Theme Stated: A statement made by a character (typically not the hero) that hints at what the hero’s arc will be (that is, what the hero must learn/discover before the end of the book). Also referred to as a life lesson.
– Jessica Brody, Save The Cat! Writes A Novel
Saturday morning came creeping through my window too early. I combed my hair back and looked at the clock.
One hour until Marty.
Marty didn’t like to wait, and I didn’t like to upset him.
The blonde was scampering about, recovering assorted garments tossed around the night before.
“I had fun,” she said.
“Me too, sweetie.”
And that was that.
After we both had fully dressed, we exited my room and walked down the stairs. She stopped at the bottom, looking into the empty Midnight Room. Daylight had stripped the place bare to the essentials. Stale beer, dead stage lights, chairs stacked and put away… You could see years’ worth of stains on the carpet. We walked up to the piano. Her fingers brushed the closed piano fallboard.
“You want to get drinks tonight? I know a place-“
I kissed her quick. I didn’t have time for such plans.
“Got an appointment,” I said, and steered her toward the door. At the threshold she turned back. I gave her a smile. The million-dollar one.
“Later, sweetie.”
She blinked once, then walked out. Through the window I watched her cross the lot to a silver Honda with two parking tickets under the wipers. She peeled them off, looked at them, and let them fall out of her hands onto the asphalt.
I turned down the hallway toward Mabel’s apartment. The walls were lined with photographs, years of them, all a little crooked in their frames. Mabel with Dizzy, both of them laughing at something off-camera. Mabel with Basie, young and sharp. An older picture of Mabel at St. Jude’s, taken mid-song, surrounded by kids fighting cancer. I passed these decorations every week. Her living room opened at the end of the hall. It was cluttered. Records were stacked in leaning towers. Books lay on the coffee table with cracked spines. In the corner, she had an upright piano, the one Hank set me down in front of the year he brought me here. At that time I was fifteen years old and mean, with seven years of Los Angeles still under my skin. Hank and Mabel gave me that piano to keep my hands busy.
Mabel was in the kitchen. Bacon snapped in the skillet. “Morning, beautiful.” I kissed her cheek. “Mind if I steal some bacon?”
“You always do. Help yourself.”
I took a strip off the paper towel and enjoyed the crispy flavor. Saturday morning, same as always.
“Busy last night?” she asked. “Didn’t see you after your last set.”
“Had a late gig. Unexpected jam session.”
“That what you’re calling it now?” She didn’t turn around. Her voice had that edge. “That room upstairs is for musicians too tired to drive home. Not for these random latenight ‘gigs’ you score.”
“Just spreading the joy,” I said. “It’s my brand.”
“Mmm.” She turned with the spoon in her hand. “Your brand.”
I leaned against the counter and reached for another strip. “Most landlords just complain about rent.”
“You know what your trouble is?”
“Not that conversation again.”
“It’s simple. You got it too easy. Understand? Easy livin’ is goin’ be the ruin of you. You’re hiding from the most important things.”
“Hiding from what things?”
“I don’t know, son. You think I’m a preacher or somethin’? You’re just wasting your life, that’s all. You be drifting’ around instead of settling down.”
I smiled again. Mabel always had a motherly instinct.
“You’ve got talent,” she continued. “Looks. More charm than a man your age ought to be trusted with. But you don’t keep anything. You don’t build anything. Soon as a thing starts to matter, you slide out the side door.”
“I’ve done okay so far.”
“This far.” She set the spoon down. “And by that you mean playing lounge piano. Selling cigarettes you don’t smoke. Borrowing everybody else’s roof.” She looked at me. “I never met your mama, God rest her soul. But I know she’d be sick to death of you.”
“She’d be proud I skipped the smoking, even if I sell the cigarettes.”
“Sit down,” she said.
I sat.
She stood over me, dish towel in one hand, spoon in the other. “You’re rootless, Vic. Got no anchor. Got no stake in the ground. Got nothing holding you to what matters.”
“Rootless.” I echoed the word back to her. “That’s new. You reading poetry again?”
“Don’t get smart.” She folded the towel over the oven handle. “You think Hank and I gave you a life. We didn’t. We gave you a room and a piano and the best teachers money could buy. That’s dirt, son. That’s all anybody can hand you.” Her voice dropped. “A man’s got to put something in the ground himself. Thirty years old and you never once did.”
“That’s why I have you, Mabel. You’re roots enough for both of us.”
She swatted at me with the towel. I ducked just in time, and celebrated by flashing my million dollar smile at her. She didn’t smile back.
“One day that smile of yours is going to fail you. Then what?”
“Then I’ll come down here for bacon and wise counsel.”
“Out of my kitchen.” I took one last piece of bacon. She let me. I kissed her cheek and headed for the door.
“Save me a whiskey,” I said. “I’ll need one.”
I walked back down the hall, past the photographs, past the empty club where my own face still smiled out from Marty’s favorite new poster of me and the cigarettes. Outside, Vegas was already bright, hot, and sexy. Somewhere there was a faint smell of sewage. My mind thought about Marty, waiting. What if I fought with him about the Havener contract? That was always stressful. Besides, nothing would change. That was the arrangement.
Inspiration: Ella Fitzgerald Sings The Cole Porter Song Book album cover, released on Verve May 15, 1956.
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