Silhouette

Standing Pines was a trick of time. It stood with one leg rooted in the past, the other stumbling forward in the present. Nestled in the pines of North Carolina, it was an elegant witness to the gracious life style of a privileged, genteel class from a bygone era. It hinted of a time when life was lived at a more leisurely pace, a time when breeding and upbringing dictated social position. A time before ambition, intelligence and productivity wrestled away privileges formerly conferred by the accident of birth. It had a rich, storied, proud tradition and, in it’s day attracted some of the very finest golfers, both amateur and professional, the game had to offer. 1

An aging Grande Dame, it was one step ahead of encroaching shabbiness. Maybe it was built slightly out of square to give it a unique character. Hallways seemed to list almost imperceptibly in your passage. Doors closing or staying open by themselves depending on which side of the hall your room was on. Perhaps just poor lighting, or almost a century of settling onto the red clay and sands of North Carolina imparted this sense of being “ a half bubble off ”. It played games with your equilibrium.2

The rooms you might find in your grandmother’s house. Floral pattern carpeting and drapes, porcelain sinks with thick, white handles, bathtub with clawed feet and shower curtain suspended from an oblong track affixed to the ceiling guaranteed water on the floor after each shower. Heavy armoire, overstuffed chair with a lace doily, pull down shades, a bed and mattress of a height that presented problems for the vertically challenged, and the faint scent of scalded dust only genuine steam heat radiators emit. A room an excited Jimmy Stewart in a letter sweater might burst into to greet you after your first year at the state college, “Wh..Wh..Well now, how did it go?”3

My membership in the East Coast Coal Association brought me to Standing Pines for meetings, educational seminars and golf. Members were intrigued, delighted, and captivated by the history and former prestige of Standing Pines. In this place that may have refused service to our parents, we staked our claim to the best they had to offer. We were beggars at the banquet, a bit rough around the edges in comparison to earlier patrons.4

My subgroup, when it became recognized as such, was a collection of Catholics, mostly Irish, from the industrial north. We were in sales and marketing, contract administration or fuel purchasing and dubbed “ the Irish Republican Wing” of the ECCA. We ‘delighted’ the septuagenarian course starter with questions like “Which way to the first tee and what’s the course record?”5

We congregated in the “snug” after a round of golf. Dark, rich paneling, overstuffed chairs and leather couches, polished maple bar with brass foot rail and huge back mirror gave the “snug” the ambience of your Grandfather’s den if your grandfather was Norman Rockwell.6

And presiding over all was Walter Brady. He was quick to mix your favorite elixir, sly enough to turn an insult into a quip. 7

“Hey, Walter, any possibility of some service around here?”8

“Ah, M’Lord, the staff failed to notify me of yer arrival. You’ll have to wait yer turn with the rest of the rabble. Whattle ya’ have?”9

“Four beers, preferably cold, free and opened.”10

“Two outta three ain’t bad, I got cold and opened but for you gentlemen that’ll be one point four billion dollars, “ Walter said placing a bowl of pretzels and peanuts in front of us.11

One of the lads, Tim McCarthy happily announced “ Speakin’ a’ one point four billion dollars, I stopped at a utility yesterday and got two orders.”12

“That’s great Mac, what were they?”13

“Get out and stay out!”14

Just then Walter arrived with the beers. “You guys know the difference between a bartender and a stagecoach driver?” 15

“No idea, Walter.”16

“A stagecoach driver only has to stare at six assholes” and Walter moved on to ‘charm’ new arrivals.17

It was shaping up as a good, long night. A couple games of pool, and the crowd would be ready for a “friendly” game of chance. After several hands of cards, Walter dispensed last call beverages, collected empties and retreated into the “snug” to close the bar.18

Several losing hands later, I discovered I had left my cigarettes on a table in the “snug”.19

The only light in the snug came from the utility room behind the bar. As I picked them up, I heard someone else in the room. I turned, framed in the doorway was Walter. He reached up for the light switch. He lifted his head toward the light and placed a Dubliner hat on his head. A greeting froze in my throat. He flipped the switch, plunging the room further into darkness. He left through the back door before my dumbstruck senses could recover from sighting a ghost.20

As if time had been spliced, the silhouette I’d just seen was identical to one I had seen some twenty years earlier at the Aerie Crown Theatre in Chicago. It was the opening of Spider Geist’s second set. The stage was blacked out and as the house lights raised, a single beam backlit Spider on the stage. He looked up toward the light, doffed his Dubliner, raised the trumpet and called angels down into that place with “The Lord’s Hideaway.” The silhouettes were identical. I’ve got a photographic memory and it isn’t out of film.21

Images of jazz’s greatest trumpeter popped into my mind. He was nicknamed Spider because he “play like he got eight fingers.” Spider burst onto the scene in the late 90's when he replaced the trumpeter for Chicago on a national tour. He stole the show from one of the hottest, most experienced rock bands in the nation with his solos. They stayed with him early in the jam, but finally, even the band members just gave up and listened transfixed. He did it nightly coast to coast.22

Shortly after the tour, he put together his own quartet and blitzed the charts. Crossing over into blues, country, classical and rock audiences he shot to the top. He was everywhere. Christ, even Miles Davis called him a ‘pale brother.’23

Then, quick as a hiccup, he was gone. He left behind memories, 32 songs recorded on 3 albums in less than three and half years. At least Elvis left behind a body. Spider vanished. There were rumors of a mob hit, entering a Buddhist monastery, frying every synapse in his brain with an overdose, cancer of the lip, hip, ear, throat, a stroke, fear of crowds, someone claimed he was at a weather station in Antarctica. But the Spider had left the web.24

I played badly in the tournament the next day. I three putted on 18 from 10 feet and blew a bet. I was distracted during dinner. The after dinner speakers usually held my attention, not tonight. I waited until near everyone had left the snug.25

I ordered a single malt. Walter brought it and I told him, “There was a spider in my room today. I didn’t kill him, just can’t quite get him out of my head.” I said trying not to spook him.26

He froze.27

“Didya’ ever get a song stuck in your head? A tune just won’t go away, maybe Inishfree Bird?” I asked. It had been one of his most remarkable and popular tunes, a Celtic tune overlaid on swamp rock theme.28

His shoulders slumped resignedly. He turned, “Any reason you’re telling me about your arachnophobia, I got things to do.”29

“On the contrary, used to be I admired a spider. Loved to listenin’ to him, ever hear of a spider named Geist?” I said 30

“Get to it. I told you I have things to do.”31

“I just want to know. Are…were you Spider Geist?” I tossed my cards on the table.32

“And if I was?”33

“Didn’t think it out that far, just curious. Wanted to know what happened to the best since Bix Beiderbecke,” I admitted.34

He looked around, we were alone. He turned off the other lights so it was just the utility room light on again. He reached for the bottle of single malt, put three ice cubes in his glass, pulled the cork and threw it over his shoulder saying, “Won’t be needing that again.”35

“I was in the eighth grade. They closed in on me, tryin’ to knock the trumpet case outta’ my hands. Girl comes outta’ nowhere. Gave ‘em a couple of biffs to the head. Grabbed ‘em by the scruff of their necks and told ‘em to get home. Then she rounds on me saying “Why dintcha just give ‘em a bash in the melt, ya’ eejit? Jaysus, me brudders, t’ere only fift’ graders! Yer twice der size, ya’ great bloody lummox.”36

“Her family just moved inta’ the neighborhood. Micks, a family of eight, spawn of the devil. The nuns tried, but they were outnumbered as soon as any two of ‘em got together.”37

“My Dad died when I was four. Just have vague memories of him. A classically trained trumpeter, graduated Northwestern, he played in the Chicago Symphony. Contracted lung cancer. Took a while and all the money before he died. My Ma worked all the time and raised me. But if she was a great Ma, she was a lousy boxer, didn’t have much in the way of male role models. I went to school, church, home and played trumpet every chance I got.”38

“Couple weeks later, it’s some kids from another school. She walks up to the biggest one, says nothing, plants her fist right in his face, his lips, luckily, were closed or she’d a tore up her hand on the braces. Kid can’t even scream because his lips are stapled to the braces, blood leaking out between his lips. He backs off, she looks around the half circle, none of ‘em want to take on this morrigan. She leaves before I can thank her. After, I never had another problem in the neighborhood. She was my guardian angel.”39

“You remember that scene in “The Commitments” where Joey Fagan explains his horn’s mouthpiece is Gina Lollobrigida’s nipple? Mine was Caitlin’s. Pretty sure it’s why I got so good, I was nothing special ‘til I breathed her in. That’s what inspiration means “breath in” …and I breathed deeply, but was too shy to do anything about it.40

“I went on, graduated high school in three years, get my degree in music in three years, decide I can’t make a living in classical music. So I start playing jazz and blues bars, anywhere I find a gig. Playing regular, it’s a living.”41

“One night, I finish a set at “Trappers”, a jazz bar on the northside. Go to the bar to get a beer. Barmaid’s washing glasses. I’m treated to the glory of the Grand Tetons… inverted, massively, marvelously jiggling. I completely forgot what I was going to say, when I hear,”42

“Stop starin’ at ‘em, ya’ eejit, it’s not p’lite,” she says.43

“Then, uh…why do you wear a low cut shirt with no bra?” is the first, most stupid thing I can think to say.44

“Get’s me tips. Get yer bloody eyes up here, Wally. What’ll ya’ be wantin’?”45

Did I just hear my name? I reluctantly pull my eyes away from the awe inspiring sight since she’s stopped washing glasses, “Caitlin? Caitlin O’Brien?46

“Sure, an’ stop looking like ya’ seen a ghost. What’d yer mother be sayin’ if she knew you’re peekin’ down me shirt?” she laughs seeing me blush like a schoolboy.47

“My Mom’s dead,” I say.48

“Go on witcha now, haven’t I heard that before.”49

“No, not kiddin’, she passed away about a month ago, breast cancer,” I explain.50

“Oh sweet Jaysus,!” she says crossing herself. “Wusn’t she a fine woman. I hope you’ll forgive me. You’ve no idea the malarkey I’m hearin’ back here.”51

“First time she backed down from anything. We talked until the owner threw us out. Told her I never thanked her properly for “the bashing” she’d done for me. Asked her for a date, she said yes. We started going out. I can’t tell you how much better she made my life.” 52

“I always heard life as a song. People, places, feelings all entered my brain in some pattern of notes, some form of song. Now, instead of a stick on a log, I’m hearing my world as a symphony orchestra… playing Mozart’s “Marriage of Figaro.”53

“Just about then, I played the Chicago gig. We got married. My playing magically gained a new level of complexity. CD’s went platinum. We moved to Long Island. She was born on Inishfree, said she wanted to be near the ocean again.”54

“The best day of my life was when we got married. Hearing her say she was pregnant was better, happier. You’ve no idea how this orphan longed for a family. Gives you a firmer grip on infinity, maybe a confident defiance in the stare down with Death. I’d been on the losing end of that contest all my life. Now I had spit in his eye.”55

“Had to go into the city for an annual meeting with my agent. His office was in lower Manhattan. Caitlin came along to visit her two knuckle-head brothers, now stockbrokers. The same magillas who tried to pick on me.56

Johnny Savin, my agent, says, “Mrs. McArdle, we are not to be disturbed under any circumstances.” 57

We sat down. He went through the financial accounting. I never mistrusted him, but he insisted on explaining where every penny of my money went. We reviewed all the proposals, tours, recording offers, television spots…when I stop him. 58

“Shouldn’t we discuss how much time off the birth of my child will require?” I interrupted.59

“You sly sonuvabitch! Helluva way to tell me Caitlin’s expecting! Congratulations!” he said pumping my hand, slapping me on the back. 60

“Just then it was like I almost felt something, a vibration, like a bass note being drawn out. Johnny never blinked, we discussed the due date, how much time before and after. As a father of four kids, he gave advice about what to expect, he’s genuinely happy for us.”61

“The knock was initially ignored as we discussed intersecting timelines of family and career.”62

“A second knock and Johnny raised his voice saying, ‘Mrs. McArdle, I told you no interruptions, please.’ And we went back to a discussion of merchandise marketing at outdoor summer venues.”63

“A third knock and Mrs. McArdle entered the room, pale faced, ‘Excuse my interruption. There seems to be an emergency. There are reports two airplanes have flown into buildings.’”64

Ben and I looked at each other bewildered. “Wha..which buildings?” I asked.65

“They’re reporting it’s the Twin Towers, the pictures are on TV,” she said.66

“Oh Christ, Caitlin’s brothers work for Cantor Fitzgerald,” I blurted as I raced for the stairs.67

“Sickening fear raced into my thoughts. Running down twelve flights of stairs seemed better than letting fear tear me apart waiting for an elevator. I hit the fire door, and ran toward the smoke.”68

As I ran, I felt…heard something sickeningly familiar tuning up in the background. Terrified, I realize Death now stalks the streets. Thousands of gallons of flaming aviation fuel and bursting glass panels created a sizzling hiss like brushes on a cymbal with rides, every snake in hell rattling as I run Death’s Pamplona. Paper swirled crazily through the air; showers of whistling glass shards shredded the air, shrapnel raining into the streets, a ticker tape parade on steroids for Satan. Sirens keened like banshees, pierced the smoke, and savagely cleaved the air in a hideous dirge. It was the sound of the wailing and gnashing of teeth...Judgment Day.”69

“I rounded a corner, clawed, and fought through fear crazed, stampeding, swarms. Vaulted a police barricade, dodging cops trying to maintain a protective cordon. Fear squeezed my chest. I’m thinking my heart’s gonna burst, but I don’t care I have to get to Caitlin.” 70

Then I heard Death again. He was chuckling as the building started collapsing, as hopeless, flightless humans plunged to certain death to cheat the cruel flames. And as the building collapsed, as thousands of tons of flaming hell rained down, burying my wife, my child, my life, all I heard was Death’s full throated laughter.”71

“Not sure all of what happened to me. I woke on a pallet in the street, bandaged, someone calling for me to stop as I wandered away. Couple of days later, in Jersey, down in the Pine Barrens, I remember Caitlin, and vomited all my sorrow for her, her family, our child and family that would be no more. At a truck stop, in my desperation, my vain pathetic hope, I searched online until I found her obituary along with her brothers. I kept walking south. My shoes and money gave out a bit north of here. They needed a bartender. Any other questions?”72

“But what about the music?” I asked.73

“I could never bring myself to touch my lips to a mouthpiece. I never hear music anymore. I only hear that insanely cruel, mocking laughter.”74

We finished the bottle in strained silence.75

Next morning I woke with a splitting headache. I caught a light breakfast and determined to take up my cudgel. But the snug had a new bartender. Walter had ‘left the building.’ His apartment empty, no forwarding address.76

I listen to all my Spider Geist music every September eleventh. And I peer into the face of every bartender I see.77