Lester Young, “Almost Like Being In Love” - It’s 1:47 pm on a Wednesday in mid-July and I just fell into the pool after drinking a bottle of gin. I watch from the bottom as my lungs fill with water and the sunglasses I was wearing slowly float toward the surface.
Stan Getz, “It’s Wonderful” - I’m a private detective in late 1950s San Diego. I am smoking a cigarette after having just moments ago savagely beaten a shoeshine boy. I really don’t care about the money anymore.
Wayne Shorter, “Footprints” - While driving back from the racetrack, where I just lost $492, I swerve to avoid a squirrel in the road and flip over the guardrail and down an embankment. It starts to rain.
Lee Morgan, “Domingo” - I’m drinking rum on a boat with colleagues. We’re celebrating after closing a deal to acquire the labor of 35 illegal farm workers for a large Florida orchard. I’m wearing a white suit. My stomach aches. My shirt is wet. I look down and realize I’ve been shot.
Dexter Gordon, “Cheese Cake” - Champagne and vodka, blueberries and cream. We leave the party for a moment to step out onto a stone terrace and have a cigarette. Warm summer air, just past dusk. You’re wearing a midnight blue floral cutout cap sleeve scoopneck dress, platinum blonde hair pulled back elegantly, simply stunning. We sit. You tell me you want a divorce.
Bill Evans, “I Love You” - My dog ran away. I walked outside, unhooked the leash and the fucker just ran away.
John Coltrane, “Resolution (Part 2)” - “But she’s not sick. But she’s not sick. But she’s not sick,” I keep repeating, maybe to myself. The doctors are staring at me. They seem to be expecting a different response. “But she’s not sick,” I continue. Eventually they look at one another, shrug and walk away.
Thelonious Monk, “Misterioso” - I am three, maybe four, and sitting on the floor cross-legged oblivious to the rest of the Sunday School class. Without warning, the teacher grabs my arm from behind with a hard pinch and jerks me to my feet. I drop the small xylophone I’m holding and some of the keys break loose from the wood, specifically the red, yellow and green ones. They make flat metal scraping sounds as they scoot across the floor. She barks something and slaps me. I pee my pants.
Chet Baker, “Let’s Get Lost” - I’m standing behind the ball on the 14th tee, a 179 yard par three with an elevated green on the opposite side of a yellowish man-made lake. I pick a spot about a foot in front of the ball, a blade of grass really, aligned directly between the ball and the pin. Somewhere near the top of my backswing my mind drifts to breasts. The club hits the ground about four inches behind the ball, which then plops up in the air about three-and-a-half feet and dribbles sadly into the lake.
Miles Davis, “Flamenco Sketches” - 25th St. near Sixth Ave. My credit card was just declined at a Korean massage parlor.