Trocadero Fusion

Where could I be going? Why was I there? How could I be doing this to myself?

Sure, logical questions all. Fed from despair and angst, Leo gazed into the smoky crowd. In a few years no one will smoke indoors any more. But tonight the Djarum  and Gitane haze is thicker than lentil stew.  The counterpoint of the wailing jazz was overwhelming. It was no longer a dance crowd. The band had changed at midnight and Eckstein's mellow baritone was replaced with the squeal of Miles' horn. The world was changing. The Dead had opened for Davis at the Fillmore the week prior and no fan of Davis bop knew what to expect next. The quintet tonight was Miles, Jack De Johnette on drums, Chick Corea on keys, Dave Holland on bass, and a very young Wayne Shorter on Soprano Sax.

"My brother would love this," thought Leo. He hadn't seen Steve in almost thirty years. At one time they were closer than brothers, almost of one mind. But time and marriage and 13 states puts a lot of distance between people.

*************************************

While Miles was running the Voodoo down inside, Pondering Pig was out in the parking lot, looking for fresh air in the smoggy Los Angeles night. The plan was that he and Patrushka were going to head out to a longshoreman bar out in San Pedro called "Tillie's" to score a lid of sinsemilla from a merchant marine named "Tanker" Calhoun before the morning's long road back to Stinson Beach.  

Patrushka was still in the powder room with Claudette, but everyone knew her as Lily Carcajou. 

"Blast it all," Pig mumbled to himself, "Damn Lily always stalls when she's in the head."

Patrushka was in the lounge area, waiting for Lily who was laughing and lecturing the towel girl. She was impatient to get out to the Pig. Not because they had a 40 minute drive to San Pedro, but because she missed him. On top of that, being in the women's room with Lily always seemed to turn into some kind of weird adventure.

"No, Kiddo. I'm from Saint Mande. It's Paris but it's not. get what I mean? It's like this is Hollywood but it's not L.A. France, baby. France." Lily was always itching to explain France to what she called "Boojwah Yankees".  She was born there, left at two weeks old and had never been back. Yet she was the expert.

"Hey, Lily. Pig's waiting We have to go". Patrushka'd had enough and started out the door.

"I'm right behind you, " Lily hollered back. 

Lily dashed for the exit and almost trampled the young and sinewy kid outside the door.  He was dazed by Miles' horn and the acid-drenched wail of the band.

"Watch where you're going, you big palooka," she hollered as he fell to meet the wood of the floor. They would meet again, though this would be their only pleasant circumstance.

Patrushka stood at the Sunset exit, impatiently holding the door for Lily, soon to be Claudette, soon to be left on the side of the road if she didn't hurry up. Pig had started his Studebaker and revved the 8-cylinder Power Hawk impatiently. It was going on 1 and "Tanker" would not be happy.

The gals fairly leaped into the car and they were off like a bullet into the warm L.A. night.

Leo was still on the floor, bruised and dazed by his encounter with the wild woman who he'd never even seen face to face.

Not yet, anyways. 

"Let's play it first and talk about it later." -Saint Miles