The thing that scared me was how low in energy they seemed. I wondered how they were going to be able to play well, not to mention playing at all or staying awake or alive. I worried frankly whether some of them could even hold up their instruments for the minutes it would take to play a typical screamer. They looked like a sleeping band, a worn-out tangle of wrinkles. It was like an old German story my mom had once read me about the army that this king named Barbarossa led inside the mountain. They were found centuries later all asleep in various poses around a big old tables. Dead to the world with long, long beards, mostly white. Shriner band members, to a tee.
In the midst of this band of ancients, I noticed there were two other teenagers who were about my age, and they were looking about as lost and confused and aggravated as me. One was a percussionist and the other played the trumpet. The Shriner trumpets were made up of two men who were dead ringers for each other with their long, long gray beards. The old guys were putting the mouthpieces into their instruments and it looked like that was going to be too much labor for them. One fellow had his mouth open and was gasping for air like a fish out of water. A few pop-eyed gentlemen, one of them with a coronet, sat carelessly studying the ceiling tiles, smiling benignly, maybe you could say stupidly.
I stood in front of the band for a second until I found the trombone section, and then Gluey. He was the youngest guy there, besides us teenage substitutes. Like all the band, he wore a maroon fez, the fez from the holy city of Fez, Morocco. His had the local chapter of the Shriners written in gold letters. Habbar, it said. His fez had a long black silky tassel which was coming out of the center of the top. Besides the chapter name, the front of the fez had been decorated with a curving scimitar, the sword of war, covered with fake jewels, and dangling below the scimitar and attached to it was something that looked like a Pharaohs head or an Egyptian lady's head and a crescent shape and a star. It was gaudy and ridiculous.
When I’d worked my way over to the trombones through all the old dead guys, Gluey held out a red felt fez, the kind they sold to kids, which was obviously for me to wear. It had a bright yellow tassel on it. I knew I was going to feel silly wearing my kid’s version of it with an elephant lifting its leg painted on the front, but I put it on anyway. Shit, at least with the fez on I thought I could blend in with the band and if anyone in the audience knew me they wouldn’t be able to pick me out.
I put on the kid’s fez, and in that moment I felt a little magical and a little strange. Like I had a secret compartment floating above my head. I know it sounds goofy but I liked the way my bright yellow tassel slipped around at the top; I liked the towering feeling of the felted dome. About the history of the Shriners and what the hat was supposed to mean I plead total dumbness, however.
I was moving my head around with the fez on it when Gluey spoke again.
“This is Moses Grand,” he said, introducing me to the other trombone player.
I shook hands with an ancient fellow who stood up shakily.
“Howdy, kid, have a seat beside me,” said Moses. “My original last name was Grandikov, but my grandfather made it simple when he came over from Russia to New York. I like it better myself. I’m grand, don’t you know!”
I laughed at his joking manner and sat beside him. I put my trombone case in the space between our chairs, but didn’t open it just yet. I felt sorta nervous.
Moses Grand was skinnier than imaginable (his trousers were completely loose in the legs and I often wondered if he even had legs—the rippling material made them like the pants of a stilts walker) and he was very shaky in the hand department. And he had one of those long, long white beards, like a thin curtain of combed cotton, except a little yellow in the mustache parts above his mouth. I think the best way to describe him to you is to say that he resembled a very skinny, very shaky Santa Claus, more like the European version they call Father Christmas. His tiny eyes were bluish gray and had a crinkly arc of laugh lines fanning out from the corners. His skin was pink on the cheeks as though he’d been pinched or slapped. He had a very red nose that came to a sharp point.
Watching him in those minutes before we played together for the first time, I remember I didn't see how he could hold his trombone up at all. His slide was sort of easing into notes all of the time, wallowing around the music in a sloshy, blurry fashion. He was searching around like crazy for the music. He kept his lips working constantly and liked to suck on ice. Oh, and he drank like a fish. Alcohol, I mean, not water. That first day he had the smell of liquor on him, and I noticed a rusty tan colored drink stowed under his folding chair. He was reaching down occasionally and applying the drink to his interior. Plenty of lubrication.
Moses was one of the most cheerful members of the band. I’d been afraid the Shriners were going to be hawks about the war or crabby old jerks. This guy seemed completely different than what I had feared. He was a second generation Russian immigrant from New York who had owned a garage in New Haven, Connecticut, but he couldn’t take the winters of the East, and he wanted the heat, so:
“I moved out to Arizona in 1952,” he explained happily.
“Oh yeah? 1952? I was born a few years later,” I said.
“What a coincidence! You could say I was born or reborn then too, by the experience of coming to the Western desert. Who would have thought a Jew would like the desert? Ha! Wonderful cactus. I couldn't believe in saguaros at first. They were like some miracle of God. Very religious things. It was a spiritual experience for me to encounter them for the first time.”
“How did you get started doing this?” I asked.
“What? Playing for the Shriners, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“When I was a kid about your age, I played in Yiddish bands. Then I found the Masons and the Shriners. I thought they had a better reason for playing,” Moses explained.
“If you pardon me asking, do they let Jewish people in the Masons?” I felt embarrassed to ask that, but I wondered.
“Certainly. That’s a common misunderstanding about the Masons and the Shriners. It isn’t exclusively Christian. There are many Jewish members.”
“I didn’t know it.”
“A lot of people think that we’re excluded, but it’s not so.”
Moses told me he had three kids, and lots of grandkids. His children stayed on the East Coast for many years, but had eventually followed their Dad to the West and moved to nearby cities in Arizona. With all that family he was a merry man. I was so relieved that I had a cheerful trombonist near me. Not that Gluey was bad or anything, but he wasn’t real cheerful, and I came to find out that he was organizing a lot of the Shriner events and didn’t have time to visit with me. At least I’d have a nice old man to talk with, if I ended up subbing a lot. Eventually, I liked the looks of most of the other musicians in the band, besides them being old, but Moses was the happiest one by far. They all did seem to be enjoying playing music, though. In a way they all viewed playing for the circus as some of the best moments in their lives. I found this out as I spent more time with them.
After getting my bearings, I laid my case down on its side and snapped open the clasps. I always liked the smell of the interior of my trombone case, the small velvet drawers and the narrow compartments in which you could tuck rags, pencils, and paper. Like the secret cabinets of a weird old scientist. When I first opened my case, I usually stopped to inhale the scent of the warm old blue velvet, and the sweet odor of slide oil, but I didn't that day as I felt nervous. I got busy fitting my instrument together. The more I hurried the worse my nerves got. I was doing everything ham-fisted. A trombone comes in pieces which you have to fit together, two slides, the mouthpiece, and the bell section. Moses was nice and didn’t stare at me as I fumbled around and couldn’t get any of the slides connected to the bell section correctly. I felt nervous and shaky as though the circus was about to begin and I was in the path of the elephants. This was the biggest crowd I had ever played for and I wasn’t sure I was prepared for
following the conductor and staying with the music in the dark and the noise. Instead of staring at me, Moses pretended he needed to study the music again. He took a pencil and marked a few passages thoughtfully. I bet he really didn’t need to do that at all. He was trying to make me feel more comfortable. With him being busy, he gave me time to settle in to what was going to happen.
Eventually, he turned to me and spoke.
“Are you ready for the circus?” he asked, chuckling, when I had my trombone together. “All set to go and entertain the kids?”
“I hope so,” I said. “I guess I know the music we’re playing. I practiced the tunes all this week. Maybe I can’t play fast enough, and my triple tonguing is a little weak, but I think I know the notes.”
“Sure, you know the notes,” said Gluey, leaning forward from his chair on the other side of Moses, “I wouldn’t have picked you if I thought you’d do poorly. You’re going to be fine. Don’t worry. Watch the conductor, though.” Gluey locked his trombone slide and laid it in his case. He excused himself and went off to talk to a clown about our start time.
“Ever play music for a circus?” asked Moses when Gluey was gone.
“Um, with Gluey only, sir. We played a lot of screamers.”
“Well, I want to warn you, James. It’s going to get dark and noisy and smelly especially if the elephants fart when they go by. Or the clowns.” He said this very seriously, as though he were telling me something completely scientific, like the speed a rocket would take to leave earth’s orbit or something he had calculated.
“Okay,” I said, dissolving into laughter. “I can dig it, man. Whatever you say.”
“Don’t laugh. The clown eat a lot of chili dogs. If either the clowns or the elephants fart you won’t be thinking it’s too funny. Stay away from these clowns. They are the livid plague. And the trapeze artist with teeny slippers is wearing a costume which I swear came from 1884, so don’t mess with him. Ever play to such a big crowd before?”
“Never. No.” I was still laughing about the clowns and the weird trapeze artist with the old fashioned costume.
“Well, Shriners mostly play to kids at these circuses. We get big, big crowds of screeching kids. And kids can really scream at the circus. We have to play loudly to get the music above the guys selling popcorn in the stands and the shouts of the lion tamers and the non-stop yelling of the crowd, so no delicate puffs coming out of you. Forte, forte, forte. No pianissimo, got it? I’ll do my best, but I’m older than sin and most of the toot is out of me.”
“Okay.”
“If anything goes wrong with the circus, an animal escapes or someone is injured we switch to ‘Stars and Stripes Forever’, okay? Remember that.”
Shit, that explained why Gluey had asked me to memorize that piece on the second lesson.
“You’re gonna cover for me, okay?” asked Moses.
“Sure.” I thought his playing had seemed a little weak.
“We start in about ten minutes,” said Gluey, coming back to us from the clown, who seemed to know the start times better than the band.
“Well, keep your eyes on the music and the conductor,” Moses continued, “He’s pretty good, this guy. This is the sign for a ta-daa,” he showed me what Gluey had already shown me, “and you blow the B-flat chord. Watch for Frank on the coronet, he’ll play some quick calls between the new melodies.” I looked for this Frank guy. Sound asleep. Arms drooping and mouth wide open. He was gonna play some quick calls? Fat chance.
“Music is laid out here for you as I think you’ve practiced this week. The conductor has final say and will call out numbers if some things change. Hope the lions don’t break free and I hope the man on the flying trapeze does not rip that decrepit costume of his.”
“That would be scary,” I said, laughing hard.
“No kidding!”
“He’ll never be able to replace it!” I said.
“One would hope not!” Moses replied and he laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes.
He reached under his seat and took a big swig of his drink after he had said that. He saw me watching what he was doing.
“Jokey-cola,” he said, winking impishly.
“Uh, that’s all right,” I replied as suavely as I could, “I’m not a stupid kid.”
“Sure, you’re not. This stuff steadies me. I’m like a damn rock now.” I noticed his slide wobbling all over the place. He laughed. “I don’t think you believe me, James. I’ve got to concentrate to blow this horn. Don’t laugh at me too much. How do my low notes sound?” Moses unlocked his slide and blew a few deep blasts. Wow! I have to say he played beautifully then. And loudly. I’ve no doubt he’d been fooling me earlier when he made strange toots and fumbled the slide.
“Gee-wiz! Better than me,” I said, and I unlocked my slide, used my slide oil to lubricate things a bit and brought up the mouthpiece to my lips. It was futile to try to match him, but I went ahead and played something like what he had, note for note, with my best technique.
“Hey! Pretty good,” said Moses, nodding when I finished. “Pretty damn good, son. You got some lungs there, James, is it?”
“James, yeah, that’s right.”
“We’re gonna get along fine then, James. I get along good with the good players. I can see you’re trying. Let’s give the little kids a great show with some fun music, okay? Let’s make this a fantastic circus for the kids. They deserve it.”
“Sure.”
“I remember some fine circuses when I was a tyke,” said Moses. “I can still hear the music of those old bands in New York. The circus acts fascinated me. I could watch them all day. The men flying around in the air, the catches, the wire walkers. And the music. I loved the circus music and atmosphere. It was a place of fantasy for me. My home was grim. We didn't have much. Who am I kidding? We didn’t have nothing. No toys to speak of. The circus big top was like a magical toy land. Hey, I think I might have seen a toy circus in a window in New York City.”
“Yep, probably.”
“I guess I loved circuses even then. Anyway I believe these kids deserve a good memory of the circus to carry with them all their lives. Everybody deserves one of those,” Moses explained.
The crowd began to fill in when they opened the doors. The stadium seats crowded with eager and happy kids, jumping up and down, yanking their clothes and turning to the kid behind them to talk. Thousands of wild kids from the toughest homes in town, crippled kids, kids with burns and casts on their arms and legs. A lot of them were wearing the same bright red felt fezzes that I had on, showing elephants and tigers. I could see the kids that were orphans, the kids taken from their home. The poorest, most desperate kids, brought by churches and schools and charities in big groups of happy gawking children, stepping eagerly down to their seats, with treats in their hands, hugging stuffed clowns and waving plastic elephants on the ends of sticks. Even the adults had freed their minds to think of the circus again. They were merrier and lighter in their step. It was the happiest crowd imaginable. I was surprised and pleased.
I looked around at the rest of the Shriners. A guy in front of me played the clarinet and he had one of those belts that were holding his pants up too high. Little wisps of gray hair stuck out from under his fez. Although Moses was ancient, he wasn’t anywhere near the oldest in that band. The regular percussionists (they had a young guy like me with them) looked like they had been yanked out of their coffins. They barely moved their torsos or their long, skinny arms. I think one of them had a nose grown permanently to his chin. They were two dead white ghosts.
Until the conductor brought up his baton.
Then the whole band, every last shrunken corpse, came to life. I realized suddenly something pretty damn important about them. They all lived to play circus music.
And shit man, I’m telling you, they could really play.
“Welcome ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, to our glittering galaxy of big top stars!” the ringmaster shouted as he trotted into the
center ring in a red coat, glossy top hat, and high boots. The lights of the arena dimmed.
And those old guys, those ancient corpses? They were out of sight, way-out wicked, on the first screamer to the last at end of the final show. And I could barely keep up.
CHAPTER SEVEN
And that was Gluey’s little secret, but it took me a while to realize it. Gluey, it turned out, was absolutely nuts about being a Shriner. He had no interest whatsoever in classical music, although he’d once cared deeply about it. He’d been swept away by doing good, curing kids with burns, and cleft palates and cleft lips and orthopedic problems and taking those sick kids to the circus. He loved playing circus music for crippled kids more than anything else in the whole danged world and he wanted the Shriner performance at those circuses to be absolutely perfect. If he thought the tubas were weak, he wanted the sound to be better and he took it upon himself to use his own private pupils or, I heard later, even hire professional tuba players at his own expense to fill in. He used the teenagers that he gave lessons to as subs in the Shriner band and he wouldn’t take no for an answer when it came to replacing Shriners. That was why he took his best young players in private lessons and recruited them for the Shriner band on the weekends. Also, that was also why he lived in such a teeny, lousy house with terrible old furniture and paint-by-number art of clowns and circus poodles, and it explains why he spent most of his extra money on the Shriners’ circuses. Yeah, I found out gradually, from listening to conversations I overheard on the buses, that Gluey was funding circuses partially, the tent cost or the cost of buses or chaperones for the kids. He was dedicated to the idea of giving poor kids and crippled kids a day of groovy entertainment. He even went into Sonora and brought the damn kids across the border!
I wondered, when I found out what Gluey was doing, if his wife approved of her husband’s ideas, but I never did find out. Heck, I never even saw her or the kid! The circuses and parades meant so much to him that all his spare time was taken. He was busy every time I saw him. We barely spoke except for at lessons, and that was all business, too.