Dave Douglas (left) at Jazz Standard
As we hit the 2nd month of this post, I’m aware that readers may not have the patience for digressions; but I think its necessary to my story to mention that trumpeter Dave Douglas is one my favorite musicians. While I never learned enough music theory to describe what he does beyond layman’s terms, I’ve seen and heard enough trumpeters to know he's got great tone, writes great compositions (at a very prolific rate), and is an outstanding ambassador for both jazz and his instrument. He started New York’s annual FONT (Festival Of New Trumpet) at Jazz Standard, as well as the Undead Festival of 2010. And his original Keystone project--which features Fatty Arbuckle’s pit bull Luke, is one of my favorite soundtracks. I really admire the guy, and his music’s blared in the background while I’ve written many of the posts contained here at Intermission.
In other words, the guy inspires me, and his opinions on a wide range of subjects--including Lodo Grdzak, would matter to me.
So with that said, let’s return to Tuesday night at the Jazz Standard, where Jules and I have now returned to our table. Being the third wheel is common for me, but still an odd number; so I sat with Buttons on her side of the table, while Jules sat on the other to face us. Course I don’t like to rush, so we were at the club kind of early, with plenty of time to drink and smoke and eat--and drink (and drink) some more.
At some point Buttons and I got involved on a topic, which left Jules free to engage our neighbors at the adjacent table. Initially I only heard fragments of the conversation, but even at that early juncture I became concerned.
“Well Perry’s just a...”
“Course Ron Paul’s older than...”
“ I could move a hundred pounds tomorrow if this freaking war on...”
“Obama got handed a plate of shit, so how’s he...”
Political talk! Its rude to talk politics with strangers reader, it really is. This used to be common knowledge--or at least I thought it was. No matter your intentions, you’re bound to offend or rub someone the wrong way. Just like the minefields of race or religion. Talk about your life before you discuss your mindset. That’s an established, golden rule. And when the subject’s Barack Hussein Obama things become even more charged since he’s both President and black. America still doesn’t seem entirely sure what to make of that.
But Jules knows what to make of things. Got ‘em all figured out. And he was glad to tell the middle-aged, black couple seated next to him.
Again, I didn’t hear the start of the conversation, and what I did hear was mostly Jules’ side since his volume was so loud. Still, as things progressed I began to listen with a bit more than half-an-ear.
“At least Obama won the election, right? Even I voted for him--I didn’t care that he’s black. Screw old man McCain and his war machine, Navy bullshit. We’d be in another war right now with that guy. Another jerk’s son. An Admiral's.”
It was the woman of the couple who sat closest to Jules. If I say she looked like Phylicia Rashad you’d probably call it a cliche, but with this post is on its 10th installment its a shortcut description that serves my purposes. Phylicia nodded slightly, though hesitantly; but I could already see she wanted out.
Course Jules had more to say.
“And now these Repubs won’t even acknowledge the guy. Like he’s the pretender, when he actually got the votes. 'Where’s your papers?' Where’s your fucking papers Rick Perry? This guy actually won the election before he became President. Your guy couldn’t do that, but he got to be president for a decade. Why? Cause of his DADDY!”
Now reader, as an investigator I’m taught to report only on what’s termed “outward signs of behavior.” Tangible things or behaviors that can be directly observed. I’m not supposed to comment on what I think motivates that behavior or what might be on a subject’s mind. Not without a direct inquiry.
So if I had to write a report on this conversation, I’d describe Phylicia Rashad’s behavior to this point as polite, though uncertain. She’d scooted back in her seat a bit, but nodded her head in affirmation of certain points Jules made and would sometimes flash a tight smile as she stole a glance towards the man I assume was her husband. But as Jules continued...
“I’ll tell you, these Repubs disgust me. It’s like an old boys club. And now that they can’t have their way they don’t even care about the process. It’s like they had a meeting and decided “Hey--we’re gonna freeze this ni__er out,” you know? Make it impossible for him to pass anything. But the guy seems smart to me. I say...”
Jules said a lot of things after that, but you can bet the only thing Phylicia heard was that N-bomb he’d dropped. Her eyes blinked rapidly as she continued to monitor Jules and his comments. Curious perhaps as to what to make of him.
“Excuse me,” she eventually asked him when she managed to get a word in edgewise, “what did you say about ‘freezing Obama out?’”
“What?” Jules asked flippantly as he grabbed a rib off his plate, “Oh yeah, I was saying its like a conspiracy, you know. Like these guys all got together and were like “This guy’s just some ni__er we don’t have to work with. This is our country. We’ll freeze him out so he can’t get anything done. ”
Phylicia sat silently. Contemplatively for a moment.
“Know what I mean?” Jules asked as he pointed his rib in their direction. “It’s like...”
“Yeah,” the woman responded as she slowly turned her back to our table, “I get it.”
But Jules didn’t get it. Least not right away. But then...
“...Hey,” he said to Phylicia as he softly tapped her shoulder, “I’m not sure you understood me. I didn’t call Obama a ni__er. I wouldn’t do that. I’m saying that’s what they call him. I’m saying...”
“I understand what you’re saying,” the woman responded with a roll of her eyes towards her partner as she turned her chair to an even greater degree. “Let’s just leave it alone now. It’s no problem.”
Yet it was still a problem for Jules. I can see he didn’t like the woman’s sudden attitude and reacted to it. Like a dog responds to energy, it wasn’t even about what was said anymore. Phylicia exuded an energy Jules didn’t like and I don’t know if his jail-time forced him to respond or if he’d gone to jail for responding to shit like this in the past. But he wasn’t done.
And it wouldn’t have been so wretchedly bad if the lights hadn’t suddenly started to dim. But they had, and as they did so, the crowd quieted; and it was just in that moment that Jules--louder than everyone else of course, had to confront the woman a final time and say,
“I just don’t think you’re understanding me, cause if you did you wouldn’t have turned on me like that. When I said 'freeze the ni__er out'--that’s what they’re trying to do. Not me. I don’t think he’s a ni__er at all. I actually think he’s sma...”
A collective groan from the deep could be heard throughout the crowd.
“She’s not mad at what you said, its how you said it!” the woman’s husband suddenly chimed in. “There’s different ways to make the same point.”
Well, luckily Dave and his band took the stage, which should have put a stopper in the drain of where that conversation was headed. Except that Jules and Mrs. Huxtable had been arguing throughout the pre-performance announcement where they remind you to turn off your cellphones and not to use any flashes or recording devices. New Yorkers know the drill, but out-of-towner's drop the ball on this one all the time. Not that Jules would have turned his phone off anyway; but Dave and the band took the stage. Greeted the now eager audience. And then,
...as a hush took hold.
Dave quietly counted-down to the band,
“...Okay, one,
two,
one, two.."
Ring, ring,
Ring, ring.
Ring, ring,
Ring, ring.
Dave’s shoulders instantly drooped. Tsk’s of condemnation could be heard throughout the crowd as all eyes fell on Jules and his cellphone that must have been turned up to 11.
But as always, Jules was completely oblivious. He inspected the phone’s window display in his own little world, then turned towards Buttons.
“I’ve gotta take this,” he said in his volume for the deaf, standing from the table to leave.
“Yeah, why don’t you!” several members of the crowd exhorted him. “Don’t rush!”
Jules stepped outside, which left all eyes on Buttons and me to take the brunt of their fury. Even Dave Douglas stared me down, ‘til order and the proper mood was restored.
“...We ready now?” he asked the crowd.
More than ready.
“Okay then.
...One,
two,
one, two, three...”
* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split it into some more parts. Next installment (or news on its status) in a few days.
*ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images and are used simply to enhance the story. Copyrights may exist.
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