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Looking as scuffed and dingy as the city it roamed through, a trolley bus lurched down Fillmore Street, moving awkwardly through the summer twilight. The interior was scarred by squiggles of unreadable graffiti that covered nearly every smooth surface and gave the bus a street worn appearance. Tattered sections of the Chronicle were strewn about on the dirty floor: yesterday's news already discarded like any other trash. Cardboard signs above the windows advertised blue jeans, announced the Muni employee of the month, and instructed where to get information about the prevention of AIDS. Autumn was sitting in the back of the bus on a bench that faced the aisle rather than forward. The two seats next to her were empty, having just been vacated by a young Japanese couple in shorts and sweatshirts, who had gotten off at Fillmore and Geary. Across from her two black men were having an animated conversation about the sorry state of modern jazz. The first man was old yet jaunty, probably around sixty. He was wearing a tan leather jacket and a torn and faded floppy hat. A few coarse grey hairs grew above his mouth in a barely visible mustache. The other man was much younger, thirty or so. He was wearing a Giants sweatshirt and had short hair with two horizontal grooves cut along each side above his ears. At first Autumn thought they might be father and son, but soon decided from the way they addressed each other that they had probably met for the first time today. The older man stubbornly stuck to his side of the argument and continually brought up the names of jazz legends like John Coltrane, Dizzy Gillespie and Thelonious Monk. He insisted that the new batch of young jazz revivalists wasn't adding anything to the jazz tradition like they obviously thought. They were merely imitators, he said, not even searching for their own voices. Strangely enough, after much consideration and further arguing, the younger man agreed. Autumn soon determined that the older man was a jazz musician himself, a trumpet player, and he occasionally glanced at her with dark eyes that questioned her watchful gaze. Finally he said to her, "What you lookin' at, sweet thing?" "Oh, I was just--," Autumn began, then hesitated, not sure of what to say. "You really play trumpet?" she asked with a touch of eagerness. "Jazz trumpet?" "Yeah, I blow. It's all I know how to do. Pays ok too. Mos' the time." Then he asked Autumn what kind of music she liked, but before she could reply, he suggested, "That rock and roll racket?" "Yeah, a little. I like lots of mixed up things. Mostly punk rock. But I like bebop too." "What?" the trumpet player exclaimed, a bit surprised. The two men traded smiles, then the younger one said, "Like what kinda bebop you listen to?" "Charlie Parker," Autumn offered, sounding almost unsure of herself. "That's the damndest thing I ever heard," the old man suddenly bellowed. "A young sweet girl like you listenin' to Charlie Parker!" And then he laughed heartily and the other man did too. The old man shook his head and repeated: "Damndest thing I ever heard." Autumn smiled at them, almost laughing herself. A chunk of city air pushed through the open window behind her and blew strands of dark hair into her face. With both hands Autumn pushed the errant strands back behind her ears. The trumpet player watched her with a friendly gaze, still smiling. Then with an expression that said he was thinking back, far back, remembering something from some distant corner of his mind, he said, "I saw Bird. Coupla times. That man sure could blow. Sad story though. Tragic thing." "You saw Charlie Parker?" Autumn asked suddenly, sounding like an anxious kid who just met her hero. "That's cool." The bus crashed to a halt, died, picked up a lone passenger, then rolled forward again as if reborn. "Yeah, I saw Bird. I've seen all the old players, the innovators. Idolized 'em. World was different then. Music was alive. Not like this computer programmed nonsense people come up with today." Then his expression changed, moving into a bright smile. He looked straight at Autumn and said, "You like Miles Davis, sweet thing?" Autumn remembered once seeing a picture of Miles Davis in a magazine, looking all mean and bent and gallant like he'd stumbled through a hard life with a stubborn sort of conviction. The man across from her looked nothing like that. Although somewhat hardened by age, his demeanor exuded kindness, an almost jolly affability. He seemed just as stubborn though. "I haven't heard much of his music," Autumn said. "I'm just starting to listen to jazz." "You get yourself fixed up with some Miles Davis albums," he said. "Then you'll learn a thing or two about life." He nudged the man next to him. "Right, kid?" Autumn found it funny that he addressed the other man as "kid" when she was obviously the kid among them. "That's right," the younger man responded. "Ain't no one comes close to Miles." Then the gray haired jazz musician pulled on a cord behind him, making a sharp noise that went, "ding!" He stood up, grabbing a silver rail above his head, and looked at Autumn, smiling broadly. "It was very nice meeting a sweet young thing such as yourself who likes the music of Charlie Parker." "It was nice meeting you too," Autumn returned. As the bus drew to a squeaky pause, then finally stopped, Autumn and the old man shook. His fine boned hand felt strong in hers. Then the old black trumpet player with the faded floppy hat got off the bus. Autumn looked at the other man who remained seated across the aisle from her. "Do you know his name?" she asked him. "I'd like to see him play sometime." "No," the man returned. "Never told me his name. Can't be anybody famous or anything. Never seen him before." He paused then added, "Has jazz in his blood though." Autumn looked out the window back up the street and saw the old man walking slowly down Fillmore in the fading twilight. She wondered what it was like to have jazz in your blood. ©1989 Joe Beine |