Читать книгу One Week Gig - Rufus Jr. Curry Jr. - Страница 5

Chapman sat in front of his first period class and gave the instructions for the students to break up into sections so they could go over the new music for the homecoming show. This was also a time for him to touch up on some of the new charts he planned to introduce to his band at the next practice session. One was a real spicy dance groove called “Oil Paint On Velvet”, and a hypnotic vocal duet called, “Perfect Love”. Chapman sat at his desk and began to hum “Perfect Love” to himself. The deeper he got into the tune, the farther out in space he seemed to drift. He would periodically return to earth and peer out into the band room to make sure there was no bloodshed going on. The students had begun to get a little loud which prompted Chapman to spring into action. Poking his head out of his office door, with a serious face on and there was no sign of the smile he wore as he drove to work this morning.

“Uh, ladies and gents. Remember, this music must be memorized by tomorrow. I will be going down the rows one by one to see who is on and who is off. Don’t think I won’t take a fifty-piece marching band to Tallahassee to march in the homecoming parade. That’s right, right behind the Marching “100". A fifty-piece Marching Bull Dog Band. But all of them will be playing and marching. We don’t need any dead leaves on this tree. We don’t employ instrument holders in this organization. You know what um’ sayin’ Dog? I know you do.”

Stepping back into his office, he leered at the students through the large window. All you could hear after his brief, strong speech were horns, drums and cymbals crashing.

Settling back into his seat, Chapman began to think about the job he was about to try to get. It seemed like a real attractive offer. Hell, he didn’t even know if he would ever be seriously considered for the job. “Would I like it? Can I handle the office situation? Will I like working with other adults when they do not have instruments in their hands?” These were some of the questions he ran through his mind. Well, he knew one thing for sure, the thought of him taking this job sure made his wife act really different. She was easier to talk to. She even kissed him goodbye in the morning and initiated intimacy. Maybe this job was the magic bullet their relationship needed.

“I will not let this job make me lose sight of my dream,” is the mantra he kept saying over and over in his head like a broken record.

The more he thought about losing sight of his dreams, the more nervous he became. The hours slipped by as if they were strapped to the bumper of a speeding car. The buzz of teenage voices grew louder and louder as the throng of students gorged the hallway and made their way home. Band students began to stream into the band room and wave at Chapman as he sat in his office under the pressure of deep thought. Finally he emerged with a list of practice objectives written on a sheet of paper and his baton tucked in his back pocket. He said nothing. The drum majors noticed his serious face and the firmness of his stride. The head drum major interpreted Chapman’s demeanor to mean serious business, so he blew his whistle and shouted instructions for all of the band members to report to the practice field immediately.

In minutes, the band room was vacant and everybody was on the field and appearing to be constructively engaged. The dance routine committee broke the band down into sections and began to teach the steps to the new music that Chapman had arranged. He viewed the band from a high tower located on the sideline at the fifty yard-line of the practice field. The kids called him “The General”, because he paced back and forth on high as they slaved like troops in the military. His mind raced off again and before he knew it, the time allotted for practice had come and gone like a thief in the night.

Chapman knew he needed the counsel of his best boy, so he hopped into his car and a few minutes later he drove up into the driveway of Thumper’s house. He knocked on the door and while he waited for someone to answer, he played the thoughts he wanted to share with Thumper backward and forward in his mind. Precious answered and greeted him with a big hug; the kind your largest aunt always gave you when your head was about breast high to her, and she would damn near smother you with that cheap perfume she splashed on like mosquito repellant.

“You know I ain’t one to be checking out my boy’s ole lady. But, I must continue to compliment him on the choice he made, or should I say the choice that made him,” zipped through his head after Precious turned to lead him into the house.

She told him to, have a seat, and that Billy would be home in a few minutes then she poured Chapman a glass of his favorite juice and turned the plasma screen TV to B.E.T. He thought about his own wife. “More sisters needed to act like Precious.” Sitting in the plush leather chair, with his feet up, Bobby Womack’s “I Wish He Didn’t Trust Me So Much” resonated in his ear. Startled, Chapman rushed to clear the song out of his mind. He began to look around the den, as if he hadn’t been in the house a million times before. He remembered how he used to drive those hotties crazy. Sweet Man Chapman was his moniker. Sitting up straight, Chapman tried to convince himself that he had done the right thing when he brought his running around to a screeching halt.

Thumper used to be the co-King of The Hotty Slayers. He never even seriously toyed with the idea of getting out of the freak game. Chapman didn’t want to hate on his friend, but he couldn’t help but envy the outcome of Thumpers decision to not quit the game, in contrast to his situation. Precious appeared to love Thumper’s dirty stinkin’ drawz. Thumper is a good provider and he treats Precious like a queen. Privy to the fact that Thumper still peeps into a stray hole every now and then, Chapman sensed it didn’t have a negative impact on their relationship. “I must be the sucker of the month. I look at what he appears to have and I can’t seem to come up with any advantages to living like I am living.”

Thumper entered the door as the green-eyed monster was beating the hell out of Chapman. Thumper is a happy go lucky brother who would give you the shirt off of his back.

As he entered the den Precious cut him off and gave him a big, wet kiss. “I thought you were never coming back,” she purred in a low, sexy voice. She pinched him on his butt as he walked away from her.

“What’s up, Black Man?”

“You Thump, you.”

“So what brings you by me casa this afternoon?”

Chapman dropped his head and said nothing.

“I know you got some more funky music on paper by now.”

“You know I do.”

“Shit...Man, I can see right through your ass.”

Chapman knows he can’t lie to Thumper. Thumper motioned for him to follow him out into the tool shed, actually, his music studio and cigar smoking room. It is the only place where Precious won’t bother him about smoking. Working the combination to the padlock, and opened the steel door to the shed.

“Watch your step. I don’t want to lose a friend over some damn homeowner’s insurance, or the lack of homeowners insurance.”

Chapman flopped down into the big leather chair and kicked his feet up on the footrest. Thumper positioned his body in front of the wall safe and dialed in the magic numbers. With a snap of his wrist, he opened the safe and withdrew a little wooden box. It was one of his prized possessions. His humidor was packed with cigars from everywhere in the world. He said he started smoking cigars when he first picked up the bass guitar. Experiencing the smoke in his eyes when he played his bass, made him feel more in the mood. He’d confessed to Chapman that he used to smoke weed to get the same effect, but his daddy slapped him upside the head when he caught him smoking out in the back of the house in high school. His dad took the bass from him for a month and that was enough to cure that brother of the want for weed.

Pulling out two cigars, he closed the humidor and placed it back into the wall safe. The sight of him preparing the cigars was almost poetic…The way he ran each stick under his nose, checking the aroma for freshness. He pulled down two short glasses and poured about a quarter cup of cognac in each of them. Using a V-notch cigar cutter, he opened the end of the cigar to ensure a nice even draw and an even burn then he laid them on the counter so each of them could breathe.

“Alright boy. Judging by the look on your face, we need to smoke these Cohibas. I had them soaked in cognac and cured them till they were just right. Here, light up, sit back and relax. Tell the Thump Man what’s on your mind.”

Thumper passed Chapman a cigar and butane lighter. Then passed the length of the cigar under his nose to smell the sweet stench of tobacco and Yack. Thumper turned the stereo to the local radio station that played old school slow jams in the evening.

“Pretty soon, that’s going to be us,” said Thumper with a half-hearted laugh.

“If I have anything to do with it, it’s going to be sooner than you think,” shot Chapman.

“So, what’s eating at you, school, them damn kids, or music?”

“None of the above.” Chapman exhaled with a large puff of smoke, as if he were an old train billowing smoke preparing to pick up speed. “What’s your secret Thumper? When I find out your secret, I believe life for me will be much easier.”

Thumper said absolutely nothing as he looked at Chapman like a specimen under a microscope.

“It’s like this. I have an opportunity to make forty thousand dollars more than I am making right now. The opportunity looks good on the surface, but I don’t know.”

“Shit, that’s simple math to me. What don’t you know?”

“Well, teaching is not what I set out to do. But, I do like what I have been able to accomplish in these ten short years. The job would take me out of the classroom and put me in an office down in the school board building.”

Taking a drag from his cigar, and then shaping his mouth like the letter O, Thumper produced a perfect smoke ring. He took a small sip from his glass of Yack, and then held it in his mouth; he could taste the warm, smooth liquid as it chemically reacted with the nerve endings inside on his tongue, then swallowed. Shaking his head, he adjusted his crotch. “All them young sweet thangs in short dresses,” Thumper mumbled under his breath.

“Anyway! I don’t know how it would be. Will I like working with all of those adults? Will I like sitting behind that damn desk all day long? Shit, the only thing I like about the job, to tell you the truth, is the fact that, just the idea of me taking the job makes Terri act like the woman who motivated me to marry her.”

Letting out a big sigh, Chapman laid his head back on the big cushy leather chair. Thumper surveyed the ceiling as if his answers to Chapman’s questions were written in the paint on the ceiling. Thumper drew a long drag, and then cocked his head to the side like an inquisitive little dog.

“So that’s it...Terri wants you to take the job? Based on what you tell me, this job isn’t something that you aren’t even remotely interested in.”

“But...”

“You gonna let me finish or what? Remember, you came to me, so I can say what the hell I feel like saying. You have been married to Terri for ten years and you can’t even speak up for what makes you happy. It seems to me that she has no problem telling you what would make her happy whether it deals with her personally or it affects you. I’m not trying to split you two up, but you need to decide what will make you happy within the confines of the relationship. You need to ask yourself if you are willing to sacrifice your happiness, just to make her happy. You think she doesn’t like you now─just take that job and then come home day after day pissed off. You have to make a stand. Keep on lovin’ your wife, ‘cause I know you do, but you deserve some happiness also. Hell, I know I ain’t no angel, but Precious and I get along fine. I allow her to be happy and to chase her happiness, as long as it doesn’t tear up our household, and she does the same for me. I wouldn’t want her if she wasn’t happy. Who wants to be with a miserable woman or man for the rest of their life? Not I...Hell, you know the answers to all of the questions you came here to ask me.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Sweet, you are my lifelong friend. What do you want to do? What will make you happy? Then you may have to ask yourself the question, ‘Can I be happy and have Terri at the same time?’ She loves you man. Where you are in your relationship right now is a result of you promising and threatening to be successful and not following through. Shit, you know Mr. Right to a black woman is the man who makes the most money, who doesn’t hit her, who makes her cum when she wants cum, and allows her to have an unrestricted line of credit to do what the fuck she wants to do. Shit! After that, all the man has to do is cut the fuckin’ grass, give her some tongue action every now and then, make pretty babies and make her lady friends real jealous by showing up clean shaven, bald or waved, donning a three button suit and driving a fat ass coupe. Hell, that’s what they want, but they just don’t know how to say it. Damn Black Man, I’m glad you came to me.”

Chapman was comforted to have his friend reaffirm what his lifelong analysis had concluded.

“So I ask you again...What are you going to do?”

Chapman searched for the right words so he could give

Thumper an answer that sounded proper. Thumper extended his arms with his palms facing Chapman like a traffic cop during rush hour.

“Aat, aat...don’t tell me...Just do it.” Thumper picked up the remote control from the arm of his chair and jacked up the volume on the stereo. He noticed a smile evolving on Chapman’s face. “That’s my boy,” thought Thumper, feeling like a proud father when his son finally got it.

Chapman tapped out his cigar in an ashtray and pushed himself to his feet. “Here is the music I wanted you to take a look at.”

Thumper playfully snatched the charts from Chapman’s hand and took a seat on his stool near the fish tank.

“This ballad is tight work. Man, see, that’s why we are friends to this day. You and me ain’t nothin' but some old school R & B, Jazz and Funk Junkies. You wrote this for me right?”

Chapman tried to suppress the boyish grin growing on his face.

“Look at you. I bet you have dreams about playing the bass. You think just like a bass player. You need to just come out the bass closet! Confess your love for the bass and you’ll feel much better. Come here and let me hug you.”

“Go to hell...you are one sick little man. Just look over that stuff and I’ll holler at you tomorrow,” stated Chapman as he exited the door.

“Hey, I need to hear it one time. Tell me what you are going to do, Chapman.”

“Do what I gotta do.”

“You damn skippy. I love you man!” yelled Thumper at the top of his voice.

“Thumper is my best friend and always will be.” Chapman thought driving down the street in his car. Then he began to rehearse how to tell Terri what was really in his heart.

The Squeeze

The Thanksgiving season was upon Fort Lauderdale. Where had the time gone? Terri and I seemed to have ventured into better days. Compared to the ups and downs of the past months, things were looking downright peachy. We were hosting Thanksgiving dinner, with all of the fixings and it was definitely get fat time. She even allowed me to be my old affectionate self again. She was a little tipsy from sipping the cooking wine as she talked to her mother, “Ma Black and my mother “Ma Sweet”. The title “Ma” kept them off of our backs about having babies. Anyway, Terri had to be good and toasted, because she brought up the subject of having babies without even being prompted by the mother hens. They were sitting there looking over the top of their eyeglasses, as if somebody farted and they were looking for someone to pin the blame on. I was safe out of earshot so the ladies could have the run of the kitchen. Besides, I am the official taste tester, and it is a position of honor and it is always held by the most senior male in the family. I knew my official duties didn’t begin until the fixins were almost ready to eat and I took my responsibilities very serious. So, I sat in the living room, with the remote firmly fixed in my hand and dozed off and on during the football game.

“Yeah baby...So when you all think you all gone do that?”, teased Ma. Black.

The mamas were winking their eyes at each other like big time cheaters in a Bid Whist championship.

“Do you want me to give my boy a pep talk to get him ready?”, gibed Ma Sweet.

“No Ma Sweet, that boy of yours is something else. He got mo’ get up and go than I know what to do with,” Terri quips with slightly slurred speech.

“Well, if you know like I know, you better be able to get up and git all of his git up and go, if you want to keep him in the door,” snaps Ma Sweet.

Those two old ladies were cacklin’ like a coop full of hens, and giving high five like the L.A. Lakers.

“You know, Sister Sweet is right. Girl, you got to get waxed while the candle is burning hot. Ain’t no telling when these young men gone die. Hell, at least if he dies, you’ll have some memories to work with at night, if you know what I mean.”

“Honey, I know what you mean. Cause ain’t nothin’ like a real good memory and some fresh D-batteries on a cool rainy night. That’s what keeps me goin’.”

The chatter of the two old hens made Terri scream out loud.

“I can’t believe you two.”

“Why? We weren’t born old. I bet we could teach you young girls a trick or two.”

Ma Black could hardly contain herself.

“I bet the married ladies today don’t even know the wonders that Betadine can do for a relationship.”

“Child...Not even vinegar and water.”

They were hoopin’ and hollerin’ so loud that I had to come into the kitchen to see what was the matter. I stepped into what seemed to be a scene from The Color Purple. There were two old hens and a drunken chick sitting at the kitchen table. Terri slid over next to me and began to pinch me on my butt.

“Honey you should hear what these two ole bitties are trying to put into my head.”

I got a good whiff of Terri’s breath. “Are you alright?”

Terri put her finger to her lips. “Shhhush...Come with me.”

Ma Sweet, with her lip pursed. “Chile, after the conversation we just had, the question is going to be, are you alright?”

“I know that’s right...Whoo Lawd...Have mercy on that young man.” Ma Black just couldn’t keep quiet.

Terri grabbed me by the hand and led me to the door of the kitchen. I resisted a little because I did not know what was on Terri’s mind.

“We’re going to finish snapping these string beans.” Ma Sweet assured.

“ ... And we don’t hear anything.”

Ma Black just had to ease her two cents in as Terri and I left the kitchen. Letting go of my hand, Terri began to run towards the bedroom door. Stopping just at the hall side of the threshold, she looked back at me just long enough to issue a challenge.

“If you want some, you better come and get it now before the two hens get up off those eggs they’re tending to.”

I was shocked, but pleased. I couldn’t believe my ears. “It must be the wine talking for Terri,” was my first thought. And the next thought was, “Damn who’s talking, I like the conversation.”

I quickened my pace to the end of the hall.

When I entered the room I closed the door gently behind me. I did not want my mom and Ma Black to think Terri and I would have sex right under their noses, even though they believed we would. We were in our own house, but I am not as open as Terri when it comes to talking to my mother about my sex life. Terri was already under the comforter when I made it to the edge of the bed.

“What are you waiting on?”

Can you believe it, I was actually a little nervous about making love to my wife in our own house. The thought of my mother hearing me hit it, just freaked me out, but it didn’t faze Terri. Granted, she had the benefit of about a half of a bottle of wine in her system. I kicked off my shoes and lay back on the bed. Terri took no time jumping into the driver’s seat. She tossed my old fraternity shirt she was wearing from under the covers, followed by my sweatpants and the pair of purple and gold thong underwear she bought when she attended her sorority’s national convention in New Orleans last summer. She began to work me like an S.A.T. math problem. Pretty soon, she almost had me figured out. She laughed out loud for no apparent reason. That spontaneous laugh thing was just kind of creepy to me, especially while holding the covers up and looking at my surprise package. As she held my firm want in her hand, she came close to my right ear, nibbled on my earlobe, slipped her tongue into my ear before she whispered a nice naughty something. She made me blush.

“This thing is as hard as Chinese Arithmetic.”

I laughed and the tension in my body just faded away. I rolled to my right and gave her a kiss that was as juicy as an overripe mango; just before we both disappeared under the covers. We got lost in each other. We had one of those rare moments, when soul mates connect like two cars in a high-speed head on collision. This quickie had to be one of the most intense in our history together. The afterglow was upon us and I was easy like a Sunday morning. We needed to get back to the kitchen if we were going to pretend nothing happened.

“You go out first.” I coaxed Terri.

“Negro please! After all of that trash they have been talkin’ to me.”

“Well, we can’t stay in here forever.”

“It’s our house; we can do whatever we want to do. You be the man and go out first. They won’t dare say anything to you.”

“What do you mean, be the man? Are you insinuating that I have been something other than a man prior to this opportunity to step up?”

“Chapman, you know what I mean.”

“No...I don’t...Don’t worry about it. I’ll do what I think a good woman’s good man would do. ‘It’s amazing how much of an expert women are on what a good man looks like, smells like, talks like, dresses like, provides like, makes love like. But ask her what a good woman should be and she doesn’t have a clue’.”

* * * * *

Chapman rose from the bed and took a quick bird bath. His intentions were to come back to the room when his mother and Ma Black began to mill around in the kitchen and in the den, so he could take a proper shower. He entered the den dressed in the clothes he had on when they left to go to the room over an hour ago, as if his clothes were going to fool those two wise old owls into thinking that they didn’t just knock each other’s socks off. He stopped before opening the bedroom door; glanced back at Terri lying on the bed with her eyes closed and absorbed every drop of the vision. The woman of his dreams was hard to figure out. He shook his head.

“Just when I think we made a connection, you screw it up.”, Chapman whispered to himself.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing baby. I’m going to tend to these meddlesome women,” Chapman exited the bedroom and shut the door behind him. Stopping in the hallway, outside of the door for a minute he then continued down the hall.

“Whew! No sign of the sexual interrogation crew. They must be napping.” His activity in the bedroom gave him the mid-day munchies. He poked his head into the oven to see how the edible Thanksgiving guest was coming along. Looking left, then right, he reached in and tried to free up the darkest piece of turkey skin he could find.

“Ouch! Damn, that bird is hot.” He was sucking on his finger as if he could actually extract the pain out with his mouth. Moving to the wall, Chapman picked up the phone with his non-blistered hand and dialed Thumper and Precious’ number. The phone rang three times before someone picked up.

“Hello...Billy speaking,” sounding out of breath.

“Love machine, what up? Sounds to me like you are practicing the ancient art of oral birth control.”

“Go to hell.” Precious’ voice could be heard in the background beckoning Thumper to come back to the bed.

“Look man, give us about an hour and we will be right over. You know we got to get the kids up and all of that.”

“Okay. I’ll see you then.”

After hanging up the phone, Chapman walked back to the room and peeped in on Terri. She was sound asleep. Then he looked into the guest bedroom and his mother and Ma Black were getting their nap on also.

He was a few things, but mad wasn’t one of them. So he took him a quick shower and donned some decent clothes. Returning to the den with the remote control in hand, he turned on the TV and football seemed to be on every channel, from the Discovery Channel to the Cooking channel.

“Let me check my TV One and see if I can coax some of those video honeys to dance for me.” Chapman finally got to the channel. “Oh snap. Football on TV One, on Thanksgiving day. Who’s playing?” It is Tuskegee University and Alabama State University in the annual Cranberry Bowl.

“What quarter is it? Five minutes left in the second quarter. Good the bands haven’t performed yet. Hell this isn’t FAMU, but it is black college football.” Chapman hopped out of his seat and dashed to the kitchen for a small snack.

“I need to eat something they won’t miss.”

Chapman began lifting the covers on pots, lifting dishtowels covering any pan that just might have some bread pudding, pie or cake in it. He saw a stack of pie shells. Empty pie shells might as well be graham crackers without the sugar. But, next to the stack of pie shells was a pot full of sweet potato pie filling.

“Jack pot! Mama always gives me some anyway, so I might as well get my pie filling up front.”

He had a smile on his face like the Grinch who stole Christmas. He put two heaping spoonfuls of pie filling in a bowl and ate another spoonful for the walk over to the freezer. He pulled a box of vanilla ice cream out of the freezer and covered the filling. Not too much, not too little. Just right! Quickly placing the ice cream back into the freezer, then he poured himself a glass of cold milk and made his way back to the den. Charlie Neal was on the screen with Nate Newton, Eddie Robinson, Jerry Rice and Doug Williams. Nate Newton was reporting the game scores and stats while sounding very much like Bryant Gumble, “Tuskegee 21, Alabama State 7.” Chapman laughed as he looked at Nate on TV.

“Man this is weird. I can remember when Nate’s wardrobe consisted of sweatshirts and coaching shorts. Now look at him, living the dream.”

‘Bama State’s Marching Hornets Band took the field and did their thing. Next up, Tuskegee’s Crimson Piper Band tossed their hat in and fought for the crowd’s favor. As the bands cleared the field and the commentators began to rate the show, Charlie Neal began to talk about how both bands were good, but, he’s partial to Southern’s band. Doug had to pull for Grambling University’s band. Nate with his quick wit, zeroed in on Jerry Rice.

“Jerry, don’t you say a word. Does Mississippi Valley even have a band? Never mind, it’s not important. Now Doug, you know the best thing at Grambling was Eddie Robinson.” Then he turned to young Eddie Robinson former linebacker at ‘Bama State, and the NFL’s Jacksonville, Jaguars and Tennessee, Titans, “Not you Eddie Robinson, the O-riginal Eddie Robinson. Besides the best halftime show in the country is FAMU’s Marching “100", hands down. Tell me I’m lying.”

Chapman was beaming as a result of the comment Nate Newton made. It made him feel good because FAMU’s band was a point of pride for him. To hear someone appreciate the band from the period when he was in it, was a major stroke to his ego. In the middle of his thought, the sound of the doorbell chimed through the house. Jumping to his feet, he dashed to the kitchen to rinse away the evidence before he answered the door.

“Come on in. Hello Precious...Little Billy and Yvette. Have you all been good? You all come on in and make yourselves at home.”

After closing the door behind the Jones clan, he noticed that Terri had made her way out of the bedroom and was in place just in time to greet everyone as they streamed into the living room. Ma Sweet and Ma Black were up from their naps and had resumed the preparation of the bountiful feast. Before they knew it the table was being set for dinner.

Chapman and Thumper were standing outside by the music practice shed. He couldn’t wait to tell Thumper what Nate Newton said on TV One. The thoughts generated by Nate Newton’s appreciative comments cause them to be mentally transported back to their old college days. Standing down on the Patch as Doc Foster, Doc White, and Doc James put them through the grind.

“Dinner time,” announced Ma Black.

Everybody began to move toward the table like cows coming in from the field. No one was in a rush and it almost seemed church like in atmosphere. Chapman directed traffic as Ma Sweet and Ma Black fussed over what they should put on the table first. Finally, everyone was in their place around the table. Ma Sweet looked at her baby with wet eyes and nodded for him to begin the grace. When he joined hands with Terri it seemed as if all ill thoughts faded away. Instructing everyone to join hands, he eased into his Thanksgiving prayer.

“Oh God of all that is, we come to offer thanks for all that you have provided for us this afternoon. We thank you for life, food, family, friendship, love, happiness, and dreams. May we take this time to reconnect with those that mean the most to us and move on to a positive future. Bless Sis and her family, as they travel to another part of this country to commune with their other family. Keep us safe and united, in your son Jesus’ name─Amen.”

The chorus of amen followed Chapman’s as Ma Sweet and Ma Black prepared the traditional first plate of food, for the man of the house. Chapman received his plate and again accepted the full responsibility of what it means to be the first man to receive the first plate. The weight was great, and he felt all of it.

“Now we need a Bible verse from everybody,” Chapman requested.

The kids wanted to show their stuff. “Our Father who art in Heaven...”, exclaimed Thumper and Precious’ oldest child Yvette.

“Jesus wept!”, quickly came from the mouth of her little brother Billy, Jr.

“No fair, I was going to use that one,” protested Terri.

They all had a hearty laugh at the joke and Terri’s pretense of being upset. It got so nice up in there, Terri even let Chapman fork feed her some sweet potato pie, and anybody who knew Terri, knew that she did not go for that puppy love kind of stuff.

Blue Night

“I guess it felt like one big blur between Thanksgiving, Christmas and the New Year. I am sitting here smack dab in the middle of my...excuse me...our spacious den. I’m working on being a more kinder, gentler Terri this year. Nice music, the sweet sofa set my man had imported straight from the motherland, the man of my dreams preparing me a plate of food, and I’m still not happy. I’m tired of playing games. Oh...here I go again. Put on the face that grins and smiles, put on the face, put on the face.”

“What’s up Chick?”, bellowed Chapman with his deep voice.

Terri for some strange reason is moved by Chapman’s verbal display of affection. But, then again she always would be, as long as things were going according to her plan.

“I made this just for you. This is your favorite Saturday meal. The Sweet-Man’s special. Grilled sirloin tips, grilled veggies, and grilled shrimp. This wicked combination of surf and turf, coupled with my secret Sweet-Man’s dipping sauce is one erotic combination of oral delight. Now you eat this while I play a little something for you.”

Terri reared back in the big leather lounge chair while Chapman walked across the den to two black instrument cases on the floor in the corner. The first case he opened contained an alto-saxophone. Putting the sax back into its case, he reached for the case at the bottom of the stack. With a firm, yet gentle grasp, he pulled out a purple lacquer flugal horn. He handled the horn as if it were a part of the Tut-Ahnk-Amun treasure. It was obvious that he really liked this unusual looking horn. He began rubbing over the texture of the etching on the bell. The inscription read, “Daddy’s Man”. Chapman smiled and chuckled to himself. That’s the name his father used to call him when he was a very little boy.

“Daddy’s little man”, he whispered, and then shook his head as he returned from a momentary dream-like state. Reaching back into the horn’s case, he retrieved a mouthpiece and a harmonic mute. Blowing a large breath of warm air through the horn, he fluttered the valves with his fingers in order to warm the cold brass piping. Setting the mood, Chapman dimmed the lights so that Terri could still see her food.

“What are you doing? I can’t see my food,” Terri softly protested.

“Um, just settin’ the mood,” he mumbled. “This is for you babe.”

Chapman carefully placed his horn close to his mouth and instinctively gave the cold, dry mouthpiece a preparatory lick with his tongue, and then he placed his warm brown lip against it. He began to blow a tune that was somewhat out of time and tune. Chaos and confusion is what it would have been to the untrained ear and heart. Terri began to makes faces, but the sounds were sliding toward making sense. Organized chaos or disorganized genius or whatever it was, began to pull itself together. When it did, Terri inserted a pleasurable fork full of surf-n-turf into her mouth and softly tossed her head back in what was pure ecstasy. She chewed her food with an ever-so-slight smile on her face. All the while, Chapman was playing his arrangement of the old Billy Joel tune, “Just the Way You Are”.

This was one of the rare moments when an artist becomes a spiritual conduit for God’s voice. Chapman was making a definite joyful noise. His eyes were closed. The hair on his arms literally stood on end. The combination of the food he prepared, dim lights and God’s spirit of love emanated through Chapman and his horn to create a trance like state. It was as if Chapman were in the midst of worship service and he began to speak in musical tongues. Terri could see and feel that something good was going on, but God knows, only Chapman could understand that something completely. As he played on for what seemed like eternity, not another sound could be heard. And Terri appeared to be saying amen to his prayer.

What Terri saw looked like a scene from an old black and white movie. Chapman was perched on a stool under a blue light. Beads of sweat on his forehead resembled blue diamonds on brown velvet. He held a white handkerchief in his left hand as he continued to preach through his horn. A single tear rolled down his face. The emotion felt thick enough to touch. Terri began to see Chapman in a light she hadn’t seen him in, in a long time.

“Now that’s who I fell in love with,” thought Terri. Pure Passion, is what the caption would have read if what Terri was looking at were an old black and white photograph of a jazz man on stage in some smoke-filled dive with a name like “The Parrot Club”, hanging on a museum wall. She was feeling a lot warmer after seeing her man spontaneously combust right in front of her eyes. Wiping her hands, she walked over and squeezed Chapman’s face, signaling to him that she received his offering well. Tilting his head back to receive the full gift of her face moved him to conclude that her expression was communicating her heart’s feelings and thoughts of how beautiful she thought his love offering was.

”...Mmm.”

She intended to say something profound, but her primitive utterance was more profound than any statement her education would have enabled her to create. She hugged him. He placed his horn on its stand and hugged her back. They leaned back and smiled at one another before she took Chapman by his hand, and led him back across the den to the lounge chair where she ate her dinner. Patting the seat of the chair was her signal to him as she insisted that he sit down and relax. Accepting her invitation, Chapman eased into the seat, and then reclined with his face toward the ceiling and his hands behind his head. Resting for a moment and gathering his thoughts, Chapman slid his hands over the top of his head and down his face to wipe away the leftover tears and sweat. Stepping back from the chair, Terri looked him over with approving eyes before she crossed the room to the sliding glass doors. She opened the vertical blinds just enough to undo the lock. Opening the door about six inches in order to let some of that cool South Florida breeze whisper in and possibly fan the smoldering passion that somehow entered their space. Her arm and leg were spattered with raindrops as they crashed through the screened portion of the sliding glass door.

Gliding to the stereo, she gently pressed the power button and the electric show of, green, red, and amber lights pulsated to the rhythm of the music. The timing was perfect. The sound of one of Chapman’s good friends and a fan of Chapman’s band, Hank the Hawk from WLOV FM was announcing the play list for the next half hour. The first song out of the box was Anita Baker’s, “Been So Long”. Hank had one of the smoothest voices ever to grace the radio airwaves. He not only announced the songs, but he gave you history lessons at the same time. That’s why Chapman liked him so much. Chapman loved people; generous, open minded, smart people and especially the kind of smart people with smarts that were not defined by schools, degrees, or some formal system. Making her way back to Chapman’s side; she curled up next to him like a little kitten trying to steal some of his body heat.

“I need to talk to you,” whispered Chapman in a weak strained voice.

Terri snuggled a little closer to Chapman. It had become cooler than she thought it would be, but she definitely was not about to get up and close the sliding glass door.

“I have been thinking about...You know?”

“If I knew, you wouldn’t have to tell me,” Terri poked in a soft voice.

“...Well, I’ve been thinking about what we have been talking about.”

“You mean about me having a baby? And destroying this fine body of mine?”

“No, but that has been on my mind too and we'll talk about that soon enough. But, I’m talking about the job.” Chapman shifted in his seat for more comfort since he was supporting Terri’s weight and his.

“Am I too fat for you?” Terri awaited Chapman’s answer.

“P.H.A.T., like I like it.”

This was one of the times she loved his quick wit and she rewarded his statement with a smile and a kiss.

“You know I have been going over this opportunity in my head. We’re not growing any younger, and the money I’m making in the classroom after ten years of battling with those kids is an insult. Don’t get me wrong, I believe my time in the classroom has been a lesson in life and that form of stimulation cannot be replaced. I figure if I am going to be in the system, I might as well get paid at the top of the scale. I can recommend that Terrance Goolsby take over the band since he has been my assistant, and the band director at the middle school that feeds our school anyway. This would mean one more job for a young brother. Mack Jones from the elementary school would then move up, and I am sure there is a young graduate just dying to teach an elementary school band program...Hell, just teach and get paid.”

“You sure you want this?”

“No. I’m not...But, I got to make a move sometime and there is no time like the present.”

Terri settled down into Chapman’s arms and you could almost see a hint of that devilishly sly smile on her face. You know the smile that The Grinch Who Stole Christmas had that rippled from one side of his mouth to the other? The moon seemed to take on a liquid quality as she became awash with a willing spirit...A WILLING SPIRIT! Hallelujah! A willing spirit! It must have been the spirit, because what she was doing was something she declared she would only do for him on his birthday or to save his life. Well, she was working like it was his birthday and he only had a minute to live… Amen!

Cut-N-Run

It seems as though Monday took the express train to get Chapman to the band room to face his first class. He sat alone in his office, looking at the plaques, trophies, and pictures, while reminiscing about the good and bad times he had amassed over the years. The times were mostly good. Ten years is not that long when you just get right down to living it. He thought about the first day he walked into the band room and almost tripped down onto the floor after getting his foot caught under a music stand. Boy did those kids laugh. He looked at the trophy for best band in the Orange Blossom Classic parade, Battle of the Bands, and the People’s Choice Percussion Section challenge contest. His mind took him back to when he told the students how he was going to be on the road playing his own music within two years, and now ten have passed him by. He reflected back on how, when he came here, he had a head full of hair and the young girls all competed for his attention. The young boys hated him because they thought he was cutting in on their territory. Now he’s got a little less hair and all of the kids just think of him as a father or some old bad ass. That is what they call him, “Daddy O”. A daddy is what he has essentially become to most of these kids. He knew when they were happy or sad, needed a hug or needed a kick in the seat of their pants, had sex for the first time, were thinking about doing it for the first time, or the part he hated most, was when they became pregnant or got somebody pregnant. He pushed them all to go to trade school, college or to the military. Exposure is a must. There is nothing like good ole’ exposure to this big ole’ world we lived in. It is the greatest step toward becoming your complete self, Chapman believes.

A child must grasp the controls of their own mind. A lot of parents liked him for encouraging that, and a lot hated him for the same thing. As he sat in his chair counting the holes in the ceiling tiles, a knock came at the door. He saw the face of one of his new sons. Little Willie McFadder had his head poked into the office door.

“What’s up Daddy-O?” Chapman tried to gather himself because he knew that in a few hours he was going to break these kids’ hearts and Willie would be one of them.

“It’s you Big Mac, it’s you.” That’s what Chapman began to call him when Willie made the decision to come to band tryouts instead of going shopping with his mom for new school clothes. Chapman knew he had been hard on Willie in front of the entire band. So, to build him up after he made the cut, Chapman slyly campaigned for Willie and the other students voted him freshman band officer.

“Just another day. Pass the word that we need to have a special meeting after school for about ten minutes.”

“What’s goin’?” Little Willie tried to pressure Chapman.

“Big Mac, don’t make me get up out of this chair, ‘cause you know I’ll eat you in two bites.”

“True, true,” chanted Willie in agreement as he walked over to give Chapman some love. The school bell rang and Willie darted out of the door.

“Man, I got out of that one,” thought Chapman.

He is feeling mixed emotions about leaving his kids, although leaving was what he wanted and needed to do. The day seemed to have taken two days to go by. The kids knew Chapman as well as he knew them. They kept asking him what was on his mind, and of course he tried to lie to them by saying nothing was on his mind.

The bell sounded─2:45 had finally arrived. The kids began to file into the band room, change their shoes and warm up on their instruments. Pretty Williams came into the band room wearing a very shiny, green southern belle-styled prom dress, and a pair of high-top basketball shoes. Chapman couldn’t resist the temptation of saying something smart to her.

“Girl where are you going with that git up on? You look like a black Beverly Hill Billy.”

The other band members just rolled over with laughter. He knew that he hit her good and hard with that crack, so he ran over and hugged her real tight while the kids got their laugh on. Despite her name, pretty she ain’t. Chapman swore her parents gave her that name because they knew she would need a confidence builder. After the laughter died down and Chapman was able to regain order in the band room, the mood turned serious. The kids seemed uneasy because they had never seen Chapman in such a somber mood. The only time he was like that was when he was mad at them or when he talked about his father and how he died and the lessons it taught him.

He sat down in his chair on the podium behind his music stand. Leaning forward, he clinched the front edge of the director’s stand as he cleared his throat. He began to speak with great anxiety.

“Whew!”, Chapman sighed. “This is going to be harder than I thought. Ladies and gents, you know how I have always talked about order and how things should take their proper place? Well, this is one of those times, and I know it is the right thing to do, even though it feels so wrong. Remember how I said that life is not a spectator sport, you got to get in the game and stay off the bench. Well, this is my opportunity to get off the bench. I make this choice, not because of anything that one of you has done or said. I have been offered the position of county music administrator, and I have decided to accept the job. I keep telling myself that I can do both jobs at the same time. But I know that that isn’t true. So, in order for great things to happen, you must commit all of your attention to what you are doing and hold it firmly with your mind. Remember what I said now, about me having eyes and ears everywhere. You all will still be my protégé’s whether I am here on the field, the county office or touring with my band. Mr. Goolsby will take over as the band director as of next Monday. I want you to give him all of the respect that you all know he is due.”

Chapman looked around the room and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

“Now don’t start that raining in here. We still have a show to do this weekend in Atlanta. I have been talking big trash to my boys and they will not accept any excuses. So let me hear it one more time, for ole’ time sake?”

The class recited a poem that Chapman required them to learn.

“EXCUSES are tools of the incompetent,

That builds monuments to nothingness,

Those who specialize in EXCUSES,

Rarely, amount to anything.”

Unknown

“Remember that. Now let’s hit the field.”

The kids poured out of their seats and mobbed Chapman right where he sat. Even the most thuggish knuckleheads had tears in their eyes. These were the boys and girls that no teacher wanted to have in their classes and Chapman made them officers in the marching band. He used their natural leadership ability on the field, and used their creativity as dance routine choreographers. It’s amazing what a listening ear will do for a kid who seemed to be going astray. For some strange reason music, and the thuggish persona went hand-in-hand. Some of the best musicians he knew were borderline jailbirds. Traditional Jazz was their breeding ground. Instead of doing drive-bys, they would sit in cramped smoke-filled clubs that Super Fly would have been afraid to go into when he was pimping and hustling. Instead of shooting machine guns, they sat under poor lighting with dark glasses and gunned down their audiences with improvised music straight from God, through them and out of their instruments.

Chapman’s voice began to crack as he pressed the kids to get themselves together and gather their focus. They peeled themselves off of him and dried their faces, put on their shoes, and some even called their parents on their cell phones to inform them of the news. You would have thought somebody died. Chapman and his reputation of running a tight ship was the only reason some of these students’ parents allowed them to participate in the marching band. The band director, who the students had come to know so well, was moving on to his next mission, so hope was dying for some of them. Everything must change, is what George Benson said in one of his songs. Change is a constant force.

Practice began with Chapman sitting in the tower as memories poured through his head and brought tears to his eye. He was cool he thought, as he turned his back to the field. He pretended to be looking at the rooftops of the houses that spread out just across the street from the practice field. The music was there, but their hearts were not. It was almost like a funeral march. Grabbing the bullhorn, “Hey, what in the world was that?”

The drum majors gave their whistles several random blasts

in order to stop the motion of the band. All of the students turned toward the director’s tower.

“You all got to do better than that. Look at it this way; you will not have me breathing down your necks every day. But, I will be around occasionally for those of you who just need my special brand of correction.”

He was doing his best to lighten up the mood. The kids began to smile a little more.

“Let’s take it from the top? And put some heart in it!”

Chapman, stood in the tower looking proudly watching the young men and women whose lives he had shaped. The band marched off the sidelines of the field with their backs straight, knees cresting well above the 90 degree requirement, horns swinging with precision, and a sound so big it would have brought tears to the eyes of any college band director. The energy was so thick you could scoop it like butter pecan ice cream.

“Now that’s what um talkin’ ‘bout.”, Chapman’s smile was as wide as a piano’s keyboard. The weekend rapidly approached. For the time Chapman has left on campus, he vowed to put on his best face. It was tough. It felt like losing multiple family members at the same time.

Thursday evening arrived like a dream. The walk-through practice ended and the students loaded the buses decked out in their purple and gold Freedman High School Marching Bulldogs sweat suits. The buses rolled through the dark of night to cover the distance required to get the band to their last show, under the direction of Mr. Chapman Sweet, Jr. They marched as if it were their last halftime show. It was…The last show, in the Chapman Sweet, Jr. era. The show ranked in the top 20 of all of the shows that the Freedman High School Marching Bulldogs had performed since Chapman Sweet, Jr. had the baton in his hand.