Surell

Tell me if you find a major plothole because i think i did.

Trinity

The tone was somber in the final song the band played for their reputable audience. The drummer skittishly changed time signatures in a loop of three separate beats, each mesmerizing in their own way. The saxophone acted as a wailing Siren upon the audience, luring them with its cries for help or attention, sending those who answer to the pit of the drummer’s hypnotic rhythm set.

Bird Ornette was first drawn to this call when he heard the Ornette Coleman composition “Lonely Woman.” The pitiful calls immediately gripped him by his naïve ten year old heart, and he took up the saxophone immediately afterward – his mother presented him one the Christmas after they moved from the Bronx in New York to Watts in sunny Los Angeles. He practiced diligently, his friends even taking a backseat to his training.

Now he and his saxophone wept openly on the stage, the banner above him and his band reading “Congrats on Gold Status Birdman!” The bass player ended on an arpeggio; the backup saxophonist’s instrument wobbled into silence; and the drummer’s pattern proceeded to slow for the first two rhythms, and then ended halfway through the last. All that was left was Ornette’s solo moaning, which sunk slowly into a wallowing bass, then exploded hysterically into an ear blistering pitch.

The audience immediately applauded them with a standing ovation and the cliché pelting of roses.

++++++++++++++++++++

After shaking the last hand of the night, sealing the last deal, Bird told the boys he was going to have a smoke. They said they were heading home, so he bid them a quick goodnight and congrat-ulations, and they responded likewise. His room was empty now, and he figured it took long enough.

Reaching in his coat pocket for his cigarillo, he found a sheet of paper he’d forgotten about for the moment; but when it met his eyes, it rushed pain back to him. To determine whether or not it was real, he opened it up and proceeded to read:

“To my caged bird- I guess you finally caught flight. Just don’t burn yourself headin for the sun. Goodbye- Billie.” There were feint lips by her signature, and tear stains which he couldn’t distinguish as his, hers, or both.

He sat and read it repeatedly for a few minutes, and finally decided he was done with it. What’s done is done, he thought. We’re grown people and we’ve chosen our way. He put the paper on the table beside him, and found the cigarillo. Just as he was fixing to light it, his hands and jaw trembled, his eyes flooded, and he dropped the lighter and cigar on the floor, collapsing into his palms. He sobbed for a good few seconds, then attempted to correct himself; but the more he tried to fix his demeanor, the colder his heart felt, and the stronger his regret grew.

He tried to take his mind away from it, but kept coming back to their disagreement from three months prior.

He’d been engulfed in the studio for weeks, composing songs and recording them. Most nights he fell asleep on the couch in the musical workshop. Practically all the songs came out to his dissatisfaction, and Barry, his manager, was insisting it was far too complex to get any form of commercial recognition.

The night he finally came home, he reeked of liquor, and the dinner Billie cooked him, being informed he would be finally be home, was frigid. He stumbled in, his shoes booming through the house like he was wearing concrete boots. Billie sat quietly at the kitchen table, near the entry way, smoking a cigarette in her nightgown. Ornette would not make eye contact with her, keeping his eyes to the ground. He approached the sink and began to wash his face.

“Glad to see you too, honey,” Billie chimed, staring at the wall ahead of her. He said nothing. Turning to him, she added, “You wore my favorite perfume, too. It really covers up the stench of neglected hygiene.” Ornette finished washing his face, and paused. Then he let out a slight chuckle, turning towards and sitting at the table across from her. He wanted to reach for her hands, but one held the cigarette and the other was in her lap. He kept he eyes to the table.

“What’s wrong with the recording now?” she inquired bluntly. He remained still momentarily, then shrugged nonchalantly. Her fingers began to click on the table, and he met her eyes. They were kind yet stern.

“Well… I can’t find the right bass player for that suite track, and the piano player I have right now can’t keep the time quite right…”

“Honey,” she began affectionately, “I think you’re over thinking it. I’ve seen what you put down on those music sheets, and it looked about as hard as Chopin Impromptus.” Ornette was stroking her hand, but he seemed distant, within himself. “I’m not trying to tell you to dumb it down, sweetie; your ideas are great. But some things may not mesh well together. Take a step away from it for awhile, let your mind clear up. It’ll all become clear, I promise.” Ornette brought his eyes up to hers, and they spoke volumes of benevolence.

He dropped his eyes again, and nodded in slight consideration. “Hmm,” he mumbled, and detachedly continued to stroke her hand. The smile Billie radiated dropped, and she pulled her hand away.

“You think I’m full of it.”

“No, no, sweetie, you’ve got a point; you do…”

“But?” Billie questioned. There was a pause. Ornette suddenly shot up and began pacing in front of her.

“It’s just like… I feel like if I drop this from my focus, just for a moment, the muse will leave; like if I divert any thought from this, I’ll end up losing this train of ideas, or forget my commitment. I dunno… maybe it’s… I feel like I’ll look like a fool if I lose what little foothold I have in this project. Barry doesn’t like a lick of it, and I’m sure it won’t sell.”

“Why does it need to sell? Why does it have to impress Barry? Hell, let’s get to the root of it, who exactly are you trying to impress?”

Ornette stared at her, confused. “What do you mean? This is for me.”

“You’re trying way too hard for this to be for you. If this were for you, it would come from the heart, and you’d keep all this virtuoso stuff out of mind; it only complicates things.”

“And you say you don’t want me dumbin it down,” Ornette sneered. Billie’s expression demanded explanation. So he added: “You sound just like Barry, man…”

“What?” Billie crossed her arms. Her deliberate arm gestures were beginning to work into the argument. “How do I sound anything like that wannabe ventriloquist when I just want to help you out of this creative ditch?”

“A creative ditch!” Ornette burst. “Who in the hell says I’m in a creative ditch?!”

“Bird, all your second guessing and intellectualizing has put your music in the realm of a machine. It’s like you’re trying to calculate your way into a great album, but that ain’t how it’s done, baby…” Ornette suddenly sent his long clenched fist toward the wall.

“Well who asked for your damn analysis anyway? Who the hell ask for your help? I don’t need anyone intruding on my business, my art, and trying to leave their greasy prints all over it!”

Billie had enough, and retreated to the bedroom; but not before chiming over her shoulder “Now I know why the caged bird beats its wings.”

It left Ornette confused and alone in the kitchen, all doors closed on him. The kitchen window was left open, letting in the cool winter breeze; they were both hot natured.

Ornette stared at the hole he dented in the wall. The barriers weren’t very thick in the house, but its darkness implied an endless void. It’s no one’s concern… it’s my saxophone… it’s my paintbrush… he thought to himself, knocking his head repeatedly into the wall. His inner monologue was getting louder and less coherent along with his head butts becoming more intense when

There was a knock at his door.

He came out of the daydream to the sight of the colorless wall opposite him, and the caress of fresh spring air through the window. He almost forgot his place until the voice on the other side of the locked door announced itself:

“Hey, Bird! It’s Barry. Could I speak to you for a second?”

Freakin Barry, Ornette thought to himself. “Yeah, one sec.” He picked his cigar and lighter up off of the ground, wiped his face on his handkerchief, and loosened his tie and shirt, surprised he hadn’t already.

++++++++++++++++++++

Ornette unlocked the door and allowed his manager in wordlessly, retreating back to his chair. Barry was beaming, with a framed object under his arm.

“What’s that?” Ornette inquired, slightly exhausted. Barry turned it toward him: the Gold Record, along with the plaque with his album and name on it. Ornette grinned faintly. Barry was a little disappointed at this.

“I thought you’d be a little more… exuberant,” he sighed, laying the award directly where Ornette stared just before his intrusion. The latter shrugged nonchalantly, readying to light his cigar. “This is non-smoking,” Barry cautioned. The musician paused, and reluctantly put his materials.

“So,” Barry began, “interesting show out there.”

“Gee, you think so?” Ornette inquired.

“I do,” Barry said considerately. “A little… edgy. Was it on the album?”

“No. It was a personal tune.” There was a silence. Then Ornette broke:

“You know, you don’t have to start acting coy about disliking my material now.”

“I’m sorry?” Barry retorted.

“You certainly didn’t before.”

Barry looked confused, and let out a nervous laugh. “Where is this coming from? I mean, if I didn’t like your material, I wouldn’t be managing you, would I?”

“I’m not saying you don’t like it now. Why wouldn’t you? You practically deserve a writing credit.”

“Hold on, now,” Barry quipped, offended. “I never told you what to do.”

“Come on, Barry; telling me what I should do is hardly any subtler.”

“Name me one time I took away your artistic control.”

Ornette thought for a couple moments, then returned: “When you said motifs don’t sell, nor do concept albums. Or when you said Theremins and Jazz don’t mix. Oh, and the time you told me genre crossovers will fly over people’s heads—“

“Look,” Barry quietly burst. He was, to Ornette, clearly pissed. “Take a look at the fate of anybody trying to reach popular attention with that kind of approach. Without popular attention, what the hell is the message for? Who’s gonna hear it? You might as well take all that blood, sweat, and tears you spilled in the process and poor it in the John. Hell, you’d be so deep in the underground only the fish would hear your music when it gets flushed by the mainstream.” Ornette was silent. “So tell me, what would be the point?”

Ornette persisted. He was taken aback. Finally, he responded: “Well, we don’t have to worry about it now. Not even the little fishes will get the message now. You know what communication is without a message? Gibberish. We’re selling the equivalent of melodic whale noises to people now, because we assume they’re too dumb for anything with real humanistic substance. There isn’t even a message out there, now; we just contributed noise pollution to the world, and we got gold status for it!”

Ornette was on the edge of his seat by this point, slightly sweating. Barry was bewildered. He shook his head and turned to exit. Before he left, he turned and inquired: “Speaking of whale noises, what in the hell did you think that Theremin was?”

Ornette thought, and chuckled, finally answering: “I think it was the cry of a whale suffering a bludgeoning at the hand of some sailors. It seems like so long ago now though.”

Barry was still puzzled. “Be ready to leave within twenty minutes; they’re closing up around here.” Then he was gone.

“Thank God,” Ornette muttered, quickly reaching for his cigar and lighter. He was just ready to light it when the gaudy Gold Prize disturbed his view.

++++++++++++++++++++

He began to think about how this would hang along his stairwell or above his mantel (how cliché) when he moved out of his current abode in Brooklyn. Where would he stay now? He’d considered a loft in Manhattan, or maybe near his mother’s home.

But what’s wrong with Brooklyn? he thought. He’d established a home here years before he was even signed. He and Billie made it theirs about two years ago in the month he was living in, and shared their lives under its sometimes leaky roof, when he wasn’t in the studio or she wasn’t singing in the clubs.

Why did it feel so necessary to change now? It felt like a second nature that came with receiving the award. He wondered if there was some chemical in the gold that demanded this attitude of luxurious progression from him.

Then Ornette felt a sudden urge to compromise with the situation. He laid his smoking materials aside and snatched the heavy certificate off of the ground, staring at it. He wondered what it would sound like on his rustic phonograph back home, but decided against it; it’d probably ruin the needle.

So he went over to the mirror and looked at himself with the object, and decided it was an odd scene. He tried posing with his new partner, in gracious, poise poses as if for actual photographers, giving equal attention to the two of them, but it felt like he was modeling himself around his award.

He took another look at the award, and pondered what it may take to destroy the item. He considered it’d take a mighty journey, like one from Tolkien, and it would prove unbearably difficult as it began to consume whoever wished to do away with it.

The thought gave him the creeps, but was so outlandish he had to laugh at himself a little. But he was done with basking for the moment, so he placed the Gold Record on the wall, behind his chair. He sat down and retrieved the cigar and lighter when he noticed something extremely peculiar: Some-how, the overhead lighting struck the award in such a manner that it flooded the whitewashed wall before him with the golden tint, aside from the shadow he cast in front of the record.

He was stunned by the incident for a moment, but figured he was tired and being a little over analytic. He went to turn the record away from the light when he noticed another unusual picture: his green room, a few stories higher up in the building, faced a yellow bricked wall.

After careful, open mouthed consideration, he determined that was indeed a strange coincidence, but not one of marvelous nature. But he also determined that now he desperately needed a smoke, and wouldn’t be stopped by any sort of walls for it.

So he reached for his cigar and lighter, situating them per usual, and:

Spark

Spark

Spark.

No flame.

“Oh, what the hell!” he exclaimed, knowing his lighter had worked just before the show and couldn’t have run out of fluid in this short time. He thought he’d experiment with an idea. So he lifted himself up, approached the door and, poking his head out of the room to make sure no staff were nearby, he lit his cigar in the hall, without a hitch. When he stepped back in the room, his cherry dimmed and extinguished in the open air. When he attempted to ignite the flame of the lighter, it would merely spark; in the hall, it would light. It didn’t fail on any occasion he tried it.

That’s when Bird realized he had to fly, and didn’t hesitate in doing so.

++++++++++++++++++++

He locked his door and placed and extra chair beneath the doorknob. The glass was thick to the outside, and he’d have to take the fire escape down, so time was a crucial factor. He checked his watch, which read 11:57 PM – three minutes to escape.

First, he ripped a scrap of paper from the notepad on the desk and snatched a pen, and scrawled a quick message. It took him a moment to phrase it right, but he was finished by 11:58.

Then he looked for the weapon for breaking out of this cage he’d been contently sitting in. He figured his chair would work, but it was a little large and awkward, and needed to be situated again to complete his disappearing act. He decided in favor of it, though, and rolled up his sleeves to begin lifting it 11:59.

Meanwhile, Barry was meandering his way down the hall to Bird’s room. He was still a little steamed about Bird’s ingratitude, when he had only been trying to assist Bird in establishing the credibility to experiment and create without restraint on down his career’s road without compromising the privileges commercial status grants. But Barry knew the situation would diffuse itself after little period of tension.

He reached Bird’s door directly at midnight, while Bird operated on his watch’s slow 11:59 PM. He knocked gently and called “Bird, they need us outta here, let’s roll.”

The other side of the door replied, grunting: “Yeah, uh… just a sec…”

Barry wondered what kind of activity would require grunting, but decided to ignore it; pressing Bird on it might create more tension. But Barry was tired and not in the mood to wait around for the artist, so he knocked a bit harder and said “Bird, it’s late, man, let’s get home and catch some Z’s already—“

Suddenly, he heard a burst of glass on the other side of the wall. In his shock, he banged on the partition and hollered “Bird, what’s the matter in there?” He tried the door, but found it inaccessible. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a maintenance man, whom he called over immediately. The man was elderly, and being so didn’t move with much urgency in the face of the situation. But he finally reached the door and fumbled through the keys fairly quickly, having it unlocked within a few moments.

But when Barry tried the door, he still found it barricaded. Barry used to be a cop, and in the heat of the moment his instincts rushed back to him. He told the elderly fellow to stand back, positioned himself a couple of feet from the door, and kicked just left of the handle. The door awkwardly flew open, possibly loosing itself from a hinge.

Pushing through the door and over the chair, Barry found the room shockingly empty, and mostly intact, aside from the door and window. But what really made it empty was the fact that Bird was nowhere to be found, in that little timeframe of the window breaking to now.

He ran to the window upon seeing this, and saw a familiar shadow sliding down into the alley way from the fire escape, sprinting down the alley between the yellow brick building and this one, down toward the street. The streetlight left him shadow, who charmingly whistled a cab over and, before climbing in, lit his cigar. The taxi and the shadow were gone in moments, but the instant seemed longer to Barry.

He lifted himself away from the shattered window, and couldn’t think of the proper response. He turned back to the room and noticed the Gold flooding tint on the wall opposite of the chair which Bird sat in before taking off. He approached the chair and found the record in place of Bird, as the chair was placed exactly where it was when Barry last saw it. There was a note folded over the record as well, which read:

“Take this record as my Obol- the man credited on this record is dead.”

__________________