Tuesday, February 23, 2010

me, jeff and ray

January, 1983
Ray and Jeff and me at Ray's house. Snowed in like Shackleton, Ray's dad at the match mill. His mom brings us Pepsi and I can't drink it so I don't--I pour it out in the planter and it overflows on the blue rug. I drop a couch pillow on the stain and no one knows.

Ray's brother, Mitch, down the hall with a girl. We hear them laughing like chimps, not giggling, but laughing, his changing voice cracking, her coquettish tones sing-song.

Bootlegging music--from LP to cassette--Grover Washington Jr., Chuck Mangione, Earl Klugh and Al Dimeola. I wanted The Doors, but Jeff was in charge.

"The last thing you need is more Doors."
"The last thing you need is more authority."
"It's not authority I have, but taste, you dolt. Just let me get you this stuff first."
"Hey, Mr. Stylepoints, I love this jazz shit. Lay it on me Hep Cat; I can dig it as well as you can."
"You guys, knock it off," Ray says from his chair. It's his house, so we stop, to pick it up later...it would end like it always did: Me punching Jeff in the face, or Jeff restraining me like a spazz younger brother, condescendingly sweet, unwilling to crush.
"This guy's guitar is amazing," I say, changing tone. "This music makes me want to drive..."
"Then you should get your damn driver's license, Late Bloomer," Jeff says. And Ray laughs like crazy, sounds like his brother. His mother pokes in..

"Everything okay in here? " she says, ultra cheerful. She eyes the snow out the window, piling up in drifts. We'd been there since the morning before and it was getting to be twilight. Her mind as easy to read as "Encyclopedia Brown." Are they gonna be here ANOTHER night? None of us say anything, although I manage a shrug. "Well, let me know if youz guys need anything," she offers, and turns on her heel and disappears to check on Mitch.

"Nothing's okay in here," Ray mumbles when she's gone. Jeff and I look at him and then at each other.
"What's that?" I say, just to say it.
"Fuck it," Ray says, loud and resigned, implying Now Drop It, so I do and so does Jeff, who stands up to change the music and set up the next tape.
"Ray, you're next," Jeff says. "What do you want taped? You want that Maynard album? Par brought Chameleon."
"Whatever," Ray says. "I'm going outside."
Jeff and I follow him, out into the snow, where the wind cuts our skin and snow stabs our faces.

"What the hell are we doing out here?" Jeff says, looking at me, but talking to Ray.
"We're standing here," I say. "And freezing our asses off. That's what we're doing!--hey Ray, what's the point?"
Suddenly, Ray has a cigarette and tugs on it deeply. He's either crying or the wind is making his eyes burn, yet he stands, facing the wind, exhaling into it, vainly.
"Hey," Jeff says, stepping closer for a better look. I step up, too, put my face next to his. "What the hell's the matter, Ray?" Jeff says, demanding, on the verge of annoyance, the pitch of his voice tight, hinting at fear.

Ray takes a deep breath and speaks monotone, as if bored or exhausted or utterly uninterested:

"Some day, 25 years from now, you guys will be married and have teenagers, making out in their bedrooms and spilling pop on your carpet. They'll bug the shit out of you, with their friends and their music--like we annoy ours."

"Yeah," Jeff and I say, almost in unison. And then, "So? ...why are we standing in a blizzard to hear that? Who cares? Twenty five years is a long way away."

"I'll never make that," Ray says and drops his cigarette. It sizzles for an instant, then is buried for good.
"The hell are you talking about?" I say, and Jeff says,
"You're wrong."
And we trudge back to the house where Grover Washington Jr. is finishing "Let it Flow." Ray comes in last, his mood changed completely. Grover apparently the magical touch.

"Love this album," Ray whispers and then, "Let's play Jim Morrison," he says and winks at me. "American Prayer. Rock and roll poet."

Jeff shakes his head, disdainful, but obedient. "Rock and Roll Poser," he says under his breath. But Jeff knows to accommodate. He knows Ray is right. He knows I don't know and never will and never can. And the snow keeps snowing. And the music steals on.

2 comments:

  1. Nice. Did you write this then, or now from memory? I have memories similar to this, hanging out in the 80s... Did Ray make it?

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