Sometimes a Great Notion (49 page)

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Authors: Ken Kesey

BOOK: Sometimes a Great Notion
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(
They sat for a long time, across the room from each other, elbows on knees, head down . . . concentrating as though playing chess, the moves coming at the end of each band: Lee
played a selection from Brubeck; Hank played Joe Williams singing “Red Sails in the Sunset”; Lee played Fred Katz; Hank countered with Fats Domino . . .
)
 
“That stuff of yours,” said Hank, “sounds like the musicians all squat to pee. La lee la lee la lee.”
“That stuff of yours,” said I, “sounds like the musicians all suffer from St. Vitus’ Dance. Bam bam bam bam, the epileptic stomp—”
 
(
“Now look a minute,” Hank said, aiming his finger at Lee “what do you think them guys learn them horns for? Learn to sing that for? Huh? Well it ain’t just to show how good they can finger the keys. Or to show how foxy they are at making some plumbline, T-square, to-the-inch . . . some kinda, oh, precision arrangement; da duh de da da; da duh dee da da . . . that crap. Bub, that sort of stuff might be a lot of fun for some white piano player who graduated from music college, something he can try ’n’ work out like a crossword puzzle, but a man who learns to blow so he can blow jazz, he isn’t worried what kinda grade some professor’s giving him!”
“Why, will you listen to him, Viv,” Lee said. “Brother Hank has let the cat out of the bag; he can articulate about more than the price of the cut fir per board feet or the wretched state of our donkey engine, or the ‘sonofabitching’ union! He does have the power of speech in spite of other rumors.”
Hank dropped his head and grinned. “Shit now”—he rubbed the tip of his nose with the knuckle of his thumb—“I guess I did get up on a soapbox for a minute there. But I suppose, it comes down to it, there’s a lot to what you say; it used to be that if there is one thing—other than the sonofabitchin’ union—that I could get a good heat going on, it was music. We useta—me and Mel Sorenson, and Henderson and that bunch . . . Joe Ben, too, before he got saved so big—useta sit for hours in Harvey’s cycle shop down in Coos Bay listening to this great collection Harvey played all the time . . . and you should have heard us then! We thought Joe Turner had come right outa heaven to give us the skinny. We thought somebody
was finally playing
OUR
music—this was after listening to hillbilly-Western till we foundered. I mean there was sides taken, the Western fans and the rhythm and blues fans . . . we had real fights about it! We were ripe to fight about something anyway; I decided once that most of our bunch were mad ’cause we’d got cheated outa fightin’ the Japs and Germans and didn’t know yet we had Korea to fight about. So those first bop records made good causes.” Hank let his head sink to rest on the back of the chair, closed his eyes on his reverie, and reminisced for a few minutes about obscure tenormen and drummers completely unmindful of the boneless dance of Jimmy Giuffre on the phonograph . . .
“But you may be right,” he said, finishing up along with the last few bars of Lee’s Giuffre record; “I probably haven’t kept up with what’s been going on. But I know one thing: that old blues and boogie and bop had some man to it.”
)
 
And Hank said, “That manure they’re playin’
there
hasn’t got any more balls than it does beat. I like somethin’ with a little more
balls
on it.”
And I said, “Such a prejudice must limit you terribly.”
And he said, “Are we gonna be like that?”
And I said, “I should think you would want to at least exclude such things as the female sex from such a sweeping statement.”
And he said, “I should think this outfit snuggling her little tail up against me here would make a qualification like that pretty damned unnecessary, but, if you are goin’ to be hard-nosed about it . . .”
But I waved it off (see: still trying to be fair, a Good Guy) and said, “Sorry, Hank, sorry.” Then, my friend—to show you how grave my affliction was, how deeply rooted the cancer—I went so far as to attempt to
repair
the rent my tongue had sliced in our tender new fellowship. I said I had been only jesting and that, Sure brother, I understand what you were talking about that music was meant for. I told him that there were, in fact, two recognized schools of Jazz, Black Jazz and White Jazz, and that what he was referring to as
Masculine
was no doubt the Black Jazz school. I noted that I had played only Brubeck, Giuffre and Tjader. But, here, listen to some of this for Black Jazz: catch hold of
this
!
 
(
Lee riffled through the albums in his case, found the one he was searching for, and removed it carefully, almost reverently. “You act like it’s about to blow up,” Hank commented. “It very well might . . . listen.”
)
 
And I put on what? Of course. John Coltrane. “Africa Brass.” I recall no malice aforethought in this choice, but who can say? Does one ever play Coltrane for the uninitiated without subconsciously hoping for the worst? Anyway, if such was my wish my subconscious must have been greatly pleased, for, after a few minutes of that tenor sax ripping away at the privates, Hank reacted according to schedule. “What kind of
crap
is that?” (Anger, frustration, great gritting of teeth; all the classic responses.) “What kind of godawful manure pile is
that
?”
“That? What are you asking? This is Jazz as black as it comes, black balls dragging the ground . . .”
“Yeah, but . . . wait a minute—”
“Isn’t it so? Listen to it; is that precision la dee da?”
“I don’t know if—”
“But listen; isn’t it so?”
“That it has balls? I suppose . . . yes, but I’m not talk—”
 
(
“So you may be forced, brother, to find a different prerequisite to found your prejudice on.”
“But forchrissakes listen to that manure. Eee-onk: onk-eeek. I mean maybe he’s got balls but it sounds like somebody’s stompin’ up and down on ’em!”
“Exactly! Exactly! Hundreds of years of stomping; ever since the slave traders. That’s the story he tells! Not what would be nice . . . but the way it
IS!
The terrible, deadly way it really
IS
when you know you’re surrounded by black skin. And we are all surrounded by that skin, and he’s trying to show us some beauty in this condition. If you’re incensed it’s because he’s being honest about our condition, because he’s honestly describing the black and ball-stomping way it is, instead of being content to whine about it like those Uncle Toms before him.”
“Bug, Joe Williams, Fats Waller, Gaillard, that bunch . . . they none of them never whined. They maybe griped but they did it with some joy. They never whined. By god if they did. And they never come on about, about . . . blackness and ball-stomping, neither—trying to make it beautiful, for shitsakes—because it ain’t beautiful. It’s ugly as sin!”
)
 
Brother Hank then clamped shut his jaw and remained silent throughout the rest of the side, as I peeped at his stone-smiled obstinance through the fingers of my shading hand. Let me see, Peters! Was it then, during the tense listening, that I renovated my views of vengeance? Let me see? No. No, ah no. I still had not . . . Oh. It was—no . . . yes;—admit! admit!—it was, it
was
then, right after Coltrane, when Viv asked what to her must have been a perfectly innocent question, just a small-talk question to ease the strain. Yes; directly after . . . “Where did you get the record, Lee?” was the best the girl could do. Just a question to ease the strain. Perfectly innocent on her part. For if it had not been so innocent could I have answered with such little thought to what I was saying? “My mother gave it to me, Viv. My mother always—”
With such very little thought that I did not realize I had made the blunder in his presence until he said Sure, until he said Sure, sure as gods green apples I mighta known. Sure I mighta known because it
is
just exactly the sorta dismal manure she’d go for, isn’t it? Sure, listen there—it is just the sorta manure Mother would—
 
Lee stops writing, abruptly jerking his face up from the page. He holds his pen and sits for endless minutes with the little nub of a cigarette cold between his lips, listening to the snaredrum sound of a pine bough brushing in the breeze across his window screen. The sound reaches him eerily, through twisting channels. At first it holds no meaning and he thinks of it as a sound only, issuing from no source. Then he catches sight of the dark movement of the branch and fixes the sound; relieved that it is only a branch, he lights the cigarette again and bends back to his paper . . .
 
But I’d best be on with it before it gets too late and too sleepy and too high. I’d like to do the complete scene for you because I know you would appreciate the nuances, the vicious undertones, the pastels of hostility, but I’m—whup, wheep, whoop—getting too far out to give these subtleties the attention they deserve.
So, anyway. All right. There I am with Hank hassling me about my Mother. My mellow benevolence is shattered. The cold bitter light of reason is beginning to peep through. The truce is obviously over. Time to think again of the battle. I devise a plan to capture my intended weapon and immediately set about my campaign. . . .
“Well, Hank,” I remark, sneeringly, “there are quite a number of people well versed in music who might disagree with your evaluation of current Jazz artists. So couldn’t it be possible that you are being a bit, shall we say bull-headed? narrow-minded?”
The victim blinks, surprised by Little Brother’s testy tone. Could Little Brother be spoiling for a fat lip maybe? “Yeah . . .” he says slowly, “I suppose.” I cut him off, going blithefully on. . . .
“On the other hand narrow-minded may be a dishonest label. It may imply a specific not present. Anyway, that’s not the point. We were talking about balls, were we not? Balls standing—for the sake of argument—for manliness, strength, intestinal fortitude, etc. Well, brother, do you think that just because a man has enough brains to play more than bam bam bam bam—along with three blues chords and a half-dozen notes—do you think this makes it impossible for him to also have balls? Or does the presence of one eliminate the possibility of the other?”
“Hold on.” The victim sniffs, he squints. “Now wait.” Perhaps like an animal he can sense the presence of a trap. But what he cannot sense is that the trap is set in reverse, to catch the trapper.
“Look at it this way,” I continue, and begin offering newer, nastier arguments, “or what about this,” I press on, “and will you at least consider
this,
” I demand, parlaying one cutting point after another as I begin to put on the pressure. Not openly provoking hostility, not so Viv will recognize it, you see, but skillfully, shrewdly, with innuendoes and references to bygone events meaningful only to Hank and Myself. So that when I start dangling the bait he is ready.
“What do you mean Champion Jack Dupree is somebody’s uncle Tom hushpuppy?” he demands, reacting to an incidental statement. “What do you mean about Elvis, too? while I’m at it. I know what’s said about him but screw ’em I say. When Elvis started he had something, he had—”
“Tonsilitis? Rickets?”
“—he had more’n that asshole there playing hopscotch or whatever. Let me get that offa there. Christ, you’ve played ten sides, let me get a word in edgewise.”
“
Don’t!
Get your fingers off that record. I’ll take it off.”
“Okay, okay, take it off.”
And so forth and so on with fists doubled and eyes red and I’ve got him. “Let me play it over Hank, then maybe you’ll . . .”
“You put that goddam thing on again I’ll so help me Christ—” “Prints! You’ve got all sorts of crud on it!” “Shit, I barely—” “I don’t like
anyone
to touch my records!” “Well by
god
now . . . if you don’t like it—” Shouting, standing up. Watch: Brother Hank is finally showing through. Just like Les Gibbons showed through what was truly inside. It’s brother Hank skinned out of his tinfoil wrapper. Watch, Viv, look how he shouts at poor Lee when we argue. Look how he pulls rank of muscle. “—what you can
do
about it!”
See how unjust, Viv? Yet see how Lee tries to be fair though Hank grows angrier. Like a grade-school bully shouting Okay! It comes right down to it maybe I don’t have a right! Watch: He is bigger tougher watch him Viv, because, bub, and if you don’t like it
know do about it!
And, see Viv, what
can
Lee do? What chance has he against this beast gnashing teeth before him this barroom brawler with commando training from Korea this bully Viv? What? Not a chance in the world and the poor boy knows it. He knows Viv, look, that any answer to Hank’s challenge would be disastrous. Oh Viv, how awful it must be, do you see? for the boy to have to suffer the coward’s shame, the craven’s humiliation. He knows he is being a coward WATCH but he can’t help it. Oh look, Viv, he
knows!
He knows! He’s afraid to fight and he
knows!
How much more painful, do you see? how pitiful! How very terrible, (but
you,
comrade, you see, don’t you, how very
clever
) as he bows his head in surrender suffers the degradation of mumbling an apology while
knowing
he is in the
right!
But, oh Viv, right doesn’t make might.
Hank stalks outside, victorious, adamant (trapped) Lee stands ashamed beaten (cunning) Viv watches (nibbling) at the miserable vanquished wretch, twice miserable for he was vanquished without a battle. Coward! Weakling! Loser! (fox . . .)
“I’m sorry, Lee. Hank . . . gets going like that sometimes when he drinks. I should have taken him up to bed earlier. But he seemed in such a good mood.”
“No, Viv. He was right. He was perfectly right in everything he said.”
“Oh he was
not!
”
“Yes. He was right and proved it. Not about the music. That’s not important. But about . . . what he said.”
“Oh Lee, he doesn’t really think that.”
“Thinks it or not, it’s true.” Look Viv, look at Lee needing so much. See how he is so small in the world. “It’s true.”
“It’s
not,
Lee. Believe me. You aren’t . . . oh, if someone could
convince
you—”
“Tomorrow.”
“What.”
“On our date tomorrow. If it is on again?”
“There never was any date. I just—”
“I thought so . . .”
“Now don’t act like that, please Lee. . . .”
“How should I act? First you say—”
“All right. Tomorrow.” See his face Viv? “If you think you need to . . .” See how much he needs? “I just wish I knew more, understood way you two . . .” There’s a lot you don’t know about him, Viv. That makes him even smaller. You don’t know all his shame, you don’t even begin to know. His shame is strangling him.
No, nobody’s that ashamed.
Yes! you don’t know. You just see the surface shame. Right now there is a second layer ashamed of the first, ashamed of being so weak as to use the shame, ashamed of his need to use the shame. And all his anger comes of it, his cleverness spawned of it, his hate . . . ah, his hate . . . like years ago? hating? as he looked through that hole? he looked, you know, so many times more than his hate needed . . . He came the first time and he looked and it was hate and he came the second time and it was shame for though hate made him big enough to watch what he had to watch the first time seeing the second time could not add more to hate for there was no more to be hated or seen than the first time and less to see the third time and less each time but hate no longer needed it. By the third time Shame needed it. Weakness needed it. Perversion needed it. And hate was stretched to cover everything. So see? All like that. Need Shame Weakness all boiling under that lid I am smothering of that lid hate and see I must must I must—”

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