Brass Reflections
Used to be a time when Miguel Sanchez read the Detroit Free Press front to back. Nowadays he turns right to the section that makes him feel most alive – the obituaries. He looks at the ages and causes of death and compares them to his own circumstances. Sort of like trying to figure his best odds.
A name from the old neighborhood popped out at him: Bruder, Egon, age 75, beloved husband of Rosemary, survived by his six children, 17 grandchildren and 5 great-grandchildren …
“Egon?” he wondered out loud, adjusting his bifocals. “Reckon there wouldn’t be another Egon the same age, marrying a gal by the same name,” he sighed, shaking his head. There was no denying it. It was his old friend.
Being that the funeral was on the East Side, he’d have to take the bus cross-town. As he shuffled towards the bus stop, the worn handle of the old leather trumpet case bit into his swollen joints. The case seemed warm and familiar when he first pulled it out of the old trunk, but now the contents weighed him down, like crusty memories. Had to admit, some lay heavy on his mind. Others were light, fleeting thoughts, the kind that brought a rare smile to his face. Couldn’t be helped. Like a knee-jerk reaction. Like the very first time he laid eyes on this very same trumpet.
* * *
Miguel kept one eye on Egon’s broad shoulders as he edged through the folks exiting the bus and bustling every which way onto Woodward Avenue. As usual, his friend was taking the lead, leaving Miguel scurrying behind. Swinging the leather case, Egon kept time as he whistled a Cole Porter tune. One of their agreed favorites, Miguel managed to fall in step with Egon’s long stride.
As they headed into Grand Circus Park, Miguel had noticed the stares. Back then, at age 15, he’d figured they were all about Egon. After all who could miss a six-foot, five-inch lanky, blond German kid strutting down the avenue? He had never considered the strange pairing of the two was what really turned heads. Miguel, with his intense eyes and jet-black hair, got just as much draw – all four-foot, nine inches of him. Not that he’d gone looking for the extra attention, but it seemed to find him. That’s what Egon used to say, anyway.
The two had become inseparable when Miguel had first moved into the neighborhood. The rows of small, but comfortable middle class homes were contained within a compact square mile –bordered by railroad tracks on one side and the grocer, five and dime and the local dairy along the other main routes into town. Once a neighborhood of resettled Northern Europeans, Italian and Greek families had filtered in as old folks moved out. No one had even flinched when Miguel turned up and declared himself three parts Mexican, one part Italian, with a touch of Cherokee.
Somehow Miguel had always found himself in the thick of it, whether it was an alley scuffle or back street craps game. It was usually Egon who smoothed things over, although Egon himself had gotten himself in a few tough brawls – nothing he couldn’t finish though.
The heart of the city just ahead of them, Miguel could already see Detroit’s skyscrapers in the distance. As they scurried around window shoppers and suits leaving work, he almost lost sight of Egon a few times. “I really don’t think this is a good idea,” Miguel said, when he was finally within ear shot. “I can’t even read music.”
“Miguel, that’s ridiculous. You play the guitar like nobody’s business.” Egon barely slowed down as he looked over his shoulder at Miguel.
“Only because my Ma taught me. The horn’s different. I don’t know this stuff like you do.”
“Isn’t that the idea behind taking lessons?” he asked with a smirk.
“I don’t have a trumpet, anyway,” Miguel continued, ignoring the sarcasm. “I don’t think the instrument really fits my style.”
“Funny. I never thought you had any style,” Egon chuckled, his lips curving into a slow grin. “You can rent until you’re sure.” Stopping suddenly, Egon veered back around. “Did you bring your cash? They’ll want to see some money up front, ya’ know.”
“Yeah.” Miguel turned the silver coins over in his trouser pocket. He liked to save his paper route money for movies at the State. He’d asked his parents to cover him but they didn’t think he’d last more than one lesson. ‘Why throw away hard-earned cash?’ his father had said. Even though it was a question, Miguel knew the answer. The conversation was over.
“Well, you got it easier,” Miguel said, with a sideways glance at the old trumpet case.
“Yeah, family heirloom. From the Old Country,” Egon said, adding, “I know you’ve got talent. Can’t you just see us playing for Glen Miller some day? The trumpet’s the way in.” He gave the leather case a light pat as they turned the corner towards Broadway. With a shrug, Miguel followed.
Their ambitions were like the sodas at Saunders. If one had a dream, the other had to share it. And as dreams go, Miguel had to admit this one might shake out better than his great ambition — pitchin’ for the Tigers. He’d convinced Egon to try out for bat boy last summer. Fat chance. The closest either of them got to the infield was skipping school, sliding past the ticket window, and stealing a seat near the home dugout.
As the buildings grew taller and the crowd became thicker, Miguel’s anxiety turned to excitement. Detroit unfolded like pages in a story. Cathedral-style churches loomed over corner grocers, followed by high rises that quickly stole the boys’ shadows. Billboards screamed down at them: Mabley’s, Hughes & Hatcher’s, Cunningham Drugs. When they were close enough to read “Everything Musical” they broke into a run, dodging between fur coats and Fedora hats. By the time they reached the Wurlitzer building, Miguel was ready to belt out swingin’ tunes the whole town could hear.
* * *
Squinting out the bus window, Miguel wondered, how long that had been. Fifty? Sixty Years now? Back when he could still feel the city’s pulse radiating through him, from the tips of his fingers all the way to the soles of his oxfords. Now it had a different kind of vibe. Sure they say it’s all still alive in small little clubs and re-invested brownstones, but back in Miguel’s day, you didn’t have to go looking for it.
It’s amazin’ what a few decades can do to a town, he thought. The sad-looking neighborhoods told him he’d already crossed into Detroit. His redlined lids felt heavy as he searched for an old landmark he could identify, some concrete structure that proved the old neighborhood had existed. He couldn’t make out the street signs. The barricaded liquor stores and check cashing window fronts made every street corner look the same. He closed his eyes and clutched the old leather case tightly in his lap, as though it would help him remember lost tunes he once knew by heart – tunes that he and Egon loved so much they fought over them.
* * *
“Wham Rebop Boom Bam? We can’t lead in with that, are you nuts?” Egon snatched the lineup away from Miguel.
“Why not? We got to establish ourselves – you know, the hot new band, willin’ to play the new tunes. Com’on, man, you ‘fraid to play swing?” Irritated, Miguel pulled the sheet back to his side of the bar.
“I’m not sayin’ we can’t play it, but we got to have a plan. Not like we’re playing the hottest joint in town.” Egon jerked his head in disgust in the direction of Eddie’s small platform stage and the worn dance floor. “We’ve got to start with the standards. You just don’t jump into this stuff. You got to get your audience ready for it.”
“Let’s at least lose some of these ballads, K.? And do we have to play ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ again?” Miguel drew a hard, red line through the number in one quick stroke.
“You know this crowd’s gonna’ request it. Bet you a pack of cigs, it’ll be before the first set is over.” Egon extended his hand to shake on it, adding a smile to the deal.
Miguel didn’t take him up on it, but he couldn’t keep a small grin from creeping across his face. He never could stay mad at Egon for long; even if he knew he was being railroaded. It had been over a year, just after graduation, when Egon egged him on to pull a band together. Now he seemed content to play the standard fare in small town joints that paid them in tip money. Miguel wanted to make their own sound, but they wouldn’t get anywhere if they didn’t start taking some risks along the way.
“Yeah, right, you’re the leader, you always know what’s best,” Miguel said with a smirk.
“Co-leader. Hey man, we did this together, remember?” Egon sounded sincere but Miguel knew better. They had an unspoken agreement. Ever since the band agreed Miguel should take over as lead horn, Egon had asserted himself as the front man, pretty much having the final say on just about everything. The role just seemed to fit him and no one objected. After all who’d ever heard of a band leader by the name of Sanchez. Not that he could blame Egon for that part of it. Just the way it was. Still, you’d think it wouldn’t hurt the guy to admit his best friend had a good idea once in a while.
“Let’s just call it a draw,” Egon said. “Rainbow’s out and Rebop is in – as long as it comes at the end of the first set.”
“Awright,” Miguel said, turning away. All hopes of springing his new compositions on the band at rehearsal were gone. He’s not ready for that, he thought, cursing the friendship that bound them together.
That night any rift between them melted in the heat of the performance. Side by side in the front line they guided the band from mellow mood tunes to sizzling swing and back again. Miguel, losing himself in the rhythm, improvised and slid some hot licks into the less than saucy tunes in the lineup. Splitting his time between solo vocals and second trumpet, Egon was the essence of cool. Whatever the beef – money, girls, the band – it was the music that always brought them back together.
* * *
Miguel didn’t realize how hard he’d been gripping the trumpet case handle, until he heard the driver call the Canfield stop. Canfield? Canfield and Woodward? He looked out the window. The corner where the Graystone Ballroom once stood – the place where the big band sound was born. At least it was where he’d discovered it – where he and Egon and so many girls had felt it. Whenever they entered the Graystone, the beat surrounded them – vibrating against the walls, underneath their feet, reaching out to them from the stage.
It had been their hangout. It was where they discovered what “the good life” looked like, and imagined how music would take them there. It was a place to perfect their dance moves, steal kisses on the balcony and learn how to slip a guy a few bucks to get backstage. Once they even met the great Count Basie.
The dates and circumstances of most of these memories were hazy at best, all except for one – the last time Miguel and Egon were both together at that famous dance hall.
* * *
As soon as Miguel entered the Graystone, he spotted Egon dancing with Rosemary, the girl he called his “Wild Irish Rose.” Wasn’t much wild about her, though. A bit ordinary compared to the dishes Egon usually went for, was how Miguel had seen it. But after he and Marie had double dated with them a few times – well, he got it. She was the sweet type. Do anything for him. After all, what guy wouldn’t go for that? She seemed out of her element with their crowd but tonight, she was really grooving to the music. They were both smooth now, their movements matching perfectly.
Miguel wasn’t going to let them finish their dance. This news was too big. He rushed across the dance floor, seized Egon’s arm and pulled him hard in his direction. “Wait ’til you hear. Gene Krupa heard us playing with Johnny’s band and wants us to join the group when he’s at the Book Cadillac next week. This is our chance. Our big break. If they like our sound, maybe we could tour with ‘em. We’ll be seen in every dance hall in the country,” he said, pausing to catch his breath.
Egon’s expression turned from astonishment to apprehension in one fast second. Surprised at the silence, Miguel urged, “Well – Well, isn’t it fantastic?”
“It is,” he said slowly, sneaking a nervous look at Rose. She looked down and mumbled a quick excuse to slip away to the bathroom.
“What’s the matter with you?” Miguel asked. “Don’t you understand what this means?”
“Yes, I know, but this may not be the right time for me.” Egon seemed to slow down, chewing on his words. “What if we do a few gigs and it’s over? I can’t risk losing my job at the shop now. I just got a raise.”
“You’re kiddin’, right? You want to miss this chance over a stupid job you don’t even like?” Miguel’s voice squeaked like a badly tuned sax.
“It’s more about having a paycheck I can count on, but I guess you wouldn’t know about that.”
“Wouldn’t know about what?” Through the between-dance chatter, Miguel wasn’t sure he heard that quite right.
“Anyway,” Egon softened his tone as he pulled Miguel off the dance floor. “I’ve got to think about the future. Rose wants a lot of kids and I can’t live at home forever.”
“Hey, wait a minute! You’re going to propose, aren’t you?” Miguel searched Egon’s face for some clue he was jiving with him, or maybe just over-infatuated with his newest girl. He’d seen that come and go before. Egon diverted his eyes towards the ladies room.
“Well,” Egon paused, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “To be honest, Rose and I are discussing it.”
“What? Come on! This new plan of yours ain’t exactly going to fit in when we take our new act on the road. When were you going to tell me all this? And the band? Were you gonna clue in the guys?”
“I said discussing it. Anyway, what am I supposed to do – clear everything with you? I mean, this is my girl we’re talking about. This is my life!” Egon’s voice rose to meet the band’s big brass intro.
“But our plans. We were supposed to play together. Don’t try to pretend you don’t want to play for Glen Miller anymore.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Egon’s face turned stern. “Take your damn show; if you really think one gig at the Book Cadillac is gonna make you famous.”
Miguel stepped back. “Wow, I never thought I’d see the day you’d let a skirt push you around like that.”
Egon stepped one foot forward, his hands forming fists. Miguel tightened into a boxer’s stance. It was as though they were kids again, back in the alley, making even on a grudge. But then Rose was back at his side, grabbing one arm as though he’d extended it just for her. Like a ball and chain, Miguel thought.
Standing down, Egon said, “Man, when are you going to learn some class?”
Miguel composed a dozen comebacks, but his lips couldn’t form one syllable. He suddenly felt out of place on the familiar dance floor. Speechless, he walked away. Turning back he could see Egon’s eyes still on him, watching him leave. He was angry, that was for sure, but his creased forehead and tight lips melted into a disappointed frown. He’d seen that look before – like at the end of the night when he realized the band had drunk all the profits. But this had nothing to do with the band. Or Rose. Somewhere down the line they had just stopped following the same rhythm.
* * *
Realizing his stop was next; Miguel decided to open the case. As his bony fingers touched the instrument, he smiled. She aged well. The brass still glittered and the grip felt just the same. Lifting it from the patchy purple velvet, he tried to recall exactly when he stopped playing. He’d had a great career, hit about every jazz club worth playing but one day – about 10 years ago – he just put it down and never picked it up again. He always blamed his arthritis when old friends asked, but it wasn’t that. He just didn’t have it anymore. It wouldn’t have been right to continue to play his horn – Egon’s horn – if he couldn’t play it like it was meant to be played. But the real question he’d lived with all his life was whether he really had a right to play Egon’s trumpet at all.
As his memories became stronger, he remembered how it all came about – how he came to possess his old buddy’s cherished horn in the first place and how he had convinced himself it was his own.
* * *
“… he let that old trumpet go,” Papa had said.
“What trumpet?” Miguel cut in, surprising both himself and his parents. Whenever he visited the folks in Detroit, he’d tune them out, half listening, half daydreaming as they filled him in on every mundane detail of every soul that ever lived in that old neighborhood. Miguel knew what they were thinking – once he got the touring “out of his system,” he’d find a nice girl – Hispanic, of course – and settle back down in Detroit. It never occurred to them that his so-called “gallivanting” was his life.
“What trumpet? Listen to him!” Miguel’s father stole a glance towards his wife. “You two played together for so long and you don’t remember that old trumpet? Why, it’s what got you two started in the first place.”
“Egon? Got rid of the trumpet? How do you know?”
“Remember the Beyers who used to live next door to Egon’s folks? Well, Randy Beyer told us Egon sold his trumpet to Whitaker’s; you know the little place on the corner.”
“Why would he do that?’
“Well, with two kids and a third on the way, maybe he needed some extra cash, I don’t know.”
“But why? He was so talented. How could he just get rid of it?”
“Oh Miguel,” his mother piped in. “Not everyone wants to spend their lives playing music like you. From what I’ve heard, he hasn’t played since the USO. Why keep it?”
Why keep it? Looking into his parent’s bewildered faces; he realized it wasn’t worth the effort. He’d long since given up explaining what his band, the trumpet, jazz really meant to him. They never really got it – what he and Egon shared, the love for the music, all of it. He guessed they figured it was a phase. They never failed to remind him that Marie was now married to a rich restaurateur – Marie, their last holdout that he might get married some day. Like his parents, though, Marie tired of the band’s tour schedule. Somewhere between Philly and Baltimore, she got engaged to someone else. Didn’t see that coming, but his parents, they just shook their heads and blamed him for letting her slip through his fingers. And they always talked about Egon like he was gold, like he’d made all the right decisions. Yeah, they understood why Egon could so easily sell the trumpet, but for Miguel, the news jolted him like a punch in the gut.
He remembered how smooth Egon made that trumpet sound – how he lost himself in it whenever they were on stage. For Christ’s sake, it was a family heirloom. How could he just dump it? But then he remembered how Egon had closed the book on the band, and their friendship, when he decided to marry Rose. Just like that. Sure, Egon got called up for duty – not long after their fight at the Graystone. And, yeah, Miguel’s new band was so hot, he was barely in town anymore, but still, he could have found a way to keep in touch. And now the trumpet – abandoning it in some cheap pawnshop for a few bucks.
Miguel couldn’t shake the forgotten trumpet from his mind. He had extended his weekend engagement at the Keyboard Lounge and paid a visit to Whitaker’s shop. When he had spotted the horn in a place like that, collecting dust – well, he just couldn’t leave it. Imagining himself righting a tragic wrong, he bought it and told himself he’d return it to Egon. He imagined how grateful Egon would be to Miguel for rescuing the horn. He saw himself convincing his old buddy to join the band again – or at least to just sit in when they were in town. He rehearsed the conversation over and over in his head.
But when he’d played a few tunes that night at the lounge, he couldn’t put Egon’s trumpet down. He preferred its deep, rich resonance over the more tinny sound of his newer instrument. He left town that night without getting in touch with Egon. Needed some time to collect his thoughts. After all he hadn’t laid eyes on him for a long time. He’d call him from the road, he told himself. Somehow it never happened.
And, maybe he was imagining it, but his luck seemed to change. Whenever he played the trumpet at a new gig, the band got called back. The more he played it, the more it felt like the old days all over again. Just picking it up reminded him of his old chum. But as the years passed, he thought less and less about Egon. He figured he deserved the right to call it his trumpet. After all he’d rescued the old horn. It would have been melted for scrap or worse – found a home with a tone deaf kid who played lousy high school fight songs or broken taps at Boy Scout camp.
* * *
Miguel could vaguely see a twisted image of himself in the brass. All those excuses about why he played Egon’s trumpet all those years didn’t work for him now.
He took one last look and gently put it away. Recognizing his stop, he slowly maneuvered towards the back exit. He could see the funeral home from the bus stop. Despite his varicose veins and a steady ache in his lower back, he wished it were ten blocks away, instead of just one.
One short block gave him little time. Returning the trumpet to the family seemed like the right thing to do, but how? Would they even care anymore?
Holding the trumpet case tight against his pant leg, he stepped into the parlor and quietly moved to the back, avoiding the casket and the crowd. He found a seat and waited.
He wouldn’t have recognized her on the street, but here, with her family in a protective circle around her, he saw something familiar in her dark brown eyes and the gentle tilt of her head. It was Rose. Besides her children and grandchildren, there were others who resembled Egon – in one way or another. He wondered what it would have been like if he’d made himself a part of this circle. He’d never know now. Guess he’d been too proud to make the attempt – he’d waited too long for some kind of personal invitation. Like it ever happened that way.
One more funeral, he thought. There’d been so many. They made him go numb – like those faces in the caskets. Everything just gets bleaker and colder as the years go by. Slipping away before the families could spot him was a talent of his. He would scope out an exit and plan a quick, quiet retreat as soon as the back doors opened. This time he forgot to make escape plans. He listened to every word of that service.
He was shocked at how little he knew Egon, despite his parents’ updates over the years. There was more to know than just a move to the suburbs, the birth of the next baby or his parents passing away. His success in business, the way he taught his kids to play the piano and how he continued to sing – in one way or another throughout his life – the church choir, a quartet of his old army buddies, someone even brought up his favorite piano bar. Miguel no longer wondered whether Egon had made wrong decisions in his life.
Waiting until most of the crowd left to whisper regrets to the family outside, he approached the casket. Little in the chalky, drawn face reminded him of his old friend. He shivered slightly. His hands shook as he opened the case and brought out Egon’s trumpet. He considered laying it in the coffin. How morbid.
Awkwardly he placed the trumpet with the case open on a nearby table, where flowers wrapped in satin read, “Beloved Husband.” He imagined Rose would recognize it and reclaim it for the family. Red, swollen blotches marked his hands where he’d held the handle so tightly. Funny, how easily he’d let go of that tight grasp.
As he turned away, he saw a display board full of photos. Most were of Egon with Rose and their kids, at every stage of their lives. But one – just one – captured two devilish boys fresh out of high school. He could tell they were backstage but he couldn’t place the theater. He and Egon were holding their trumpets and laughing.
• • •
Karen Hildebrandt lives in Detroit and makes her living as a writer and editor within the journalism, public relations, and corporate communications fields. A writer of short stories and a recently completed historical novel called The Bloody Derby, which, though not yet published, received first place in the Rochester Writer’s 2014 Contest. Based on the first chapters of the novel Karen was awarded four writing residencies: Norcroft, Writer’s in the Heartland, Wild Acres, and Glen Arbor. She also received a Writer’s Voice award for her short story “After the Rush.”