Before this week's story, I just want to tell you/remind you that I'll be hosting an Ari Herstand concert at my house. I don't want to put my address all over the weekend, so if you're interested in attending please contact me directly and I'll give you the details. He's a wonderful musician, and I'm really looking forward to the show.
And, without further ado, here's a short story I wrote for history class. Keep in mind that my primary goal was to put in all the 1920's references he demanded we did, but I feel pretty good about it.
Barry’s fingers danced across the keys, his smile glowing just as strong as the joyous music that resonated from the piano. Every flapper and their man were dancing their hearts out on the floor that night. It was because of nights like this that Billy played jazz; with his head bobbing, his hands flying this way and that, and the whole crowd doing the Charleston like it was the last night in their life, the world seemed alive with music and soul, a way that no other experience could create.
Barry leaned into his microphone and sang,
How can I love you like I do
Without me coming home with you
Never again will you be blue
I swear, you’ll remember me!
Yeah, you’ll remember me!
With a final flourish on the piano, the song struck its last notes and came to a close. The crowd erupted in applause.
Barry grinned and told them, “Thank you, thanks for coming out tonight. We’re Barry Franks and the Ragtime Cowboys. Hope to see you next time.”
Everyone began to flow out of the club. As the crowd thinned, Barry spotted an old friend of his lingering behind. He climbed off the stage to meet him.
“Hey, Roger, man! Great to see you!”
Roger smiled. “Hey, Barry! It’s been a while.” The two heartily shook hands.
“Glad to see you could finally make it out to one of my shows,” said Barry.
“Oh, well hey, I figured I couldn’t keep avoiding it much longer,” laughed Roger. “And boy, that was really something. The crowd thought you were the bee’s knees, buddy! You’re real lucky to have all these flappers runnin’ after ya now. Boy, some girls! You could get to be quite the cake-eater. Nice these short skits let us see their gams, but I sure wouldn’t mind seeing a whole lot more, if you know what I mean,” he said with a wink.
“Well, I’m just glad you can appreciate good music when you hear it,” replied Barry.
“Oh, the music’s lousy,” said Roger with a grimace. “Can’t stand the hokum myself. But that don’t matter, ‘cause the act is brilliant. You sing, you play, you’ve got a great persona, and the ladies think you’re the cat’s meow… I don’t think you could ask for more.”
Barry sighed. “You know, the music’s what it’s all about. The rest don’t matter to me.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I think you’re playing the wrong kind. You’ve heard of Paul Whiteman, haven’t you? Now that’s some jazz I can enjoy.”
Now it was Barry’s turn to grimace. “Man, you don’t know the first thing about jazz. And neither does Whiteman. I’m telling ya, I’ve still gotta lend you Louie’s new album. ‘West End Blues’ is like nothing you’ve ever heard before.”
Roger looked confused. “Louie? Louie who?”
Barry put his head in his hands. “I need a drink.”
“Yeah, you and the rest of the country. There’s a speakeasy just around the corner. It’s a nice little place, and the giggle water ain’t bad, if you get one of the better bottles.”
As they walked, Roger wouldn’t stop ranting. “I’m telling ya, you could be big. And I mean big. I mean, these days you could even sing in the movies, like you’d never believe. Have you seen that new flick, The Jazz Singer? That could be you!”
“Well, sure, I wouldn’t mind all that,” said Barry, “But I like what I have for now. And no, I haven’t, and I don’t plan to. Al Jolson doesn’t think about what his work means to the rest of the world.”
Roger chuckled. “You goofy sensitive Negros… Well, do as ya please. But if you ask me, the name Barry Franks could be in lights if you just try to get it there. Oh, and I do mean just your name. ‘Ragtime Cowboys’? Horsefeathers. Never even liked the song myself.”
“I’m sorry, why are we friends again?”
“Love ya too, buddy.”
The Mama’s Kitchen speakeasy was crowded, but they managed to find a table alright. Roger pulled a newspaper out of his pocket as they sat.
“You heard about this boxing game between Dempsey and Tunney earlier this week? Wow! What a fight. You know about this?”
Barry snorted. “’course I heard about it. You’d have to be living under some kinda rock to not to have heard about that game.”
“Well, I’ve been reading every scrap of news I can find on the guys,” said Roger as he glanced over the paper. “I know that in these Newspaper Wars everyone seems to be siding with one paper or the next these days, but I just take whatever I can find if I see one a them on the front page. Boxing’s always been my favorite, you know that.”
“Well, you keep reading and save our table while I go to the John.”
“Enjoy yourself,” said Roger with a wink.
As Barry approached the bathroom, he heard voices coming from inside.
“Hey, you think you can just get away with this? What do you take me for?”
“Look, man, it was nothing. I didn’t mean anything by it. She’s all yours.”
Barry stopped himself, realizing it didn’t sound like the best time to enter. He pressed his ear against the door to hear.
“Oh, really? Nothing at all? I would think that sleeping with a lady would mean a whole lot more than that! Or are you some drugstore cowboy, and my wife was just another Sheba for you to forget the next day?”
“C’mon, man, just let it be! Here, I’ll pay you to let it go. I have-”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary.”
Barry jumped as he heard a gunshot echo from inside the room. His mouth hung open in shock, horrified at the events that had passed. Just as he started to get his thoughts back together again, the door swung open and he fell right into the arms of the killer.
As Barry looked up, the killer looked down, and their eyes met, they both realized the same thing: Barry was going to have to run awfully fast.
Barry leaped up as fast as his legs would let him, but the killer still managed to grab his arm, holding him back as he fumbled to find his gun again. Barry swung his other arm around and socked the man right in the kisser. As the killer recoiled, Barry rushed through an unmarked door, hoping to buy himself some time, if not lose him completely.
However, the door didn’t lead to a coat closet or storage room as he’d been hoping, but rather held an entire other room, filled with drinkers and poker players dressed similarly to the killer. They all turned to look at Barry and, seeing his unseemly outfit and complexion, grew confused looks.
The killer rushed in behind him and slammed him to the ground. Seeming to need no other cue, the other men jumped out of their seats and helped to pin Barry down.
“Kid, you messed with the wrong man,” Barry heard a voice grumble as a sharp blow hit the back of his head. The world went dark.
Barry woke up with his head throbbing, taking a minute to understand the dully lit room around him. As his vision came back into focus, he saw a desk and 2 men forming in front of him, one sitting while the other spoke in his ear. The sitting man smiled as the other man finished and departed.
“He was right, you know,” said the man. “You messed with the wrong man. ‘Cause now you’ll have to mess with this one.”
The light illuminated the man’s face as he leaned forward to put his arms on the desk. Barry noticed the three scars on his cheek, and his stomach sunk as his eyes grew wide with recognition.
“Scarface,” he muttered.
“Oh, so you’ve heard of little old Al, have you?” Al Capone asked him with a smile.
Barry shuddered. “You could say that.”
“Then you probably know I wouldn’t feel too comfortable letting you go right now. The man you heard doing his business is an employee of mine, not to mention a friend. If he gets in a pinch, I’m down a man, and that wouldn’t make me too happy.”
“I’d imagine so,” replied Barry, his eyes still wide.
“And you also probably know that I could kill you right now and not have a thought about it tomorrow. If you’ve seen my spiffy mug on the cover of the newspaper, it was for a reason, and I’m not about to have a change of heart.”
“I suppose.”
“Well, then, lets not waste any more time,” he said as he started to reach down for his gun. Suddenly, Al started to examine Barry closely, squinting his eyes as if he was trying to see his nose hairs. Eventually, after a nerve-wracking minute for Barry, he finally said, “Hey, wait a minute. I know you. I’ve seen you before. You’re that jazz singer, aren’t you? Barry Franks? And the Ragtime Cowboys?”
Barry sighed in relief. “Yeah, you’re right. That’s me.”
Al threw back his head and laughed. “Wow… think of that. That’s… that’s just great. You know what? I think were gonna have a bit of fun here.”
Al stood up and walked over to the tables behind Barry, which Barry hadn’t been aware were occupied with a group of other mobsters.
“All right, boys, drink ‘em up! Chug that goof juice down! Don’t wanna waste a drop now! That booze came a long way to get here, all the way down from Canada. Make Bronfman’s work worth it!”
The men all drank their bottles dry as asked. Al grabbed 5 of the bottles out of their hands and took them down to a piano at the end of the room, also new to Barry’s perception. He lined the bottles up across the closed top of the piano. When they were all evenly spaced, he backed away and patted the seat, looking at Barry.
“Have a seat, buddy,” he said with a smirk.
Barry hesitantly walked to the piano and sat on the stool.
“The piano’s here for jazz players that perform sometimes when we’re running this club,” explained Al. “We have Duke Ellington play here every so often. You know him?”
“’Course I do,” replied Barry, nodding. “I’ve heard him play. I’ve met him a few times.”
“He wrote a song a good while ago called ‘Soda Fountain Rag’.”
“His first song,” Barry added.
Al smiled. “I take it you’re familiar?”
“One of my favorites, as a matter of fact.”
“Well, that’s just swell. Think you could play it?”
“Gee, I dunno,” said Barry regretfully. “That’s a damn fast song. Chords jumpin’ this way and that… It’s a tough one.”
Al sighed. “Well, that’s too bad. That’s just a damn shame.” And with that he cocked his pistol and shot the bottle farthest from Barry, shattering it into a thousand pieces. Barry jumped in his seat in shock.
Al leaned forward and grinned. “Why don’t you just give it your best try, okay?”
Barry looked at Al in terror, but quickly got his bearings and nervously started the song. Chord, flourish, chord, flourish… he made it through the intro with no problem. But as the song started to get its swing, Barry made the mistake of keeping one eye on Al, whose menacing glare was tearing him apart. Without his full focus on the piece, he placed his hand in the wrong place and let out a sour chord.
As soon as the sound pierced the air, Al cocked his gun again and shot the next bottle over.
The gunshot scared Barry and he stopped playing completely, staring at the remains of the bottles, the three bottles left and glancing back at Al’s smiling face.
“When did I tell you to stop!” shouted Al, and shot the next bottle.
Barry resumed immediately, with his complete attention on the keys and his fingers. But he knew that if those bottles ran out, it would be his head that got shot. The pressure was starting to destroy him inside.
As the song went on, Barry’s fingers started to sweat more and more with nervousness, making the keys feel slippery and the chords harder to place properly. About a minute into the song, his right hand slid to the soprano part of the piano for a few light triplets, but his hand slipped and slid too far. Barry gasped, but managed to keep playing.
Sure enough, Al cocked his pistol again and shot the next bottle. Only one remained.
“This is insane!” shouted Barry, still playing.
“Charles Lindbergh flew across the ocean in one trip, and you’re trying to tell me you can’t play some little jazz song?” Al shouted back, laughing and rising from his chair. “This isn’t screwy at all! This is just good fun!”
Barry kept playing, his breathing growing heavy, trying his hardest not to think about what could happen if he made any more mistakes. He made it another ways through, completely focused on everything he did, every move he made, following the music in his head.
But near the end of the song, a quick series of quick chords down the scale came along. The chords just came far too fast, and Barry couldn’t help but play one a note too high in the middle of it. Barry screamed inside, but he did his best to maintain a clean composure, hoping that Al wouldn’t notice.
Al wasn’t fooled, and another shot rang out, spraying glass across the keys.
“That was the last bottle, Barry buddy! Gonna make it?”
Barry’s chest heaved in and out. His fingers dripped with sweat and started to drip with blood when the glass made contact. But he couldn’t let any of it distract him, he had to focus, he had to keep his mind on the song…
And he was. He wasn’t making another mistake. Al’s pistol remained seated on his leg, though Al’s hands remained at the ready.
Finally, Barry reached the end. With a sigh of relief, he slid his fingers across the keyboard and played the final A minor.
A minor?
Wait.
The last chord was supposed to be A major.
Al cocked his gun.
