Opening day of the 68/69 school year unfolded into a sunny, hot afternoon. Then as now, the first day was shortened. I believe we got out by 11 a.m. Two of my black friends followed me home after school had let out. I’m sure my neighbors hated that I hosted black people in my home, especially since my parents weren’t around. One of the guys had been in my home many times. We’d been friends since I was 10 years old. Both the guys were (still are) great fellows.
There was no big deal for the longest time. We goofed off and listened to the radio and the like—the usual stuff. For a reason unknown to me, one of the guys kept picking at the other one nearly all day. He rode everybody sometimes, mostly in an irritating but good natured way, and I couldn’t honestly say that anything was any different that day, but then the knife appeared. The knife was an old steak knife with a tape wad for a handle that was inside an old trunk my parents had been given.
Many things could be said about my dad, but boy was he good at shining shoes and sharpening knives. He’s the only person I’ve known who took a hobbyist’s zeal to those activities. He could easily make a piece of shit shoe look like patent leather, and, depending on his objective, he could really put an edge on a blade. When he finished a project his whit stone would be grooved away where he had circled and pulled the blade. He constantly spat on the stone (he spat on the leather when working on a shoe) as he swirled the blade sharp. The edge produced seemed to be translucent, almost like a dangerous halo.
I don’t remember exactly how the knife came into play, but one guy had it and the other one wanted it. The guy with the knife kept telling the other guy he was going to get cut if he didn’t leave him alone. The radio from the big triple play stereo pumped out the hits as their argument escalated. The guy who didn’t have the knife would not leave it alone. “Comon, man, lemme see it,” he repeated and sort of hand wrestled the knife holder. “I’m warning you, dammit! I’m gonna cut you, goddammit!” the knife holder said.
I was relieved when the phone rang. I thought if I removed myself as witness to the action everything would be all right. “Is this Kim Frank?” someone on the line asked. “Yeah.” All the time “Get away from me!” and whatnot continued in the background. “I’m looking to put together a band to manage and heard your name around. You interested? I thought we could call it Captain Frank and the Troopers or something.”
“No, no, I don’t think that’ll work. I don’t sing or anything. I’m just an organ player,” I said. My two friends didn’t stop. They kept arguing and wrestling in the entrance to the kitchen. “I’ve been playing with some guys. We’ve got a few songs, but we don’t have a set of drums so there’s not much more we can do.”
“That’s no problem; I got a set of drums,” the phone said. “You guys can use my drums.”
I couldn’t believe it. I felt as though a band had been delivered me as if by divine assistance. Then I heard, “I told you, goddammit!” and saw the guy who wanted the knife rolling wildly on the floor. Blood streamed from an angled slash across his right wrist.
“I gotta go,” I told the phone. I tried to quickly explain what had happened. “Call me back.”
I went to the bathroom and got some first aid stuff. The First Aid course I’d taken from the rescue squad via Boy Scouts came in handy. I knew exactly what to do, but had never encountered a wound that severe before. The slash was pretty deep and nearly five inches long. I called my mom at work, and she came home and took the guy to the doctor. She later remarked that the guy had a lot of guts because he never whimpered at all while the doctor stitched the wrist.
I wasn’t sure the potential manager would call back but he did. He made his pitch and I told him I’d relay the information to the others. With a set of drums I might actually be able to play in a real band. I told CEP and Lawman right away. They seemed pretty excited, especially Lawman who would have a drum set rather than pots and pans to bang on.
Finding Billy D was a little tougher. He owned a car and could have been anywhere, so I had to wait around for him to show, which he did before dark. I told him about everything that had transpired. “What’s they guy’s name?” Billy D asked. “Elmer Ripp” (not a real name) I said.
“Oh, shit, man…don’t you know him?” Billy D said.
“No.”
“He’s a queer, man.”
“What?”
“He’s a queer. He got me over to his house to listen to records when I was 12. He put the moves on me. He started pissing on the stove in his living room, and I said, ‘There comes my daddy,’ and took off out the door. Elmer got drafted and I hadn’t seen him around in a long time,” Billy D said.
“That’s too bad,” I said, “we could really use the drums.”
“Well, hell, maybe we still can use em. We’ll just have to be careful, that’s all. Let’s go over and talk to KK.”
“Ok, but what’s he got to do with it?”
“We need a drummer.”
“What about Lawman?”
“He’s ok on the pots and pans, but if we’re gonna get drums we gotta get somebody who can play them.”
We got a solid commitment from KK, and I was left the task of putting together a practice. My parents had the only spare room amongst my band mates’ folks, so I lobbied my parents for its use. Billy D, KK, and I went to Elmer’s to pick up the drums. We talked for awhile before hauling the set to my folks’ place. The rig consisted of high hat, snare, bass, one mounted tom, and a single cymbal (the size of a ride cymbal) which served as ride and crash. It was the most Spartan set I had ever seen, but it fit perfectly into the corner of the room where space was going to be tight no matter what. By the next night we had all the equipment in place and conducted our first practice. Elmer dropped in and met my parents (who loved him right away) and listened to our hacking. He seemed strangely satisfied. We decided to call the band Mook’s Session.
No comments:
Post a Comment