In a Mist Page 2
Alice and Roy
June 19, 1981
Dear Down Beat,
I am writing out of dismay at Mr. Glasner’s piece on Eleanora Sinclair in last month’s issue. Glasner’s assertion that the small acclaim enjoyed by Ms. Sinclair is due primarily to her strange disappearance only betrays his ignorance of vocal jazz and shows the same penchant for crude sensationalism exhibited by the mainstream media. The suggestion that she orchestrated her own disappearance as a publicity stunt is a joke of exceptionally poor taste—an insult to both Ms. Sinclair and her devout fans. Many of us consider her to be one of the greatest vocalists of her era. It is absurd to think that anyone who loved the stage as much as Ms. Sinclair would wilfully abandon public life. Dean Glasner should stick to writing about the bop and post-bop he gets off on, and leave Sinclair fans in peace.
Alice Alderson
New York, NY
* * *
July 7, 1981
Dear Down Beat,
I couldn’t agree more with Alice Alderson’s defence of Eleanora Sinclair. Too often, as in Mr. Glasner’s piece, Ms. Sinclair is dismissed as a second rate performer. Indeed, the editors of Down Beat may be responsible in part for her status as a footnote in jazz history. Since Earl Ehlrich’s short article following her disappearance in 1950, Down Beat has all but ignored her impressive catalogue and wide-ranging influence. Even Ehrlich’s piece focusses on the circumstances of her disappearance and virtually ignores her merits as a distinctive, perhaps incomparable jazz vocalist.
I applaud Ms. Alderson for her criticism of Glasner, and would like to extend this criticism to the Down Beat establishment on the whole. Eleanora Sinclair ought to be remembered for her artistry, and not treated like pulp for the tabloids.
p.s. Any Down Beat readers who happen to live in the Fredericton/Oromocto NB area would be well-advised to tune into CHSR 97.9 FM every Thursday at 10 pm for Two Drink Minimum. Those of you who recognize that the show borrows its name from Sinclair’s signature song (originally by Art Beazley, though Eleanora really made it her own) will require no further introduction.
Roy MacArthur
Fredericton, New Brunswick
* * *
July 26, 1981
Dear Roy,
We have finally had a chance to take a look at the piece you submitted back in February on Bix Beiderbecke and the Wolverines. Unfortunately, it’s not the sort of thing we’re looking for right now. F.Y.I., we don’t as a rule consider unsolicited manuscripts.
Also, we won’t be running your response to Ms. Alderson’s letter. However, as a personal favour, from one Beiderbecke enthusiast to another, I can forward a copy of your letter to her, though I can’t guarantee she’ll respond. All the best with your radio show.
Yours,
Allan Brookes
Asst. Editor, Down Beat Magazine
* * *
Five months after Down Beat publishes Alice Alderson’s letter, Roy stands outside a gas station on the outskirts of Fredericton, duff el bag in one hand, a Greyhound bus ticket in the other. Roy is not about to let a conviction for dope deter him from attempting to cross the border. He’s more or less kicked the habit and it seems unfair to him that such a trivial off ence should keep him from accepting Alice’s invitation. Roy’s major concern right now is the handful of listeners who tune in regularly to Two Drink Minimum and the punker-angst rock they’ll be subjected to during his absence. That week, between customers at the record store, Roy spent hours meticulously selecting tracks and scripting anecdotes for next Thursday’s show. But in addition to covering his shifts while he was away, Roy’s co-worker Andy agreed to sit in as the host of Two Drink Minimum only on the condition that he be permitted to play whatever records he wanted.
Three days later Roy is strolling down East Houston Street, arm in arm with Alice Alderson. He cleared the border without a hitch. Customs did not run a background check, nor did they detect the flask of rye in the inside pocket of his overcoat. Roy has forgotten what day of the week it is. He is not sure if he is in love, he only knows that he is profoundly elated to be in the company of the young woman at his side, and that he is overwhelmed. Roy is not used to big cities and he is not used to Alice. Their first few days together have been awkward at times, but they have also turned out better than Roy had expected. Though Alice proved to be the confident, opinionated young woman of her letters, Roy knows that in person he could never live up to the dashing persona of his radio broadcasts; which, at little prompting from Alice, he had tape-recorded and sent to her. Alice is not entirely disappointed with the young man she has met, but neither is she swept off her feet. Roy knows this. He also knows that his reticence is nothing a few pulls from his flask can’t remedy. Alice likes it when he does this, not only because it helps him loosen up, but because it was a stylish thing for a young man to do.
Though Alice has had ample opportunity to become acquainted with Roy’s voice, he is still growing accustomed to hers. They had spoken only once before meeting, and Alice had steadfastly refused to sing over the phone. When Roy requested that she send him a recording of herself, she complained that she had never had the opportunity to be professionally recorded—which is why, on the morning after Roy’s arrival, as they sat drinking coffee in Alice’s tiny apartment, there was an anxious smile on her lips as she pushed the Village Voice across the table and pointed out the advertisement she had circled:
Jazz Vocalists Wanted. Silhouette Studios seeks undiscovered talent to audition/record. $20 fee payable at time of session. Serious inquiries only.
It is the afternoon of Alice’s audition and they stand beneath an overcast sky in front of an East Houston Street newsstand. The proprietor is half a foot shorter than Roy and on his head is a grey watch cap. A cigarillo protrudes from his lips. His small, covered stand is stocked with the usual assortment of newspapers, magazines, candy bars and confections. It is only upon closer inspection that Roy notices many of the papers are yellowed around the edges, and some of the celebrities on the magazine covers have died. All the periodicals, in fact, are out of date. There are brittle copies of the Times from the late sixties, issues of Esquire and Playboy from the seventies.
“You brought a friend this time,” says the man, nodding at Alice. He speaks with a slight accent that Roy cannot place. Alice reaches for something tucked behind a row of National Geographics, and when the May 1950 issue of Down Beat is revealed, he knows why she has brought him here.
The newsman takes the cigarillo from his lips. “This one is very rare, very hard to find.” His brings his left hand to his mouth, covering his lips from Alice’s view, as if to conspire with Roy. “For you, only twenty dollars,” he whispers. “Make a nice gift for the lady.”
Roy knows the man is asking far too much and he guesses that the man knows it too. While he imagines the LPs he could buy with twenty American dollars, he watches Alice flip through the pages. She stops at Ehlrich’s feature, which is tastefully but predictably illustrated with the quintessential profile shot of Eleanora Sinclair in performance at Café Society circa 1948. Roy’s romantic inclination is to agree with the man, to buy the magazine on the spot. The newsman winks at him. Roy reciprocates to appease him, but then checks his watch impatiently. Beneath them, the sidewalk rumbles and Alice looks up.
“The stop is right there,” says the man. “You can make it if you run.”
Alice returns the magazine, grabs Roy’s hand and leads him in the direction of the subway.
“You’re not going to buy it?” the man calls after them.
On the cramped train, pressed close to Roy, Alice speaks into his ear.
“The last time I looked at the magazine he told me I didn’t need to pay in cash, that I could settle up another way.”
By 98th Street their car is nearly empty. Roy looks over his shoulder and observes two women seated at the back. One is black, slim and poised. Her companion, by comparison, is pale and diminutive. Both wear stilettos, too much makeup and t
ight, revealing skirts. Roy nudges Alice and gestures with his eyes.
“Don’t you have whores where you’re from?” she asks.
“I suppose so,” says Roy. “Not that I’ve ever had to pay for it.” Alice pinches his arm.
At the next stop Roy follows Alice off the train and into the failing daylight. They walk north for several blocks and when Roy suggests they got off a stop too early, Alice responds that he gets to see more of the city this way. When they reach 138th Street they come to a diner with a painted sign that reads “The Bridgeview,” and as Roy looks for the bridge, Alice opens the door and motions for him to follow.
Roy notices, as they seat themselves in a booth, that the women from the subway are sitting across the aisle.
“Don’t you want to find the place first?”
Alice shakes her head. “It should just be another half a block down.”
“Aren’t you nervous? I can never eat when I’m nervous.
“Then just have coffee.”
“I never said I was nervous. I just thought that you might be.”
A young black waiter in a white t-shirt approaches and says, “Mm-hm?”
“Just a coffee.”
“Grilled cheese and fries.”
Roy turns up his nose. Alice swings her foot under the table and taps him on the shin.
When the waiter has come and gone again and his coffee cup is filled, Roy discreetly pours in whiskey from his flask. But he is not so discreet that Alice will not notice, and at the appearance of the flask, her foot touches his leg once more. Roy drinks and as he lowers the cup from his lips he is smiling until he looks around the restaurant and in the back corner sees what cannot be. Beyond the haze of the warmth in Roy’s stomach and the grease in the air sits the Houston Street newsman. The newsman smokes a new cigarillo and has removed his watch cap to reveal his balding head. In front of him there is a steaming bowl and a cup like the one Roy holds in his hand. The newsman pays no attention to these things but looks intently across the room, his gaze fixed in the direction of the booth directly across from Roy and Alice. Roy averts his gaze and watches Alice toy with the packets of milk on his saucer. He leans in and whispers, “The man from the newsstand is sitting in the far corner.”
“How is that possible?”
Roy shakes his head and looks again, not because he is unsure of what he has seen, but because he cannot help but look. When Alice goes to the restroom Roy turns in the direction the newsman is looking. The prostitutes sit smoking and laughing, watching the door to see who enters and who leaves. On the wall behind them hangs a photograph of someone who looks like Art Beazley. The black prostitute, Roy decides, is in fact a man. She is better dressed than her companion; from this distance, she is decidedly the more attractive of the two. The shorter woman—a girl, really—wears a white felt hat with a turned-down brim that might have been stylish once but has lost its shape, giving its owner a pitiable, juvenile look.
The waiter places Alice’s sandwich on the table. “We’re closing in fifteen minutes.”
“Is that Art Beazley in that photo?” Roy asks.
“None other than.” The waiter fills his cup without asking.
As Alice returns from the restroom, she scarcely looks at the man sitting in the corner.
“What do you think he’s doing here?”
Alice shrugs her shoulders. “Having dinner.”
“Has he seen us?”
“I don’t think so. He’s got other things on his mind.” Alice nods in the direction of the prostitutes, and demurely swallows a mouthful of her sandwich.
Roy smiles and says, “I think the tall one’s more your type.”
Alice places her napkin on her plate and wraps her scarf around her face.
“You find it cold in here?” asks Roy.
“I’m going. I don’t want to stay here any longer.” Alice puts on her coat. “I’ll meet you at my place afterwards. You can find your way back from here?”
“You sure you don’t want me to come along? I’d like to see this studio.”
“You’ll just make me uncomfortable. I’ll let you listen to the recording as soon as I get home. One of us has to stay and settle the tab.”
Alice leaves and a moment later the prostitutes make their way to the cash. As the shorter woman asks the waiter for a pack of Pall Malls, the newsman approaches, puts his arm around her and tries to kiss her. When she protests he grabs her by the arm and with his other hand he produces his wallet and insists on paying for her. Roy cannot quite make out their conversation, but he sees the waiter point to the newsman, then to the door. The newsman swears and pounds the counter with his fist, and the few remaining customers begin to take notice. Before the waiter can get out from behind the counter, the transvestite steps in and removes the newsman’s hand from the girl’s arm.
As they walk out together the waiter blocks the newsman’s path and says, “Best wait here until they’re gone.”
The newsman throws his hands in the air and at that moment from the dimness of the street there is a panicked scream, and then what Roy imagines must be the sound of a gun, and then silence. The newsman runs out the front door and Roy follows. Outside he sees the newsman kneeling beside the girl, who lies motionless on the sidewalk. There is a dark trickle running from her mouth to her chin. There are tears in the newsman’s eyes and he does not notice Roy. There is no sign of the girl’s companion and there is no sign of Alice. In the distance is the sound of sirens as Roy hurries down the street.
He is out of breath when he reaches the corner where the studio should be and is greeted by a graffiti-covered facade with plywood over its windows and a door that does not open.
Up the street, a bearded man with no laces in his boots has never heard of a place called Silhouette Studios, and is in need of thirty-five cents. Roy reaches into his pocket and hands the man a quarter.
He smiles. “Check the book in the phone booth around the corner.”
Roy finds the booth, where all the directory pages between “Q” and “V” have been torn out. He picks up the phone, not knowing whom he intends to call. He reaches a hand into his empty pocket, then slams the phone into the receiver in frustration. From the top of the phone something falls to the ground that is immediately familiar to Roy, though in the twilight he does not recognize it to be Alice’s address book until he holds it close to his face. It is open to the page for Silhouette Studios. Roy closes the book and attempts to place it in the inside pocket of his coat, which holds his half-empty flask. He shoves the bottom half of the book in his outer pocket as he makes his way back to 138th Street.
The girl’s body no longer lies on the sidewalk. There is no ambulance, or police car, or any sign that anything at all has happened. Roy tries the door to the diner and finds it locked. Inside the waiter mops the floor. When Roy bangs on the window with his fist the waiter mutters something inaudible and points to the “Closed” sign on the door. Roy works his way down the street, trying every door along the way.
The fifth door is unlocked. Inside is a musty, narrow, high-ceilinged storeroom. Light from a single bare bulb illuminates a closed door at the end of the room. The walls are lined with metal shelves piled with old newspapers and magazines that spill out onto the floor. From behind the door at the back of the room there comes a sound and Roy decides he does not want to wait for the door to open. On his way out, he stumbles over a stack of New Yorkers and sends them scattering. Someone yells at him from behind.
Roy finds a train waiting at the bottom of the 135th St. stairs. He struggles through the turnstile and onto the nearest car without pausing to find out where the train is bound. Roy collapses in a seat and tries to still his shaking hands. Across the aisle, reading a copy of the Amsterdam News, sits the waiter from the restaurant.
“Excuse me.”
The waiter looks up, sees Roy and turns back to his paper.
“Could you tell me where I could find Silhouette Studios?”
&nb
sp; The waiter’s expression softens. “You’re on the wrong side of town. You want West 138th. Get off at the next stop, turn yourself around. You play?”
“No. Not really. My girlfriend sings.”
“Does she now? That’s alright.” The man turns back to his paper, humming a tune that Roy does not recognize.
“Thank you,” says Roy, as he gets off the train. “Mm-hm,” says the man.
Roy surveys the platform while he awaits the southbound train. The faces of those around him are turned away as he tips his flask to his lips.
An hour after he last sees Alice, Roy sits in the lobby of Silhouette Studios, his head in his hands. The radiator ticks with heat. There is an empty water cooler, a half-empty coffeepot, a table covered with scribbled sheet music, and the withered leaves of a dying aspidistra. There are framed forty-fives on the wall, and above a closed, padded door an illuminated sign that reads “Recording: Do Not Enter.” Roy wants to examine the sheet music, to read the labels on the forty-fives, but his uneasy stomach and his throbbing head will not allow it. From the direction of the control room drifts the sounds of the session.
Oh , if you wouldn’t mind,
I’d find it divine,
if I could tickle your funny bone.
Some girls like to dance
to be gently romanced,
but I’d like to tickle your funny bone.
No need to be shy,
better to moan than to cry,
oh so sweetly I’d tickle your funny bone.
Twenty dollars no less,
just a drop, not a mess,
such a treat when I tickle your funny bone
The voice that sings is not Alice’s and the song makes Roy want to leave. There is a piano break and the padded door opens to reveal a squat, rumpled man with horn-rimmed glasses and rolled-up sleeves. He raises his eyebrows and looks at Roy.