On an overcast and stand-offish Thursday night (I think?) I had an old friend over for coffee and cigarettes: JT Bates. JT was a part-time well-rounded and experienced drummer when I was comin up — oh, I’d say around 1916 to 1920 — and a full-time bar owner in Chicago. After my family took residence in their second house in the city I always crept out at night, weaseling my way into his establishment to watch some Jazz, and maybe get a shot of whiskey if I was lucky. He hated me for the longest time. Until I offered to clean glasses, sweep floors, and wipe tables for him… for free. Only thing I asked for in return was twenty minutes of stage time on open mic nights, Mondays and Wednesdays and every other Thursday. There was a guy who stomped on a kick drum and played keys, one-man band, JT gave every single Tuesday night to. Don’t remember the fellas name, just the project, which was “88 Keys”. Growley voice. Mysterious bastard, never said much. Anyways, JT talked extensively about my flat, what I should do to it, where I should put this or that. Respectfully, of course. We were movin a desk to the window when I said, “you know, you still let me play even after I stopped workin for you all those years ago, I think I still owe you one…” He dropped the desk in the middle of the room, paused, and walked to the window rubbing his eyes. “Has it been that long? What year is this? Sometimes… sometimes, Sonny, my mind jumps out of my body and it wanders the streets while I’m sleeping. I’m afraid its looking for something that aint there.” It was plain to me then that he was having a rough time adjusting. We all do to some degree, its just a matter of blocking that out to accept what’s happened, and what will happen. “There’s no stoppin it, Mr. Bates”, I put my hand on his shoulder, “what’s done is done. This is our life now.” I remember what Mr. Thompson had told me. That tripped out looney philosopher-king, damn if he doesn’t get it. “Mr. Bates. No one has called me that in years.” The streetlights below shot up into his face, casting it in shallow light. His eyes relaxed a bit, and he looked up into the cloudy black sky. “There is one thing you could do for me, Sonny…” I started pouring out the last of the coffee into each of our cups at the table, JT lit up. “Can you go back to my apartment and steal my journals from me?”
-Sonny
