Close Enough for Jazz

By Laura Wiley

After her boyfriend dumps her for the singer in his jazz band, teacher and trumpet player Jill Sarton leaves San Francisco and moves back home to take care of her dying mother. She finds herself surrounded by the familiar world of Lemon Springs, the sleepy suburb where she grew up and fantasized about moving to New York City to pursue her dream of being a professional musician. When her mother dies, Jill packs up the contents of the house, hires her childhood friend Martin to do some repairs, and plays her last few remaining jazz gigs. After all, there is nothing keeping her in California now. Or is there?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Wiley
• Release date: Oct 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507831151

Laura Wiley

Laura Austin Wiley has a B.A. in English from Columbia University and an M.A. in English from Holy Names University. She grew up in rural Indiana but now lives in northern California with her husband, Aaron, and five cats. Her writing has appeared in the Oakland Tribune, the Columbia Alumni Magazine, Conscious Choice Magazine, Zillah Quarterly, Wild Violet Literary Review and Wilderness House Review, among other publications. She is also an actor, jazz flutist and singer, with CDs available on Amazon and CD Baby. Her website is www.lauraaustinwiley.com

Book preview

For Aaron

Chapter One

I’m really sorry ma’am. We can’t have the musicians harassing the customers. My supervisor told me to tell you that if you can’t get your musicians under control, we’re going to have to ask all four of you to leave. The waitress spoke with a quiet urgency.

Jill put down her trumpet. I’m so sorry, she said. I’ll go and speak to him."

But she didn't move. She couldn’t believe that Chuck, her drummer, had actually left the bandstand, penetrated that fourth wall between audience and performer, so to speak. She could see him now, standing over the kid and lecturing him, while the kid sat slumped in his chair, one earbud in his ear and the other resting on his orange shirt. Chuck was gesturing energetically, drumsticks still in his hands, as the kid stared up at him blankly.

Jill wondered how an evening that had started out so pleasantly could have ended up this way. Just a few hours ago, she had been on the way to her monthly gig with the MJQ, or Mostly Jazz Quartet, at the Paradise Lounge in San Francisco. The MJQ played mostly jazz tunes, as the name would suggest, but also pop and rock songs done in a jazz style. The Paradise Lounge was the MJQ’s only steady paying gig. Even so, it only paid fifty bucks a person, plus pizza and free red wine. Every once in a while, they would get another paying gig, but it would just be a one-time thing, not something regular like she had hoped for. So the group filled in with tip jar gigs—jobs where the only payment was whatever happened to be thrown into the tip jar at the end of the evening. Usually it wasn’t much.

Jill always took a cab and a train to the gig because it was easier than trying to find a parking spot in San Francisco. When her usual cab driver, Rajit, pulled up, Indian pop music wafted out of the windows.

She got in. Who are you listening to, Rajit?

Famous Indian musician, Rajit told her. You are a musician. When are you going to be famous? He was smiling at her in the rearview mirror like he always did, studying her face in an overly-familiar way. She could see him in her peripheral vision, but she didn't look back at him directly. She just shook her head and shrugged.

So? When are you going to make an album? he pressed.

I have one, Jill told him, pulling a CD out of her handbag. Want to buy a copy? It’s only ten bucks.

Rajit laughed. You need to make a video. Lots of people in India—they were not famous before the internet. After internet they make a video and it becomes contagious.

Jill thought for a moment. You mean they go viral? Even when her trumpet students weren’t around, she was always the teacher.

Rajit winked at her. Viral. Yes.

I'm not pretty enough to be in a video, Jill stated matter-of-factly, perhaps fishing for a compliment.

That doesn’t matter, Rajit replied. Just hire a model. Beautiful model plays on the camera and you play on the recording. Simple.

Thanks, Rajit. I appreciate your honesty.

After he dropped her at the station, Jill took the train to San Francisco, where Walter, her keyboard player, was going to meet her. This regular gig was something she could do in her sleep, but tonight she was a little nervous. Brooks Merriweather, the biggest talent agent in San Francisco, was supposed to drop by. At least that was what Walter had said. Walter had a neighbor who knew Brooks. The neighbor had come to their last gig last and loved it. He told Walter that Brooks had promised to come to the next one.

Walter pulled up in his weathered green Subaru Outback. It was a point of pride with him that he had owned this shabby car for thirty years but had never spent more than a thousand dollars total on repairs. Walter could always tell you how much he spent on everything. He wasn't stingy. In fact, he could be very generous. He was just frugal. He was a retired actuarial—a numbers guy.

He greeted her the same way he always did, by calling out, Show time!

When he lifted the hatch, Jill started loading in her bag on wheels—the one where she kept her music, collapsible microphone stand, cables and microphone.

Thanks for the lift, she said to him. Chilly night tonight, huh?

Walter slammed the hatch with emphasis and shook his head.

Oh—you better believe it!

Walter was always so agreeable. So enthusiastic. No matter what Jill said, he had a way of letting her know he that understood.

Every week, this city gets more and more crowded, Jill lamented.

Boy. I tell ya! Walter agreed.

They got into the car. The song Hi-Fly was playing.

Jill was picky about jazz tunes, and she thought Hi-Fly was like a bad rip-off of Salt Peanuts. Salt Peanuts was the quintessential jazz tune, with call and response, dramatic interval leaps, and lots of swing. Hi-Fly was nothing but a monotonous barrage of octaves, one after the other, like a rooster with the hiccups. It was repetitive. Hi-Fly was the poor man's Salt Peanuts.

Jill didn't like tunes with a lot of repetition. She didn't like repetition in general—hearing the same joke twice, eating leftovers or watching reruns. She also thought there were way too many jazz tunes about dolphins. There was Dolphin Dance, Blue Dolphin, On Green Dolphin Street, and, most annoyingly, The Dolphin. It was puzzling. What did dolphins have to do with jazz?

Maybe I’m missing something, she confessed to Walter, but I’ve always hated ‘Hi-Fly.’

Oh, give it a chance! Walter assured her with characteristic optimism. Jazz tunes are like vegetables. If you don’t like one of them it just means you haven’t had it done right.

Walter readjusted his rearview mirror and then his side mirror. It was something he seemed to do compulsively, even though he was the only one who ever drove his car.

Did you know that Hi-Fly was written by the pianist Randy Weston, about going through life as a really tall dude? That’s something I can relate to. And all the other cats liked it so much it’s been recorded by over twenty-five jazz musicians in the past fifty years!

No, I didn’t know that. It doesn’t make me like the song any better though. Don’t you know how much it’s earned in royalties so far? Walter, your jazz trivia is failing you, she joked.

Walter’s interest in numbers also applied to finance, of course. He was always giving Jill investment advice, even though she didn’t own any stock and didn’t know the first thing about investment. He gave her advice on good ETFs to buy, how to choose stock by looking at the S&P 500, and the importance of no-load mutual funds. Jill had shopped at the A&P when she was younger, but she had no idea what the S&P was.

Walter was the one Jill always handed the tip jar to at the end of the gig. He seemed to know how much was in there just by glancing at the container. Jill was bad at multitasking, but Walter, in the time it took her to put her trumpet away, would slip his keyboard into the case, carry his gear to the car, and come back and distribute the tips, always taking a little less for himself if the amount could not easily be divided four ways.

I’m retired, he’d say if she protested his taking less. I do this for the fun, not the money. If any of us did this for the money, we’d really be in trouble.

Chapter Two

When they got to the Paradise Lounge, Walter headed back out to the car to load in his gear while Jill unpacked her trumpet and what few things she had brought. The top 40 radio station was blaring from behind the bar. Jill always cringed when she heard the kind of music the young bartenders really wanted to listen to, because it was never jazz. Some nights it felt as if no one in the whole place wanted to listen to jazz but the musicians themselves.

Robin, the bass player, was already set up. He looked like he was meditating, with his electric bass on his lap and his