? CHAPTER 9 ?
Listen to this.” My friend Oscar put a record on the turntable and set down the needle with care. The 45 popped and hissed; then the melody line rose, followed by the four-part doo-wop, “Earth Angel” by The Penguins or “Gee” by The Crows, and he’d sit back on the edge of the bed, close his eyes, and pull apart those different harmonies, first singing tenor and so on through the bass. Or he’d put on a new jazz riff by Miles or maybe Dave Brubeck and pick out the counterpoint, cocking his ear to the nearly inaudible piano underneath the horns. All through high school we’d spend hours in his room, idly listening to his vast eclectic record collection, analyzing and arguing over the more subtle points of the compositions. Oscar Love’s passion for music put my ambitions to shame. In high school, he was nicknamed “The White Negro,” as he was so alien from the rest of the crowd, so cool, so in his head all the time. Oscar was such an outsider, he made me feel normal by comparison. And even though he was a year ahead of me, he welcomed me into his life. My father thought Oscar wilder than Brando, but my mother saw beneath the facade and loved him like a son. He was the first person I approached about forming a band.
Oscar stuck with me from its beginning as The Henry Day Five through every version: The Henry Day Four, The Four Horsemen, Henry and the Daylights, The Daydreamers, and lastly, simply Henry Day. Unfortunately, we could not keep the same group together for more than a few months at a time: Our first drummer dropped out of high school and enlisted in the Marine Corps; our best guitarist moved away when his father was transferred to Davenport, Iowa. Most of the guys quit because they couldn’t cut it as musicians. Only Oscar and his clarinet persisted. We stayed together for two reasons: one, he could play a mean lick on any horn, particularly his beloved stick; two, he was old enough to drive and had his own car—a pristine ’54 red and white Bel Air. We played everything from high school dances to weddings and the occasional night at a club. Discriminating by ear and not by any preconceived notion of cool, we could play any kind of music for any crowd.
After a jazz performance where we particularly killed the crowd, Oscar drove us home, radio blaring, the boys in a great mood. He dropped off the others, and late that summer night we parked in front of my parents’ house. Moths danced crazily in the headlights, and the rhythmic cricket song underscored the silence. The stars and a half-moon dotted the languid sky. We got out and sat on the hood of the Bel Air, looking out into the darkness, not wanting the night to end.
“Man, we were gas,” he said. “We slayed them. Did you see that guy when we did ‘Hey Now,’ like he never heard a sound like that before?”
“I’m ’bout worn-out, man.”
“Oh, you were so cool, so cool.”
“You’re not bad yourself.” I hitched myself farther up on the car to stop skidding off the hood. My feet did not quite reach the ground, so I swung them in time to a tune in my head. Oscar removed the cigarette he had stashed behind his ear, and with a snap from his lighter he lit it, and into the night sky he blew smoke rings, each one breaking its predecessor.
“Where’d you learn to play, Day? I mean, you’re still a kid. Only fifteen, right?”
“Practice, man, practice.”
He quit looking at the stars and turned to face me. “You can practice all you want. Practice don’t give you soul.”
“I’ve been taking lessons for the past few years. In the city. With a guy named Martin who used to play with the Phil. The classics and all. It makes it easier to understand the music beneath it all.”
“I can dig that.” He handed me the cigarette, and I took a deep drag, knowing he had laced it with marijuana.
“But sometimes I feel like I’m being torn in two. My mom and dad want me to keep going to lessons with Mr. Martin. You know, the symphony or a soloist.”
“Like Liberace.” Oscar giggled.
“Shut up.”
“Fairy.”
“Shut up.” I punched him on the shoulder.
“Easy, man.” He rubbed his arm. “You could do it, though, whatever you want. I’m good, but you’re out of this world. Like you’ve been at it all your life or you were born that way.”
Maybe the dope made me say it, or maybe it was the combination of the summer night, the post-performance high, or the fact that Oscar was my first true friend. Or maybe I was dying to tell someone, anyone.
“I’ve got a confession, Oscar. I’m not Henry Day at all, but a hobgoblin that lived in the woods for a long, long time.”