He felt the pressure then the piercing sound trapped in his head. It was like mangling steel in the midst of an industrial accident….a century derailment of a train. It would come and go only when he thought of her, replaying their conversation, remembering her abrupt exit. The pain was blinding. Back at his apartment, he raced to the bathroom, where he stored his medication. But even a medicated peaceful moment wouldn’t remedy the mental chaos, the inevitable breakdown. He knew it, threw the pills in the toilet and flushed. Next he makes a dash to his record collection and quickly locates the answer, clearly marked with a blue tap. In an instant he holds the special vinyl, the greatest jazz recording ever, “Kind Of Blue” by Miles Davis. Peering at the cover, at the most influential jazz giant pictured, the image stares back then speaks.

“Motherfucker what do want now?”
Miles said, pulling his trumpet back away from his lips.

“Sorry, Miles. It’s an emergency.”

“Better be. You cut in on a fine session motherfucker so speak up. Miles always got your back, baby.”

“I fucked up, Miles.”

“What’s new? You’re always fucking up. We’re men. We’re always fucking up something. In part, that’s what makes us. What we learn, how and when we overcome, that’s what counts. So congratulations on another fuck up. Now can I go and play for you or what?”

“Wait, Miles…Mr.Davis.”

Again he drops the trumpet, this time tugging on the lapel of his blue pinstriped suit.

“Oh shit….you’re in deeper than I thought. Man, I’m cool. The cool don’t give out hugs or anything like that. But I suspect this has to do with a woman.”

“Yes, sir. Big argument while out on a date. I snapped while listening to a band covering Charlie “Bird” Parker.”

Miles laugh is a wind whisper through his operated larynx.

“See, now that’s where you fucked up right there. You took her to hear Bird covers? What the hell. You know Charlie and I played together…that greedy motherfucker. So was Trane. But….both were geniuses, man. We made beautiful music, legendary music out of our struggles. Shit…and that’s all I got for you.”

“You mean….”

“Yeah stupid. Life’s a beautiful struggle but if you want to see what music you’re going to make out of it, then you and that lady friend of yours need to stay in the band and play.”

“I see.”

“Don’t know what the fight was about and frankly, Miles don’t care, ya dig?”

“I better find the words and apologize to her.”

“Better find them quick. Cause she’s not far behind.”

He turns to find a familiar silhouetted figure standing at the entrance of his apartment.
“Look. You flushed a lot of shit down the toilet. Quick, hit the turntable and drop the needle on me. You’ve got the words and I got the music. Let me do what I do.”

“Thank, Miles.”



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