused for effect. “We’d be honored if you’d join us.”

  “Wow! That’s quite an offer,” responded Dave. “I’m flattered. Re
ally. But I can’t. I just quit some music jobs because I needed to take a break and play for myself for awhile. No disrespect intended toward your music, but for me, classical is the only music.”

  “What kind of jobs were you doing?” asked Charlie.

  “You don’t want to know,” said Dave. “How would you like to find yourself surrounded by retirees begging to hear ‘You Are My Sunshine’?”

  “Ouch. Sounds painful,” said Charlie.

  “And it’s not just that. I’ve done the sing-along bar thing. I’ve recorded television commercials. I’ve done too many gigs just for the money. I don’t want to do that again.”

  Bert asked, “What commercials did you do?”

  “Oh, all sorts of things. Commercials for cars, pharmaceuticals, pet food… pretty much everything.” Then Dave smiled sheepishly. “You’ll get a kick out of this. Remember the Sparkelene commercial?”

  Charlie answered, “Don’t tell me that was yours?”

  “You got it. Pretty sad, huh?”

  “How did that go again?” Charlie asked himself, raising his eyes skyward. In a melodic voice, he sang, “Sparkelene, Sparkelene, makes my toilet nice and clean.” Then he gave a long, loud laugh.

  “That’s the one,” said Dave, “and that’s why I have to be true to myself now. But I wish you guys a lot of luck with your band. Bert, what’s your role?”

  “I’m the manager,” Bert answered, looking intently at Dave. “Listen, Dave. I appreciate what you’re saying. I’ve had issues myself. But if you find that you’ve wrestled your demons and change your mind, please come find us.” Bert reached into his inside jacket breast pocket and produced one of his recently minted business cards.

  “Fair enough,” replied Dave.

  The three men shook hands and said their good-byes. As they turned and started to exit the park, Charlie sung out, “Sparkelene, Sparkelene, makes my toilet --.” He was cut off by a firm elbow to the ribs from Bert.

  Chapter 4 –Bongo Joe

  Bert realized Charlie was becoming frustrated with their lack of progress. But Bert, the eternal optimist, felt that they had enough irons in the fire. They were moving and shaking and meeting new musicians, and as long as they kept getting opportunities like they had been, results would come and the band would fall into place.

  As they got ready to turn in for the night, Bert reassured Charlie with these thoughts, but he knew that getting a victory soon was important for morale. He also needed to keep Abe on the right path, and it sure would be helpful to be able to tell Abe the band was gaining momentum.

  Bert and Charlie spent the next morning at the Sixteenth St. Mission Station, working Charlie’s card routine. Bert helped out by attracting players, strolling back and forth along the corridor and challenging the commuters to the game of wits. At lunch time, the two walked down to the wharf. Bert hadn’t stopped by Ted’s in awhile and was feeling hungry for something other than dole food. Bert and Charlie took spots on wooden stools at the counter. Ted came over, and Bert introduced Charlie.

  “Remember when I was here a few weeks ago and I told you things were picking up?” Bert asked Ted, who nodded.

  “Well, here’s the deal. I’m getting back into the music business,” Bert announced. “I’m managing this great band -- that is, I will be, anyway. I’m still putting the band together. Charlie here’s the sax player.”

  Ted clapped Bert on the shoulder. “Sounds good, my friend. You’ve got a gleam in your eye that I’ve never seen before. I think you’re starting to find your way again. That makes me happy.”

  Ted took their order; Bert wanted a bowl of chowder and Charlie a shrimp cocktail. In a minute, Ted came back with two bowls of chowder and two shrimp cocktails in their red and white soft cardboard containers, and placed them on the counter. “On me,” he said in response to Bert and Charlie’s puzzled looks.

  Bert and Charlie expressed joyful appreciation.

  Ted waved off their thanks, then asked, “You don’t happen to be in the market for a drummer, do you?”

  Bert practically leapt off of his stool. “You know someone?”

  “Don’t get too excited,” cautioned Ted quickly. “I’m not sure. There’s this guy who used to hang out on the wharf down here playing the bongos all day long. Bongo Joe we used to call him. I’m not sure why, maybe he was out of money or something, but he came over to a bunch of the restaurants along this row looking for work. Jake ended up hiring him over at the Wharf House.” He motioned to the blue and white shingle identifying the place a half block away. “He still works there, I’m pretty sure.”

  Bert and Charlie looked at one another. “I think we need something more than a bongo player,” said Charlie.

  Bert turned toward Ted. “Do you know if he’s, well, is he a real drummer, or was he just goofing around with the bongos?”

  “Don’t know. He was pretty good, though. My sense was that he had some type of musical background. It can’t hurt to check him out.”

  “I’m game if you are,” Charlie told Bert.

  “It never hurts to follow up on a lead,” Bert replied. “Let’s do it.”

  Bert and Charlie finished up their meals and thanked Ted once again, both for the excellent repast and the lead on Bongo Joe. Then they walked to the Wharf House. At the counter, a woman wearing a serving apron approached them.

  “May I take your order?” she asked in a voice clearly trained on the diner circuit.

  “Actually, we’re here to see Bongo Joe,” answered Bert pleasantly, trying to appear confident in his mission. “Is he working today?”

  “Hey, Bongo Joe!” The waitress shouted over a display case containing a variety of prepared seafood. “Some guys are here to see you.”

  A short, thin young man appeared from behind the display case. He looked to be in his early twenties, with brown hair woven in dreadlocks under a rainbow-colored, knit, Rasta hat, and facial hair some twenty-four hours removed from its most recent shave. He wore a plain white T-shirt. The young man approached Bert and Charlie.

  “Do I know you?” he asked with the drawl of a teenager being confronted by his parents.

  “Are you Bongo Joe?” asked Bert.

  “That’s me,” he answered. “My name’s actually Aaron, but nobody here calls me that. And you are….?”

  “I’m Bert and this is Charlie. We’re forming a band and looking for musicians. We got a tip that you might be a drummer.”

  Aaron looked surprised. Then he smiled wryly as he considered how to respond. “Wow,” he muttered, “wow, wow, wow.” He uttered these words not excitedly, but as if in shock.

  “Are you a drummer?” asked Charlie a little impatiently.

  “Yes. I mean no. I mean, well, sort of,” answered Aaron. “I used to be. I haven’t played too much lately.” He sighed. “It’s a long story.”

  Charlie jumped on the opening. “We’re looking for guys with long stories. Could we convince you to audition for us?”

  “I--I don’t know, dude,” Aaron stammered. “It’s just that….it’s been a long time. That’s all.”

  “C’mon,” implored Charlie, “you know it’s like riding a bike. Give it a shot. We’re willing to work with you on it.”

  “Hey, Bongo Joe, we need you back here in the kitchen!” came a man’s imperious voice.

  “Excuse me a second. I’ll be right back,” Aaron said, then disappeared through a swinging door.

  * * *

  As Aaron attended to the clean-up work to which he had been summoned, he rolled the offer over in his mind. It had been a long time since any idea of performing had penetrated his thoughts, but the look of hope and sincerity on Charlie’s face made him now think hard about the prospect. Suddenly, a warm glow started to overtake him, as if a long lost friend had mysteriously appeared from out of nowhere. He had his answer.

  After depositing the trash bags on the blacktop outside the rear employee entrance, Aaron emerged again.

  “You know what guys?” he s
aid to Bert and Charlie. “I’ll give it a shot. Do you want to meet me at my apartment later this week?”

  Bert said that would work.

  “How’s eight o’clock on Friday?” offered Aaron.

  “We’ll be there,” affirmed Bert.

  Aaron found a napkin and jotted down his address and telephone number. The three men shook hands, and Aaron vanished back into the kitchen.

  * * *

  “What do you make of that?” Charlie asked Bert.

  “I don’t know. My head tells me that we’re wasting our time on this one. But my gut tells me to give the kid a chance. Who knows? Maybe we’ll be rewarded. I’m going to knock around the city for awhile and then swing by Montgomery Street to check in on Abe. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  Late that afternoon, Bert showed up at Abe’s station, right on time to see Abe tapping his cane down the corridor and setting up by the Fresh Cut Flowers sign. Bert approached before Abe had a chance to start singing.

  “Abe Jackson! How the hell are you?” Bert exclaimed with excessive cheerfulness.

  “Hey, Bert. How’s tricks?” responded Abe huskily, giving Bert a quick nod and then turning back to what he was doing.

  “Can’t complain. I’m keeping myself busy. Leading us to salvation. You know, the usual stuff.”

  “Heh, heh, heh.” Abe laughed his deep, almost wheeze-like laugh. “You crack me up sometimes. Now, let me see...” He stopped what he was doing and turned his face toward Bert. “This isn’t a social call, so you’re here to string me along even though you haven’t made any progress on this band of yours. How’d I do?”

  “C’mon, Abe. Don’t you know me better than that by now? Of course I’ve made some progress. In fact, I’m paying a visit to close the deal with our drummer later this week. We’ve got Charlie, thanks to you, and we nearly got ourselves a great keyboardist the other day, but you can’t win them all, I guess. By my estimate, a month’s time from now we’ll have the whole band together.”