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Date Posted: 15:07:57 04/30/03 Wed
Author: TheSFMasher
Subject:

The Trumpet Player

THE TRUMPET PLAYER

I FELT A SLIGHT NUDGE on my side, followed by the sound of a young women�s voice:
�Mr�hey Mr., it�s time to get moving, all right?� She said. �I�ve gotta� open the caf� up now, so you�ve gotta� get up and outta� here, OK?�
I rolled over off my side and onto my back looking up at the young woman gazing down at me and replied, �All right, all right, just give me a minute, OK?�
She shook her head, stepped over me, and unlocked the doors of the small caf�. Once inside, she re-locked the doors, so no one would disturb her while she was brewing the coffee and shifting the pastries (the old ones to the front and new ones to the back).
I propped up against the wall, reached for one of the half-smoked cigarette butts that I�d been saving in the breast pocket of my jacket, and fired it up. It was a menthol. I smoked it down to the filter and threw it into the street as a passerby glanced down at me in disgust.
I finished rolling my sleeping bag up, attached it to my backpack, and headed off towards the Trans Bay Terminal to wash up a bit.
Looking up at the sky, I could tell that there was a pretty good chance that it might rain, which meant that I wouldn�t make much money playing the trumpet today. The smoke-gray clouds were moving fast from above and little patches of light shined through them. Living on the streets of San Francisco for over twenty-two years now, I�ve gotten pretty damn good at predicting the weather.
The men�s bathroom at the Trans Bay Terminal was already fairly full and it looked as if I was going to have to wait in line for a few minutes to get access to one of the sinks.
There were five sinks, four stalls (only one of which had a door), and three urinals.
I saw all of the regulars in there and a few random queers looking for cheap tricks too.
As a matter of fact, this particular bathroom has actually built up quite a reputation over the last four years as a spot for gay and sexually confused men to go and get cheap, not to mention, discreet sexual favors from homeless men suffering from drug addictions.
Finally, almost ten minutes later, it was my turn for the sink. I took my bag from off of my shoulder, set it down, turned on the hot water and began washing up.
The warm water felt good on my hands and face and there was actually a little bit of soap left in the dispenser too, which is always an added bonus.
After freshening up, I headed out towards the bagel shop kitty-cornered to the bus terminal. I pulled out my old stainless steel mug from out of my bag and filled it up with the house blend coffee, and managed to sneak out once again without paying; for the record, I�m now 7-10. It�s better to go early in morning when the cashiers and clerks are too preoccupied with customers to notice me. It gets a bit risky in the afternoon after the morning rush.
I made my way to the corner of Bush and Sansome at approximately 7:15. I pulled the trumpet case from out of my pack and propped my bag up against the gray wall of the building. Then I removed the tarnished trumpet from out of the old brown leather case, oiled the valves, put the mouth piece in, and polished it up a little with the old handkerchief my ex-wife gave me for Christmas many years back that had my initials inscribed into it: HCJ.
I left the old case with the red velvet lining open in front of me and threw a small handful of change into it to get me started as I warmed up playing the scales.
I usually started with a little Roy �Little Jazz� Eldridge and casually moved my way into playing the great, Louis �Satch-Moe� Armstrong�s internationally known hit, �If I Could Be With You,� followed by my personal favorite, �Hello Dolly.�
The express buses packed with commuters pulled up alongside the curb one after another. A few people threw change and dollar bills into my case and I slightly bowed and blew a high note showing them my gratitude as they passed.
The gray clouds now completely blanketed the sky and I felt a few raindrops hit my head as I began playing Dizzy Gillespie�s, �Blowin� the Blues.� I played as loud and as hard as I could as the rain started coming down even harder than before, almost completely dampening the sidewalks and streets.
By this time, everyone had their umbrella�s open and their pockets closed. I was about a quarter of the way through Gillespie�s, �Night in Tunisia,� when I decided that it was pointless for me to play any longer and called it quits.
Ah hell, I thought as I gathered the little money I�d made from out of the old leather case, maybe I�ll do better tomorrow, and shoved the money into my coat pocket.
I packed the trumpet up, put it back in my pack, took a sip of luke-warm coffee, and fired up another cig butt as I headed off towards the liquor store for a bottle of Royal Gate Vodka.
The rain had lightened up a bit by the time I reached the liquor store and it was now only slightly misting. I stood outside of the store leaning up against and old dirty newspaper box with my bag at my side sipping my vodka and chasing it with cold coffee.
Looking back up at the sky, I saw that the sun was starting to seep through the loose patches of dark clouds, which completely blanketed the sky only fifteen minutes earlier. Maybe I�ll get to play today after all, I thought as I took a nice hit off the bottle and started thinking of a good spot to set up at during the lunch rush.
I decided that I�d set up on the same corner that I played at earlier, but in the meantime I would go down to the end of the pier, finish my vodka, and kill time watching the cargo ships roll into the bay until a little before noon.
I took a hit off the bottle, slung my bag over my shoulder and started off down the street towards the pier. On my way, I noticed a woman sitting on the a milk crate on the corner of the block in front of the pastry shop, wrapped in a wool blanket with a red scarf tied around her neck. She had an old black stocking cap on her head and was holding a cardboard sign with a message scribbled in black ink that read:

PLEASE HELP ME GET SOMETHING TO EAT.
ANY HELP WOULD BE GREATLY APPRECIATED.
THANK YOU, HAVE A NICE DAY AND GOD BLESS.

I�m familiar with many of the homeless men and women in the downtown area, however, I�d never seen her before, so out of curiosity I approached her closer to get a better look. She had an old McDonald�s cup sitting in front of her with less than a dollar in it and a small, malnourished kitten resting in her lap. Judging by its size, the kitten couldn�t have been more than three or four weeks old.
Digging in my pocket, I pulled out a couple of quarters, a dime, and a few pennies, then dropped them into her cup. She looked up, smiled, and said:
�Thank ya�, Mr. You ain�t happen to have an extra cigarette on you by chance do ya�?�
I had a few butts left that I pulled out of the ashtrays at the Embarcadero Center and one full one that I was saving that someone had dropped into my trumpet case the day before last. Being generous, I gave her the full one.
Her eyes lit up and she became excited.
�Thank ya� very much, Mr.,� she said.
�You�re very much welcome,� I replied. �Do you need a light too?�
She nodded her head and I pulled out my lighter and lit the tip of the cigarette, cupping the flame with my hand to block the wind.
She said, �You�re too kind, Mr.,� and closed her eyes, took in a nice drag, held it in for a few seconds, coughed, then started wheezing.
�What�s your kitten�s name?� I asked.
�This here is Paws,� she said in between coughs, then handed me the kitten off her lap. �I found him a coupla� weeks back inna� alley behind a Chinese restaurant off of Kearny Street.�
The kitten licked my nose and cheeks with its sandpaper-textured tongue.
�By the way, I�m Hank,� I said handing her back the kitten. I never really liked cats all that much, but this one was alright.
�Hank,� she said, �I�m Sandra. It�s nice to meetcha�.�
The sun was now shining bright from above and the sidewalks and streets were starting to dry.
�Listen,� I said, �I�m gonna� go down to the end of the pier and drink this bottle of vodka I got and watch the ships come into the Bay till I gotta� go back to work�you wanna� come along?�
�Work?� She said curiously, exhaling a drag off her smoke.
�Yes, work,� I replied proudly. �I�m a musician.�
�Musician?�
�A street musician.�
�Is that right, huh?� She said half-laughing. �And what is it that you play?�
�The trumpet.�
�The trumpet?� She said, surprised. �Well, you don�t look like no trumpet player, Mr.�
�Its Hank,� I replied.
�I�m sorry, Hank, but you don�t look like no trumpet player to me.�
I laughed.
She looked me up and down then said, �And you say you�ve got a bottle of vodka, eh�?�
�Yep,� I said exposing the bottle from underneath my jacket. �Royal Gate Vodka,� I added.
�Well,� she said, �I guess I�ll come along witcha� Hank. I�ve got nothin� better to do anyway.�
She finished her smoke and started gathering up her belongings. She folded the wool blanket carefully and put it into her duffel bag along with the kitten, leaving its head poking out of the top. Then she hid the milk crate underneath a newspaper box and together we walked to the pier, sipping at the vodka along the way.
We sat together passing the bottle back and forth on one of the benches at the farthest point of the pier facing the water and the Bay Bridge. The fishermen were out, the sun was shining bright, and the air was quite refreshing after the rain. We even saw a Japanese cargo ship, easily a half-mile long, pass by and underneath the Bay Bridge, heading towards the Port of Oakland.
After finishing more than half of the bottle, she started loosening up a bit and began telling me more about herself. She said that she was originally from St. Louis and ended up moving to San Diego with her boyfriend in the mid-eighties, and not long after they had settled in, he left her for another woman. She ended up getting mixed in with the wrong crowd, got hooked on drugs, started selling herself, and had been living on the streets ever since, eventually making her way to San Francisco a few months back. I�ve found this to be a somewhat common story amongst many homeless men and women in California.
�And what about yourself,� she asked.
�Me? Well, there�s not much to me really, you see.� I said. �I�m from Chicago originally, and then I moved to California with my ex-wife Linda after I got back from Nam, but��
�Ah, so you�re a Midwesterner too,� she said interrupting me in the middle of my sentence.
�Yep, I�m a Midwesterner too.�
�Go on,� she said, taking a plug off the bottle.
�Well, Linda and me had two kids together, boy and a girl, but she left me 23 years back because of my drinkin� problem and I�ve pretty much been homeless ever since.�
�What about the kids?� She asked. �Have you talked to them?�
�Nope,� I replied, �haven�t talked to any of em� since she left.�
�That�s too bad,� Sandra said, putting her arm around me.
�Yeah, well, my drinkin� eventually got the best of me. It took my wife, my kids, my job, my home, and everything else I ever cared about too. All I got left is my trumpet and the only reason I kept it, is because I can make enough money day-to-day playin� it to get drunk with.�
We sat and talked until a little before noon when I told Sandra that it was time for me to get going, so I could set up for the lunch crowd.
�Would ya� like to come along with me?� I asked.
�I guess, I�ve got nothin� better to do,� she replied, and together we walked to the corner of Bush and Sansome, finishing the bottle along the way.
After I had set up and finished warming up, I started playing Herb Alpert�s �Spanish Flea.� The sun was shining bright, the passersby were happy and throwing dollar bills and silver coins into my case left and right. I looked over towards my left where Sandra sat with little Paws in her lap and blew a high note, then bowed. Paws was startled. Sandra laughed and clapped her hands, then held little Paws up by his two front feet and danced with him in her lap. He didn�t seem to like it too much, but nonetheless, Sandra was having a great time watching me play and she was surprised to see how many people were throwing money into my case.
After I had finished �Spanish Flea,� I moved into Roy Eldridge�s �Let Me Off Uptown.� This was usually a quite difficult song for me to play, but I had a nice buzz from the vodka going and played it almost perfectly. A small crowd had even gathered to watch me play. I always played better after I had a little to drink.
I played until well after two, when I decided to call it quits for the day.
�Hank, that was great!� Sandra said, then kissed me on the cheek.
I blushed.
�I had made almost $30 in less than three hours and this was by far one of the best days that I�ve had in many years. Sandra and I went out to eat at Burger King and I bought a can of tuna for Paws at the supermarket to celebrate. Later we went back to the liquor store for another bottle of vodka and then on over to the Embarcadero Center to stock up on cigarette butts from out of the ashtrays.
Later that evening, we shared the bottle of vodka, holding hands, and watching the sunset from the edge of the pier; it was gorgeous.
�Where do you usually sleep at?� I asked.
�Wherever,� she replied, �I don�t really have a designated spot yet.�
�Well, if you�re interested,� I said nervously, �I know of a nice little spot over by where I met you at and there�s more than enough room for two.�
She laughed, put her head on my shoulder and said, �That would be great, Hank,� then squeezed my hand tight.
I went to bed that night in the doorway of the caf� holding hands with Sandra, feeling better than I had in almost thirty years. I lied there cuddled next to her and little Paws with a smile on my face, listening to the hum of the cable car tracks and thinking, Well I�ll be damned, there really is someone out there for everyone.

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