Dark Eyes

Leon Blakemore stands and moves to the front of the stage. His microphone is set up left of center. He fingers his trumpet valves with one hand, adjusts the stand with the other. His eyes scan the back room at Jays Jive. He is pleased.

The dance floor comfortably has room for a score of couples. Half a dozen more, if they are moving to a slow number. Some patrons take advantage of the pause to drift toward the small bar near the entrance, or the tables against the walls on either side of the room. Tables barely large enough to balance a couple of drinks on.

A moustached man in a cobalt-blue suit embraces a short-haired woman wearing a matching gown; they continue to sway in the momentary absence of music. The others on the floor await the next tune. Their eyes focus on the band in general, on Leon specifically. The lights dim, giving those eyes a dark cast.

Appropriately.

Leon thinks the muted light makes the room feel cozier, more inviting. His coal-black suit and tie adds to the warm atmosphere. His pants show no sign of creasing, though he’d been sitting through most of the session.

The club’s resident big band, Casey’s Coven, consists of a dozen players, plus their leader, Bill Casey. The stage is just large enough to hold them all. Each musician is given at least one chance to stand out every night. This is Leon’s.

The trumpet player barely notices Bill Casey’s cue. He knows the timing. He raises his instrument. The first slow, mournful notes of “Ochi Chernyie” drift into the room. A few couples on the dance floor don’t know Leon’s version, and assume he is leading into a slow dance. They pace themselves accordingly.

Sixteen bars in, Leon pauses for half a beat. He takes a deep breath. The drummer bangs out a familiar rat-a-tat. Leon raises the trumpet again. His new tempo is dramatically faster. Two more couples drop out, including the cobalt-blue duo. Those who remain embrace the new beat. One gentleman shouts out enthusiastic approval.

The romantic Russian tune is Leon’s favorite. He combines the swing versions of Jack Teagarden and Harry Manone with his own improvisations. His fingers blur. His cheeks bulge. The tempo accelerates. His fellow brass players step in for half a bar, here and there, whenever Leon pauses for breath, but otherwise stay in the background, supporting him as he supported their solos.

The low lights seem to pulse in time with the new rhythm. Some notes echo through the room, feeding on themselves. Others are absorbed by dark red wall curtains, bringing out the deeper textures of his performance.

Leon plays his trumpet. Leon plays more than his trumpet. He plays the entire room, the thick curtains, the framed black and white photograph of newly elected President Kennedy with Martin Luther King Jr., the candle-lit tables, the glasses filled with varying levels and shades of whisky. He plays the couples on the dance floor. He plays the people sitting out the number at the tables or the bar; they are compelled to turn towards him. He plays the waitstaff and the bartender, the busboys and the coat check girl. Leon is in control.

He builds to a satisfying crescendo, lets it out in one great burst.

A single pair of hands clap.

“That’s enough, Leon.” The voice is matter-of-fact. Not threatening. Not pleading. Still, requiring compliance.

That last note hangs in the empty room, unsatisfied. It wants to do more, lead into another song. That won’t be happening tonight. Leon is content with what time he can get, a solo here, backfill there, one song, often two; three, on a really slow night. It’s enough to sustain him. For now.

It has to be enough.

“Thank you, Derek.” The words are slightly slurred as Leon acknowledges Derek Jonas, son of the club’s original owner. He does not resent Derek’s interruption. He understands the situation. Jay Jonas, his late father, was sole owner. Derek answers to two partners. The numbers are down. Many nights, like tonight, Derek closes the bar on his own.

A lesser man might ban Leon from Jays Jive outright.

Leon adjusts faded grey sweatpants. He bends his knees, opens the instrument case at his feet. His shaking hands remove the trumpet’s mouthpiece, which he places in a side pocket. He wipes moist palms on his equally grey, equally faded sweatshirt. His Parkinson’s is worsening. The hyoscyamine treatments at the clinic on Lenox help. A little. Not as much as they did.

Leon glances around the empty back room. Dusty chairs are stacked on dusty tables, pushed against the walls. A single frayed curtain brushes scuffed floor tiles behind the bar. Bare brick is exposed. The King-Kennedy photograph, framed in black, hangs askew. The air is chill. Save for a lone security light above the main door, darkness rules the performance space. That darkness allows Leon to see what he needs to see. What others cannot see.

“Please tell me you’re aware we are the only two here, Leon.” Derek’s tone almost sounds like a plea.

The trumpeter forces poorly responsive facial muscles into a smile. “You ask me that every time, Derek. Yes. I know I’m alone here. We’re alone.” We are now, anyway.

“Just checking. I know your condition – well, it can affect the brain. The first time I found you toodling your horn back here, I had to drag you out. Your reaction at the time was...unseemly.” Derek grabs the towel hanging from his waist, wipes his neck.

“I’m grateful for your understanding of my...condition, Mr. Jonas. I was unaware of my issues, then. Early stages. Undiagnosed. Unmedicated. Being able to spend time back here actually does more good than the drugs.”

“Papa would have done the same. As long as you don’t do it more than once or twice a month, and then only near closing time on slow nights, when we don’t have a trio or a private event. I can’t afford to drive customers away.”

“I know the rules.”

“Casey’s Coven was one of our biggest draws, a decade ago. When my father was alive.” Derek pauses. “I could let you spend even more time back here, on off nights, if you were quiet. If you didn’t disturb the customers out front. If you left that trumpet...”

“You’ve said so, many times. I can’t just leave it at the Y. The smoothness in my hands. The warm metal against my lips. That’s what resonates.”

“...or didn’t actually try to play it...”

“That’s all a part of it. Anything less, your kindness would be wasted. My fingers may no longer be agile, but the memory is.”

Derek points to the case. “Have you considered using a mute? I see you have a couple.”

“I can’t hold the cup in place anymore.” Leon stretches out a trembling hand, underscoring his point. “And the straight mute makes high notes too piercing. That’s wrong for the song.” Leon is all too aware that, due to shaky fingering, less flexible muscles, uneven breathing, what he currently produces with his trumpet can barely be called music. On this stage, however, fingering valves, manipulating the mouthpiece with his lips, he hears “Ochi Chernyie” as he used to play it. What it was. Not what it is.

He closes the case, struggles with the clasps. Derek steps forward to help. Leon shakes his head, finally snapping them shut. “I sound like I’m grandstanding, don’t I?”

“A little. I understand, though. I wish the club could still afford a regular big band, instead of the occasional trio or solo act. You could re-live your career more vicariously. Hang with old friends.”

Leon doesn’t answer.

Jonas waves at the gloomy space. “This room’s overdue for renovation. Money’s just too tight. Jays Jive is a shadow of its heyday. As is the neighborhood. You heard what the church is doing to the Lincoln Theater?”

“This room is good enough for me, Derek. Though I understand why you’d want to fix it up. Draw in more customers, private events.”

“Acoustics are still pretty good, though, right? That’s what really does it for you?”

Leon tucks the instrument case under his right arm, to minimize the shaking. He takes one last look past Derek, across the dance floor.

The couples hold their positions, waiting, hoping, for an equally lively encore. An encore that will not be played. Not tonight.

“Yes.” Leon pretends to agree. “The acoustics.”

Derek meets Leon’s eyes. Leon seems to look through him. Derek shrugs. “Time to close up.”

Leon nods. He moves past Derek. The trumpet case rattles slightly. His steps are small, deliberate. He passes through the front room, with its larger bar, steps outside and turns towards the YMCA. His room is on the fifth floor. In better days, he used the stairs. Now he takes the elevator.

Leon is very, very tired.