Hiding Behind Coltrane
(Photos by Bald Punk – Brooklyn Museum – Les Bourgeois de Calais by Auguste Rodin)
I’m in trouble. Big trouble. The only reason no one knows about it is because I’ve been hiding behind John Coltrane . . .
Carrie Robbins just left our apartment. I have no idea how she found us. I guess since she’s a world-renowned medium, she used her psychic powers.
She told my lady friend(LF) and I–along with the pizza and Chinese delivery guys that we should move out of our Manhattan apartment. And she was rude, yet I’m the one that’s in trouble.
I was wearing an apron and had a wooden spoon in my hand as I opened the door for Carrie. It seemed she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. Her lips were puckered and it looked like she wanted to blink. I wasn’t feeling so hot either. That’s why I had a John Coltrane CD playing on the stereo. He helps me to calm down, plus his sound is so infectious, you can move and grove like crazy to it and people think it’s the music. You see, normally I move around a lot. My feet seem to dance of their own accord. Yet when something’s on my mind, it gets worse.
I’m six feet two when I stand really straight, and also a little rotund. Carrie’s maybe five foot and at the door, her eyes had darted right around my gut, flashed to the pizza and Chinese delivery guys who were hovering behind me like flies–and focused on my LF. “Can I talk with you?” she asked like I wasn’t even there.
“We’re just sitting down to dinner,” my LF said as about as nice as a person could. “Why don’t you join us?”
I nodded, because I was the one that cooked. I made spaghetti, meatballs, and my special marinara sauce. We had enough for an army.
Before Carrie answered, both the pizza and Chinese delivery guys chirped in agreement with my LF. Even they were acting weirder than normal, seeming a little cagey. I’m certain it was because they knew I had a secret. They might have thought Carrie was there to rat me out. They love to buzz and nip at my carcass.
Btw, the pasta was whole wheat, and the meatballs were made from veggie burgers. If the meal sounds less than tempting, don’t blame me. My LF hasn’t been herself lately. She swore off KFC and is on a whacked-out food-kick. We go to this place she found in Union Square called Whole Foods, and I eat stuff there that doesn’t even have names.
Carrie declined the invitation to join us and said, “You guys are thinking about moving to Brooklyn. That is a good idea.”
The psychic tightened her gaze on me like she knew the secret that I’d been hiding for two days. I felt a rush of nervousness, and snapped my fingers and stepped to the music. But it was tough trying to keep cool as I had this super-psychic, drilling figurative holes in my head.
“All of you need to change your steps,” Carrie said.
“Why,” I said, wondering if she knew about me and Coltrane, who can make you feel like you’re walking on air. You can totally let-go to his music. It’s real smooth Jazz.
“I had a vision of a stranger,” Carrie said.
“A stranger?” I brashly cut her off, while shuddering inside.
“He has no past,” Carrie said, while she spoke her eyes grew large, seeming like they were going to pop out of her head. “He comes into your life and will subject you to great change. I can’t say it’s evil, but you should avoid him. Don’t let him change your path.”
“Why don’t you join us?” my LF appealed. Her voice was just the right tone. Carrie seemed touched by the offer.
“I’m so sorry,” she said and looked over her shoulder into the empty hall. “I really have to go.” She wiped her eyes, and left in a hurry.
At that moment, of the million or so things my LF could have said, she zeroed in on muah. Besides being the nicest person you could ever meet, she’s very perceptive. “What is it?”
“I’m not moving!” I blurted.
“You’re bouncing around like a jumping bean.”
She was right. My legs were kicking and moving like I was doing a lederhosen dance at Oktoberfest.
(Movie still from Bruno)
“What is it?“ she said.
Man oh man, she had me. I wanted to lie, and was probably going to . . .
“Baldie, what’s going on?”
Thank God, suddenly the smoke alarm went off. My garlic bread was burning.
After the commotion was over, I turned up the Coltrane music on the stereo and was pretty much able to mumble my way out of an admission. My LF thinks Carrie got me nervous.
The truth is a thousand times worse . . .
This post is going to end in thirty seconds. I’m typing what I saw, shutting down my laptop, and that’s it. Maybe this is my last post. Ever. Here it is—
(Photo by Bald Punk – Bryant Park)
In Bryant Park, I saw the man Carrie was talking about. So what’s done is done. Our future is forever changed I guess like Carrie said it would be. We’ll see.
The guy had beady black eyes and a beard and looked like he was standing in a cloud. Around him, I saw a horse and carriage that seemed right out of gaslight NY. He told me he’s the “memory giver.” I asked him where he came from, and he said “the past.” I believed him.
Goodnight, goodbye, good luck!!!
Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Seventeen – September 2009