ii-V-I: A JassOdyssey: Book 1

By J.A. Rollins

Miles and Roland travel along the Chitlin' Circuit in pursuit of someone who stole something from them. During their odyssey while traversing time and place, Roland gets a chance to reacquaint himself with past and present jazz legends, and Miles gets a chance to learn about this great American art form.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9780991315116

Book preview

out?

PART 1

CHAPTER 1

Miles, get down here! screamed Sarah, Miles’ mother.

Her shriek woke him from a sound sleep. Though she was downstairs, her yelling could be heard upstairs in the bedrooms and woke him from one of his favorite dreams. He and his boys were onstage at the Apollo Theater throwing down a heavy rap. Their music had the audience jumping to their beat. In the dream, Miles was about to do his thing, when suddenly, boom! A heavy clunk hit his head.

How many times have I told you to double-check the locks on the door when you get in? Sarah wagged her finger in his face. I can’t find my purse, and I bet one of those hoodlum friends of yours stole it, she said as she marched down the steps. Miles thought, As usual, whenever something in the house is missing, my mom blames it on my friends. Like the time a jar of peanut butter from the cabinet was missing. Now, who would steal peanut butter? After she found the empty jar in the trash can, she remembered that she had finished it off the night before while watching late-night TV. Boy does she love peanut butter! And the time the sofa was missing. She blamed it on my friends, and then remembered that it had been sent out to be reupholstered. Who would break into your house to steal a couch? What next?

Miles enjoyed being around his friends. He had known them all his life and felt they were family—there was nothing wrong with his homies. Lee and Morgan were his favorites, and he thought they were also the coolest. But he had to admit that every once in a while they did get a little crazy, like the time when Lee had borrowed a neighbor’s motorbike and ended up crashing it into a police car, and the time that Morgan had got caught with a grocery bag full of frozen steaks. He’d said he’d just been borrowing them to nurse his bruised knee. Hey, anything’s possible!

When Miles finally did get up, he went downstairs to the living room and saw his mother dressed in her work clothes, just about ready to go to the hospital. Her white nursing uniform had been slightly faded by countless washes, and her hair looked a little frazzled, probably from her tearing the house apart looking for the purse.

Did you look in Abbey’s room? Miles asked. You know how you sometimes leave it in there when you check on her after you get home from work.

Miles knew that his mother had a habit of checking on them when she got home late at night from working at the hospital. He moved slowly around the living room as his eyes adjusted to the morning light streaming through the window and heard her exclaim, Found it! as she hustled out of Abbey’s room with her purse under her arm.

Then, as she tried to re-arrange her hair in the mirror on the living room wall, she said, Now remember, you’re to take your little sister over to your uncle’s after school today—I’ll pick her up later for her recital. No hanging out with those little troublemakers of yours. And see if you can find some kind of afternoon job to keep yourself off the streets. I don’t want to have to worry about you. You know how dangerous these streets can be. She was referring to one of the neighbors’ kids, who had recently been hit by a stray bullet.

Don’t worry about me, Ma; I can take care of myself, said Miles.

I’m not worried about you; I’m worried about your sister, she replied as she went out the door of their apartment complex. Miles looked out the window and watched her as she rushed up the sidewalk trying to catch the bus to work. Why is she always worried? Miles thought. I can take care of both Abbey and myself. I was going to hangout with the boys; now I’ve got to drop off Abbey at Uncle Roland’s. It’s not fair; it’s just not fair. He huffed his way up the stairs to get ready for school.

After they had arrived home from school, Miles and Abbey took the number 6 train to their uncle’s apartment. He lived in a late-nineteenth-century brownstone off 133rd Street, not far from the park. Newer, more up-to-date apartments surrounded it, and gentrification was making its way through the neighborhood. Uncle Roland was about fifteen years older than his sister, Sarah. His hair was streaked with gray, and he had a slight paunch. He always bragged that he had single-handedly raised her when their parents had died. Miles knew he was right, because he was the closest thing to a father that Abbey and he had known. They had both learned so much from him.

As Miles and Abbey arrived at their uncle’s apartment, Roland and his wife, Nancy, greeted them at the door.

Your mother said she would pick up Abbey, said Aunt Nancy to Miles as they entered the spacious apartment. Large furniture, along with tables, stands and other accouterments adorned the living quarters.

Yeah, Miles sighed unenthusiastically as he sat on the couch. Roland studied Miles for a moment as his nephew slumped on the sofa, and asked, How are things at home?

Okay, I guess, Miles answered as he nonchalantly looked around the room for something to do. There was a momentary silence between the two. Roland looked at his wife and slightly tilted his head toward the kitchen. Nancy took the cue and led Abbey into the kitchen for a snack of jellyrolls, brownies, chocolate dandies and Chu Berry juice. Roland peered down at Miles and inquired, Now that you’re about to graduate from high school, what are your plans for college?

Don’t need it, said Miles as he picked up a magazine from the coffee table and leafed through it.

Hmm, Roland muttered. Another period of silence fell between them.

Are you still hanging out with those neighborhood boys?

They’re my homeboys, said Miles, defending his friends. We stick up for each other. When times get tough, I got their back and they got mine.

That may be true, Roland responded, but your mother is worried about you. She thinks you spend too much time with them and will end up like a lot of kids here in Harlem: jobless and clueless. She’s just concerned.

She shouldn’t be; I have plans for my future, Miles interjected.

Roland stared at him and shook his head, as any loving parent would do after hearing something from a naïve child. Then he motioned to Miles.

Follow me, he said, leaving the living room. Miles got up and followed his uncle into his new home office.

What kinds of plans? Roland asked as they entered the room.

Miles had been in the apartment many times before. The room that was now the home office had had previous incarnations. At one time it was used as a spare bedroom. Another time it was to be used as a nursery when Nancy found out she was pregnant, but after she miscarried the room had been abandoned as a place for an infant and instead used for storage. Up until recently, the room had been just a gathering place for old materials that Roland had collected over the years. Boxes of framed pictures, photos, plaques, albums, books, cassettes, 8-track tapes and players, old reel-to-reel tapes and recorders, posters and billboards, as well as other sundry items used to fill the room.

Entering the room, before he could talk about his future plans to become famous, Miles was amazed at what he now saw in the new home office. The room had been converted from a junky warehouse of disparate parts and pieces to a habitable, inviting, cozy retreat. The carpet on the floor was thick and welcoming. A soft tan leather couch sat along one wall, while a large mahogany bookcase filled to the brim with tomes and magazines was along the other. A number of small tables were also in the office. In the corner was an upright piano and stool, with sheet music resting on the ledge above the lid. A roll-top desk and matching chair was precisely placed opposite the window so that a viewer could swing around and look out at the street below and the architectural landscape surrounding the building. Light, lacy curtains surrounded the window.

Framed pictures and encased awards decorated the walls. It seemed as though hundreds of images, placards, posters and signs were there. Miles knew that as a young man Roland had attended Virginia State University, where he had won numerous awards, and that later in life he had traveled all over the world, had been the host of numerous radio and television shows, and was a teacher at one of the local New York colleges. Miles had no idea who all the people were in the pictures, or any clue as to what his uncle had done to be in the pictures. For all he knew, he could have been a secret agent working for the government; the folks in the pictures could have been some of his unknowing victims and colleagues, and the awards could have been citations from the Feds for doing such a fine job.

Roland started the conversation about his concerns for Miles. Then he droned on and on about his discussion with his sister about her son’s life and what life held for directionless adolescents. After Miles had taken a cursory look at the pictures and plaques on the wall, he became inattentive to his uncle’s rant and started to half listen, then daydream. Miles was bored with his uncle’s preaching, and to get relief from the boredom he opened the blinds and looked out the window.

In the background he saw some of Harlem’s most notable structures, including the townhouses of Strivers’ Row, Malcolm X Boulevard, Lenox Avenue, Harlem Presbyterian Church and Marcus Garvey Park. He also saw a small non-descript building with a marquee along its side that read, The Cotton Club. But not far from the apartment was the Delano Village housing complex. The behemoth building looked like a massive impersonal fortress, and was similar to other public housing projects that commonly dotted Gotham City. The exterior was a cold, ugly gray color, and the tall gothic structure had small windows barely big enough to allow in a draft of air or shaft of light. There was a small, vacant, run-down playground in front of the hulking structure.

Evidence of urban renewal was apparent as Miles continued to peruse the landscape of Harlem. The area was being spruced up to accommodate out-of-town visitors who wanted to witness its glorious history. In both the foreground and background some buildings looked relatively new, while others were old and in extreme need of repair.

After a few minutes of talking to himself, Roland paused and asked in a frustrated manner, Miles, are you listening to me? Do you agree?

Yes, said Miles blandly as though he was waking up from a trance, not knowing what had been discussed in the last five minutes.

Then it’s settled, said his uncle. You are to report to me twice a week after school so that we can get your life in order. And try to please your mother by not hanging out in the streets with your friends all hours of the night.

What have I done? Miles thought. What have I committed myself to? A momentary lapse in concentration had cost him some of his free time. Miles didn’t remember saying he agreed to the plan; the only saving grace of the visits was that it would get his mother off of his back. And due to his commitment of time visiting and meeting with his uncle, he would have an excuse for not getting an afternoon job. He would much rather hang out with his friends, but … if this is the cost of keeping the peace in the family, then I’ll take it, he thought. After all, how bad could it be visiting a couple of times of week and having a man to man talk? But he still felt like he had been tricked into something that he wanted no part of.

As Miles stormed out of the room and waved goodbye to his sister, he thought more and more about his rapping career and how his visits with his uncle might interfere with it. How do I keep my music fresh? he thought as he left the apartment. Miles felt strongly that his musical career was going to be successful, but as he remembered all his uncle’s plaques and awards, he realized that any help he could get from him might be useful. He must have been a pretty smart guy, and not accepting his guidance might be a pretty dumb thing to do. Seeing him a couple of times a week might not be such a bad idea. Maybe some of his smarts might brush off on me, Miles thought as he walked back toward his own neighborhood to catch up with his friends. He concluded that at least it might keep his mother and uncle happy.

Weeks later, as Miles headed to his twice-weekly sessions with his uncle, he began to wonder if it was just a waste of time. He felt no closer to perfecting his music than he had done before starting the meetings. In fact, he felt he was actually getting worse: his homeboys would often feed him lines to make a good rap, but he was no longer around them enough. Miles even thought his taste in music was suffering when he caught himself humming a tune by a pop group. What’s goin’ on with me? he thought.

CHAPTER 2

Miles had his doubts, but he kept his twice-weekly appointments with his uncle. He had made a commitment, and even though he didn’t remember the details, he was determined to keep his end of the bargain.

He usually arrived at his uncle’s apartment by 7 p.m. on the designated evenings. One morning, the sky looked angry and ominous, and as the day progressed the atmospheric conditions seemed to deteriorate. By late afternoon, the weather seemed to get even worse, with wind and threatening rain. Because of the foreboding sky, Miles decided to wear a jacket to protect himself against the elements.

As usual, Miles went to the subway station to catch the number 6 train, but when he got to the station, the trains weren’t running because of electrical problems. Miles didn’t have cab fare, so he had limited options. One choice was to catch a bus, but the closest bus stop was many blocks away. His only option was to walk. He would have to cross several blocks to get to his uncle’s apartment, and as he did so, he kept repeating to himself, They’re only city blocks.

The streets of Harlem can sometimes look mean—more people packed in one place than seems humanly possible. Dirt, graffiti and trash all seem to compete for space. Cars honking their horns, neon signs flashing, the rancid odors of filth waffling from storm drains, and the hustle of human traffic are all around you. It’s enough to make you question your sanity for living in the Big Apple. But this is my town, Miles thought, and Harlem is my village. What Harlem means to me is incalculable. Where else but in Harlem could a black renaissance occur? Where else but in Harlem is there a large, thriving black intelligentsia? And where else but in Harlem are there more soul food restaurants per block than any other place on Earth? Harlem is my universe. After all, the Prez used to live here.

The weather in Harlem can also be fickle, just as in the rest of the state. Sometimes it seems like all four seasons can happen in the same day, sometimes all at once.

It was early evening, and as Miles looked up at the blackened sky during his walk to his uncle’s apartment, it started to rain—not just small drips of rain, but drops of rain the size of quarters. And the accompanying wind was blinding—strong enough to take your breath away. I’ve got to find a place to get out of this mess, Miles thought as he looked for shelter. Most of the storefronts on the street were boarded up, and those that were already open had large hordes of people standing at the entranceways, protected by their canopies. As he hurried up the street, he couldn’t find a dry, covered place to shelter from the storm, but running further up the street, he saw a small side alley that he thought would give temporary relief. But there, it seemed that the wind and rain was even worse. As he looked further into the passageway, he noticed a large trash container with its lid flipped up against the wall. He thought his only hope of staying dry was to hide under the lid and ride out the storm, so he ran for the haven. He hurtled through the alley, trying not to hit potholes or any other irregular surfaces that might impede his steps.

When he got closer to the trash container lid, he bent down to make his final approach, but as he did so, his shoes slipped on the slick, viscous surface due to the grease and grime that was often dumped into the receptacle. His forward motion propelled him onward, resulting in his head colliding with the wall of the building.

After a few minutes of silence, Miles woke up and found himself lying on his back under the container lid. There was a stinging pain in his forehead.

I must have been knocked out, Miles thought as he felt the source of the pain. Blood trickled from the wound. He didn’t know how long he had been unconscious, but he did know he was having episodes of drifting in and out. In between two such occurrences, he vaguely remembered seeing a small bent-over, crumpled figure with a cane moving slowly away from the container toward the alley entrance. The figure walked with a limp. Miles remembered yelling at him, trying to get his attention, but the sound of the thunder and lightning seemed to disorient him, and he was unable to attract the stranger’s attention. As the mysterious figure kept moving forward and then finally rounded the corner, Miles again lapsed into one of his momentary episodes of unconsciousness.

When Miles finally did regain full consciousness, not only had the wind and rain abated, but also the red ooze of blood from his forehead seemed to have stopped. He also noticed that his jacket and shirt were soaked with blood, and that the jacket was partially torn. Seeing the tears in the fabric, he thought, I must have torn it during the fall. He wiped the blood from his brow.

As he attempted to stand up, his foot brushed up against a hard rectangular object that blocked his exit. Funny, he thought as he reached and grabbed for it to inspect it. I don’t remember this being here when I tried to get under the lid. Then he thought about the gnarled old figure of a man walking toward the alley exit. He concluded that perhaps it was just a figment of his imagination, or the lasting effects of the brick wall upon his head.

Miles looked at the box and realized it was more like a case. Mysteriously, considering the downpour that the city had just endured, it looked and felt dry. He pulled it closer as he brushed a few bits of paper and debris off the surface. The outside of the case looked like worn leather with frayed corners. There was a small, broken strap handle along the top, and two metal clasps, one partially broken, held the case together. Anxious to find out what was inside, Miles first shook it. He heard the clunky sound of pieces of metal. Hearing the noise only further whetted his appetite to find out what was inside. He tried to open the case, but no matter how hard he tried, he was unsuccessful. Three questions ran through his head in rapid succession as he looked up into the alley: What’s in the box? Who owns it? Am I going to be able to get it out of here without being seen?

Miles hurriedly made his way out of the alley, trying not to appear suspicious. And even though he felt that he had made a clean getaway, he still felt as though prying eyes were following his every move out of the alley and up the street. In Harlem, according to the police, if you looked suspicious or acted suspiciously, you were guilty of something, even if you had done nothing. Torn clothes, bloody forehead and a large mysterious box under your arm were definite signs of trouble.

At Uncle Roland and Aunt Nancy’s apartment, Nancy was looking out the apartment window, watching the kids below playing on the sidewalk. She knew that Miles was late for his appointment with her husband, but she hoped that he would come soon. Two police cars whizzed by with their sirens blaring. This was such a frequent occurrence in their neighborhood that she didn’t give it much thought. Then, there was a hard, nervous knock at the door.

Miles, you’re bleeding, and you’re soaking wet, said Nancy in a concerned voice as Miles quickly entered the apartment and slammed the door after him, making sure that no one was watching. She impulsively tried to wipe the drying blood from his head as he brushed by.

Where’s Uncle Roland? Miles asked in a jumpy manner.

He went downstairs to get a newspaper, Nancy replied. He left just a minute ago; you must have passed him in the hallway. He waited for you, but as you weren’t here by seven, he thought you weren’t coming.

The trains weren’t running, and I had to walk the whole way here in that storm, said Miles.

Storm. What storm? Nancy replied as she again tried to remove the hardened blood from Miles’ forehead.

The storm that got me all wet, said Miles as he wiped the raindrops from around his eyes.

But we haven’t had any rain here all week, Nancy insisted as she followed his movement. She then looked at the mysterious box under his arm and inquired, What have you got there? as she pointed to the box.

They both stared at it for a few seconds, and then Miles hurried into the kitchen to find something to open it with. Nancy became nervous as she remembered the sound of the two speeding police cars just moments before Miles had arrived.

As he was about to try to open the box with a utility knife, Miles heard the front door shut and his aunt saying loudly to Roland, Miles has brought something into this house, and I think he stole it. He’s in the kitchen.

Roland calmly put the newspaper down that was folded under his arm, and then slowly walked into the kitchen. Sitting at the table, Miles looked up at him with a guilty look. Roland saw his nephew with blood on his face, shirt and jacket. Then he saw the box on the table and the knife in Miles’ hand.

Boy, what have you done? Roland screamed in a disapproving tone. Before Miles could say anything, Roland got closer, staring him straight in the face.

You’ve been hanging out with those neighborhood boys, and now you’re in trouble. I told you not to do it, and you’ve brought trouble into my house. His voice got louder and louder with each word.

Haven’t I been trying to help you? Hasn’t your mother been trying to explain to you how dangerous these streets are? And now you’ve stolen something and brought it here.

Miles could see the rage in his uncle’s eyes as he towered over him. It was the first time his uncle had shown such disdain for his nephew. Nancy had slowly followed her husband to the kitchen, but remained standing in the doorway. Tears were flowing from her eyes. It was at this moment that Miles realized that the blood on his face, his torn jacket and the knife in his hand made him look guilty of something. But he knew that he had done nothing wrong. Putting the knife down and pushing the box forward, Miles slowly looked up, first at Uncle Roland and then at Aunt Nancy, and said, I found this in an alley on my way over here.

They were both quiet and looked confused as they stared at each other. Then they looked at Miles in disbelief.

I cut my head when I fell against the wall, and I must have torn my shirt and jacket at the same time. The blood is from the cut, Miles continued as he wiped his forehead, feeling for more traces of blood.

After initially acting disgusted, Roland regained his composure and sat down at the table with Miles, while Aunt Nancy remained at the door. Roland knew that Miles, his only nephew, was a good kid. He had never known Miles to lie, steal or get into any kind of trouble, but he knew what kind of kids Miles hung out with. After a few moments, Roland was back into his usual state of mind, and he gave Miles the benefit of the doubt. He then extended his hand and said, Let me see it.

Miles picked up the box and placed it in his uncle’s hands. Roland first stared at the front and then slowly turned it around, examining it from all sides. He picked it up and shook it. Only a dull metallic clunk was heard coming from inside the case. Then Nancy, who was still standing at the doorway, came over to the table to get a better look at the mysterious package. She walked over to Miles and said, Let’s get you cleaned up, as she led him to the bathroom.

By the time Nancy and Miles had returned, Roland had sprung one of the two latches on the front of the box. The second would prove harder to open, because it was rusted. Miles looked anxiously at the box, wondering what was inside. Could it be full of money from a long-gone heist? Could it be full of jewelry or other precious stones? Or could it just be an old dilapidated box full of empty dreams. After all, this was Harlem, where many a dream-seeker came to pursue his or her future as a musician, actor, playwright, or poet, or just to be a part of that early progressive movement, only to be let down by adversity.

Roland hit the second latch heavily, and it finally gave way. Minute particles of dust seemed to stream out of the box, while the back seemed to relax. Roland turned to Miles and said, I think it’s ready for you to open. After all, you found it.

Miles sat at the table as Roland moved the box toward him. As Miles slowly lifted the lid, more dust seemed to come from the inside, but this time it appeared to sparkle. As the dust wafted through the air, Miles thought it resembled a musical staff and notes, like something that he had seen in his music classes. A musty smell began to permeate from the container.

No money, no jewels; just the old beat-up body of a saxophone. It was heavily tarnished, and hardly any of the original lacquered finish remained. There were dents and scratches of every size and shape extending all the way from the body to the bow and into the bell. As Miles picked up the horn for a closer look, one of the side keys on the bottom-right side and one of the spatula keys in the middle of the horn fell off. The pads on the fallen keys were coated with dried, green-black gunk. Most of the pads on the remaining keys were cracked, worn or rotted. A number of springs were missing, and in their place were various colored rubber bands to supply tension. There was corrosion along some of the tone holes, broken and bent key guards, and misaligned arms and rods. At the ends of some rods were rusty screws. Some of the mother-of-pearl finger buttons were also missing, and among those that were present, some had plumber’s putty on them. Pieces of Scotch tape, masking tape and even dental floss held the horn together. In the side container of the box rested the neck of the horn. The octave key was partially detached, and only remnants of cork existed on the tip—there was even duct tape on it. Like the body of the horn, the neck was dented and scratched, and also twisted. The hard rubber mouthpiece had two large tooth grooves on top, but no ligature. There were several old, splintered reeds in the side container, all with frayed, jagged ends.

Miles was disappointed. He thought that the mysterious case might have contained something that would have made him rich and famous. But instead, it was just a pile of scrap metal and some handiwork keeping it together. His Aunt Nancy tried to console him, but it was no use. Disgusted, Miles silently got up from the table. Nancy quickly looked over at Roland as if giving him a hint to say something encouraging.

Let me see that, said Roland as he grabbed the case. He carefully picked up the body of the horn, and then the curved neck. He twisted the neck into the body and inspected the horn. He then placed the old mouthpiece on the tip of the neck. Staring inquisitively at the instrument, he said, My goodness, I haven’t seen one of these in over fifty years. That caught Miles’ attention as he slowly turned around.

This is special. It’s a C-melody sax; they used to call it ‘C-note’ for short, Roland explained. In my early days, this sax was just as popular as the other saxes. You rarely see ’em now.

Looks to me like a broken-down horn, Miles responded in defiance.

It looks bad, Roland continued, "but in its day it was one of the most seductive, sweetest sounding, expressive horns around, because its tone and sound was close to the range of the human male voice. Also, it was one of the easiest to play: Because it was in the key of C, you didn’t have to transpose your notes when playing along with a piano or guitar. That’s why it was so desirable to play. This sax was between the size of an alto and a tenor. Some had crooked necks like a tenor, while others had curved necks like an alto horn.

"In the early days, many amateur bands liked these horns because a lot of early music was written in keys with a lot of sharps or flats, and musicians playing altos and tenors found it hard to play in harmony. Can you imagine playing a tune written in a key with three or four sharps or flats, and then having to transpose the tune so that a B-flat or E-flat horn could play in harmony with the other instruments? You might end up with even more sharps or flats. You didn’t have as much of a problem with this horn as with altos and tenor