The Jazz Man

Chapter 4

Preaching got easier as it went on, but it certainly didn't get much better. The feeling of complete and utter humiliation was replaced by mind-numbing tedium and complete disconnect from the material I was preaching. Truth be told, I don't think I really cared. I was chosen by God to spew this drivel on the subways; I never asked to do it. I wonder if I'm the first of the Great Prophets to not give a damn about God's message? I'd have to look it up on the Internet, but I'm sure I'll find the complicated backstories for about six and a half dozen prophets, most of which there will be some debate over whether they're even prophets. No wonder there's such disagreements when it comes to religion.

That's actually one of the more difficult parts about this task. I'm no good at research. Or rather, I'm no good at ongoing, indefinite research. It's like a teacher trying to form a lesson plan for her students, except that she teaches everyday, the school year is all year long, and she doesn't get to start from the beginning for the next round of students in September. Eventually, the teacher is going to run out of things to teach. In my case, I'm preaching the material faster than I can learn it. I've been considering giving myself only a half hour of preaching time instead of a full hour as a result. You know, save stuff for tomorrow, right?

I still haven't found any converts after about a month of this. Uriel hasn't shown himself since he showed up in my apartment that time, but I highly doubt Heaven and all its angels suddenly forgot about their Great Prophet. I could only wonder what the penalty for failing in my mission would be? Would I be replaced? Would it count as a mortal sin? Would I be sent immediately to Hell? Would my past sins no longer be overlooked (assuming that I was absolved of my atheistic-induced sinning in the first place)? Like everything else, this had not been adequately explained to me and I was supposed to just do as God commanded. I guess He doesn't really like people questioning Him.

After a nice night out with friends on Thurdsay, I had a miserable day of work waiting for me on Friday to close out the week. After being cursed out by two clients and given extra work from Samantha, along with having a person on the morning commute call me a retard while I was lecturing about the covenant Noah made with God after the flood, I was in no mood to be screwed around with during my after-work sermon.

A little less than ten minutes after I started droning on about how the clean animals bowed to Noah before entering the ark (seriously, that's how they distinguished themselves from the unclean ones), my voice was drowned out by the sound of a saxophone. I guess I would be screwed around with after all.

He was a tall black man wearing a dirty beige suit and a hat that would be perfect for the 1950's. His graying hair and wrinkled brow put him somewhere in his mid-seventies. An open black saxophone case lay at his feet with nothing inside. His eyes were closed as played his melody, his nimble fingers gliding back and forth over the sax's keys.

I hadn't even heard him sit down and set up. I was on one side of a staircase that led down to the train platform and he was on the other. But the sound of his sax completely drowned out my voice, which was a problem. Not to sound full of myself, but I was the acting voice of God on Earth. My message, good or bad, was more important than his slow jazz. The fact that I was already pissed off did not help my sense of self-importance.

After about five minutes of attempting to preach over him (screaming the teachings of the previous Great Prophets proved rather ineffective), I approached the jazz man.

“Um, excuse me, sir?” I asked, trying to be as polite as possible.

The man didn't acknowledge me. He kept right on playing his saxophone. I cleared my throat, feeling a mixture of annoyance and awkwardness. For the first time since I started preaching, it felt like all eyes were on me. Thankfully, the platform wasn't that crowded. After another moment, I coughed to get his attention. But he kept right on playing even as I coughed two more times, each time louder than the last.

“Excuse me--”

“No I don't have any lozenges,” the man interrupted, pausing his music.

“Huh?”

“You're standing in front of me, coughing up a storm. Either you're trying to get my attention or you're looking for something to soothe your throat,” he said casually, emptying one of the sax's spit valves. “And I ain't got anything for you either way, young man.”

“Well actually, sir, I was going to ask you if.........” My voice trailed off as he began to play again. He closed his eyes and belted out his soothing melody, and I was back where I started.

“Whatever, a*****e,” I muttered to myself, going back to my spot. I swear he must of heard me, because the music began to get louder. Preaching was difficult enough generally; now it was just damn impossible.

I leaned against the wall, tapping my fingers impatiently as the saxophone just played on and on. Admittedly, the man was a very good player. The song was the type of song you would hear in a coffee house; just the right type of sound to make you feel relaxed and at home in a business that catered to the general public. Very soothing. Too bad it did little to soothe me. I only had a certain amount of time left before the train came, and I didn't know when I would see Uriel next, providing that I didn't receive a visit from a much less forgiving angel.

The music stopped as the man began inspecting his instrument. I approached him again.

“Excuse me, sir--” I began.

“I thought my name was A*****e,” he interrupted. Damn, he did hear that? I guess a musician would have good hearing, wouldn't he?

I opened my mouth to speak, or rather to apologize, but he interrupted me again.

“Can I help you with something, you man?” I swear, the man spoke solely in interruptions.

My mouth felt dry. I had to force myself to answer and not just walk away.

“Um, well, I was just wondering if, you could, uh........”

“Spit it out, kid. This old man ain't got all day,” the jazz man interrupted. Again.

“Well, your music is kind of.... loud,” I stammered. 'Your music is kind of loud'!? Did I leave my spine at work something!?

“Yes, music often tends to be loud,” the man replied. “Generally, you want people to be able to hear it.”

“Yes, that is true, sir,” I answered, wishing I could go back in time and tell myself to just take the day off. “But I'm--”

“Plus, this is slow jazz music from an old man's saxophone,” he interrupted me yet again. Seriously, there's got to be a law in one of the Testaments against this. “As far as music goes, this is actually as quiet as it comes.”

“I know, but, well, I was kind of hoping that maybe you can lower that just a bit,” I proposed meekly, realizing just how ridiculous it sounded as I was saying it.

Admittedly, I never really thought of it as a good idea per se. I just approached the man out of annoyance.

The man stared at me, his bored expression not changing in the slightest. It was really uncomfortable. Maybe I should have just walked to the far end of the platform and did my preaching there.

His gaze bore through me, while my eyes fell down to his empty saxophone case. It was clear that this was how the man was making his living, and here I was in my suit and tie asking him to move. You could really make the case that I was the bad guy here. What I was doing really wasn't right at all.

Then again, I was the Great Prophet and as I said before, the teachings of the Lord took precedence over saxophone music.

“You want to run that by me again, son?” he finally asked, his expression static and calm.

I opened my mouth to stammer out a response even though I had no idea what to say, but he interrupted me again. “You want me to lower my music? Perhaps you'd like me to pack up and go play at a different train station.”

“I-I wasn't saying that,” I stuttered. Although that would be nice.

“I guess my making money to put food on my family's table isn't as important as whatever ramblings about God you're trying to shout,” he continued, laying the guilt on so thick that you could put it in milk and drink it as a milkshake. “I guess my four children should go hungry.”

“No sir, I--” I began.

“This is how I make my living after all,” he interrupted. Seriously, if playing jazz on the train didn't work out for him, he could try to find a career that puts his uncanny interruption skills to good use. “My poor wife has cancer and leukemia. She can't work.”

“I'm so sorry to--”

“We can barely afford her treatment it is. Especially since we lost the house.”

“I didn't mean--”

“But I guess as long as you get to stand on the subway and yell about God in your fancy suit, everything is A-OK, right?” he asked, not raising his voice in the slightest despite the fact that he had to be getting incensed.

I was getting hot in my suit, although I could have been wearing a pair of swim trunks and would still be sweating. I don't know if this was the most embarrassing situation I've ever been in my entire life, but it definitely felt like it at the moment. Time felt like it slowed to a crawl, and I was desperate to get on the train. Maybe if I dropped a twenty dollar bill in the man's saxophone case it would make up for the fact that I tried to stop him from feeding his children and treating his wife's terminal diseases.

The man's expression did not change at all, remaining tired and emotionless as he dropped his biggest bombshell on me yet. “It's because I'm black, isn't it?”

My eyes went wide with horror. He didn't say it that loud, but it felt as if the entire subway platform heard him. “N-n-no! It's not that!” I cried, terrified that other people were listening. Who knows how many of them would believe this man's accusation?

“A rich white man in a suit telling a poor black beggar to stop playing his jazz?” the man retorted. “Sounds like it's because I'm black.”

“No! It has nothing to do with that!” I protested.

“I know your type, son. You've never known a black person growing up and all you know of us is racial stereotypes. Your ignorance makes you hateful and you hate to see a black man make any money, even this little.”

“What!? No! I have black friends!” I shouted in horror. It wasn't until it came out that I remembered how terrible of a defense that actually was.

“I'm sure you do,” the man said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I do! I have black friends! Lots of black friends!” I was not helping this situation at all. Seriously, if you ever find yourself accused of hating black people, don't respond with “I have lots of black friends”. It just makes you sound more racist.

The man nodded, not buying my counterclaim at all. “Mmhmm. You keep them around for manual labor? Maybe to move your bags?”

F**k this. I reached into my wallet and pulled out that twenty. “Here you go, sir. Forget I said anything.”

“Oh don't worry about it, son,” the man said, reaching down to pick up the twenty. He held it up, checking to see if it was counterfeit. “I was just f*****g with you.”

What?

“What?” I finally asked after my brain processed what he just said, something which took much longer than it should have.

The jazz man pocketed the twenty. “I'm surprised you didn't realize I was yanking your chain when I told you my wife had cancer and leukemia. I could have probably also told you she was dead as well, and you would have just stood there like a deer in headlights.”

I guess the relief that came from knowing that this man wasn't going to cause a scene after all was greater than the embarrassment from being tricked by some homeless man because I couldn't even get mad at him. I think I actually broke a smile when I realized exactly what he was saying. A small smile, that is.

“I take it that I'm not going to get that twenty back,” I mused, shaking my head.

“Nope,” answered the man.

“Even though you tricked me into giving it to you,” I pointed out.

“How else am I going to make money?” asked the man. “Have you ever tried to get into the music industry, son?”

“No, can't say that I have,” I lied.

Fun fact about myself; I can play the drums pretty well. Better than I can act, which is about the same as saying that I know how to hit the drums with the sticks. In high school, me and my friends tried to form a band in order to get girls. At the height of our teenage creativity, we shamelessly ripped off the Sex Pistols and called ourselves the Love Rifles. Predictably, we never wrote, sang, played, composed, recorded, or produced a single song.

I went back to my side of the stairs. The jazz music started up again and I gave up preaching for the day. I guess I couldn't really complain though. I hated it. Any excuse to not do it was welcome in my book. But I still had to get those converts. I didn't know when Uriel would show up and I needed to have something for him, or there might literally be Hell to pay.

Damn it, this whole Great Prophet thing sucked! Seriously, it really sucked! I know, I know, I should be overwhelmed with the humble joy, piety, and other bullshit one supposedly feels when they feel Jesus inside of them, but this Great Prophet gig was the biggest crock of bullshit ever! I don't know how the many, many Great Prophets before me accomplished their tasks, but there was no way I was going to be able to get enough converts to change the world on God's behalf or whatever it is that Heaven wants from me. Not on my own anyway.

It was right there that one of “those” ideas popped into my head. You know, one of those ideas that straddles the line between “crazy enough to work” and “batshit retarded”. I snuck a peak over at the jazz man, who was still playing his tunes. More specifically, I snuck a peak at his saxophone case. In it was a dollar bill and some change. He had been playing music all this time and had made nothing. I wonder if........

No! This was the dumbest idea I've ever had, worse than that time me and a friend tried to rig his parents' speakers to blast sound at a high enough pitch to shatter glass and instead found a very complicated way to short out speakers and piss off your friend's parents. We weren't very smart kids, but that was still smarter than the idea that had come to me.

After mulling it over for a few more minutes, I figured it was worth a shot. After all, I was a part-time subway preacher, so crazy things were pretty much my area of expertise. I approached the jazz man.

“Excuse me,” I began.

He stopped playing and looked at me with the same facial expression as before. A couple people glanced over to us to see why the platform had suddenly gone quiet again, but no one really cared. “I hope you're not about to ask me to stop playing again.”

“No, that's not it,” I answered.

“Really, because I could use another twenty bucks,” he said.

“You're not getting another twenty bucks from me,” I shot back.

For a brief moment, he was silent. “Racist,” was his only word.

“I don't care. That's not going to work again,” I replied, shaking my head. “But I actually want to ask you a related question.”

The man's expression finally changed, in the form of a quizzically raised eyebrow. He only grunted a response, signaling for me to continue.

“How much money do you make?” I asked.

“How much money do you make?” he repeated.

“Come on, man. I'm serious.”

The man shook his head. “Depends on how generous people are feeling. I've made anywhere from ten to sixty bucks in a week.” A smile slowly appeared on his face. It must be the end of days already. “But with suckers like you around, I might end up moving to a higher tax bracket.”

“I doubt you pay any taxes,” I said dryly.

“You're right. Does this conversation have a point?” he asked, equally dryly.

“Well, right now I'm doing this project. I'm trying--”

“Does it involve you standing in the subway trying to preach about God?” he interrupted. Wow, that gets infuriating.

I sighed, nodding slowly. “Yeah, it does.”

The man chuckled lightly, but said nothing.

“Truth be told....,” I began before trailing off. I sighed heavily. Lowering my voice, I spoke again. “Truth be told, I was tasked by an Archangel named Uriel to preach the Holy Books of God. You know, the Bible and all that?” I shrugged my shoulders hopelessly. “I'm supposed to gain followers and converts and all that s**t. I can't. It's too much for one person. So--”

“So you want to hire me to help you preach this stuff,” the man interrupted again.  For once, his interruption didn't piss me the hell off.

Now I was the one who chuckled. It really was a silly idea, but saying it aloud seemed to give it a more comedic flair. We all kick crazy ideas around our heads all the time. It's a lot different to hear yourself actually going through with one of them. “Yep. That's pretty much it. You believe me, right?”

“What, about that whole Archangel thing?” he asked. I nodded, and the man shook his head in response. “Kid, I think you're either full of s**t or completely insane. Probably insane, since you seem to truly believe that you're some sort of servant of God.”

I felt my shoulders slump a little bit. It seems like the weight of all this would fall on my shoulders after all. “So you're not interested?”

“Of course I'm interested! I'll do it for a hundred fifty dollars a week,” he answered. I looked at him like he was crazy. He didn't seem crazy for a subway beggar, but he had to be nuts if he thought he was going to get a one fifty a week from me for this s**t.

“One hundred fifty dollars!?” I cried incredulously. “Try more like fifty dollars!”

“I already make sixty dollars a week playing music. Why would I want to make less money while making an a*s of myself doing something I don't care about?”

“You don't make sixty dollars a week. You said you've made up to sixty dollars a week. You want to risk only making ten bucks this week, or do you want a guaranteed fifty?” I shot back, my hours of watching reality shows set in pawn shops finally seeing practical usage in everyday life. Who says TV rots your brain?

“You want to go around subways screaming about God on your own, son? Or do you want someone else to do it for you?” he argued. Damn it! He must have a TV, too! “Or are you enjoying what you're doing?”

I shook my head in frustration. Fine, I'll play his game. “Alright, I'll pay you seventy bucks per week. It's more than you will ever make playing on the subway.”

“Seventy? Why don't you just pay me in rolls of pennies? How about--”

“Rolls of pennies to me are like hundreds to you,” I interrupted him. I hope he hated the feeling with a fiery passion. “I wouldn't get too cocky here if I were you. You've got a bigger opportunity here than I do.”

The man smiled slyly. “Cheap shot, kid. Cheap shot. I'll do it for a buck twenty.”

“Eighty,” I haggled.

“A hundred ten.”

“Ninety.”

“We'll meet in the middle then. An even hundred,” he said.

I nodded. “A hundred dollars a week. You'll start Wednesday afternoon, and we'll meet here around five thirty. I'll print you out some fliers to hand out, and you'll be preaching to people about God.”

“Anything you want me to preach about specifically, boss?” he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders slightly.

“Hell if I know,” I answered. “Just preach for people to live exactly as the Torah, Bible, and Koran command. No specific religion. Anything you know about Judaism, Christianity, and Islam is fair game. Remember, whether it's good or bad, right or wrong, bullshit or extra bullshit, and no matter how self-contradictory it all is, just preach these things exactly as they are written.”

“I don't know if you assume I'm a crazy religious nutcase just because I'm homeless, but you should know that I know very little about religion,” warned my new employee.

“Yeah, that makes two of us,” I replied. “I'll brief you as you go. Just do what I do; wing it.”

“I can see you're truly dedicated to doing the Lord's work,” the man said sarcastically.

“Just trying to get Heaven off my back,” I said. “Hey, just to make sure, you're not offended by this, are you?”

“What? That you're bullshitting your way through preaching what's probably a dangerous and perverted extremist interpretation of the world's three major religions, something that would be greatly offensive to a lot of people who have spent their lives in genuine love and worship of God?” asked the jazz man.

Hearing someone else put it into words really drove home exactly what I was doing and how I would be perceived for doing it. The great Biblical figures were hated by their peers during when they were alive. They were pursued, persecuted, and many were even killed in their service to God. I could only hope that would not be my final fate. I hope you'll excuse me for not being as dedicated to God as Jesus was.

“Yeah, that,” I responded to the jazz man's rather cynical but accurate description of my holy task. “You're not offended by that, are you?”

“Nope.”

“I take it you're not a believer, then?”

He laid his saxophone across his lap and looked me in the eye. “As long as there's a steady paycheck, I'll believe anything you want.”

I nodded slowly, a grin slowly forming across my face. You couldn't argue against his work ethic. I just hope he's as reliable as he seems to think he is.

“Okay, then I think you and I have a deal, uh, I'm sorry. I didn't get your name,” I asked.

The jazz man held out his hand. “Lucas. My name is Lucas.”

“Jack. Nice to meet you Lucas,” I said, shaking his hand. “See you next Wednesday.”