But the music played on.
You’d think a major evacuation occurred, but they forgot to notify me. Was I the only person left in this mad crazy world?
Apparently not.
Out of the dense fog appeared a caramel skinned girl with thick black pigtails and somber brown eyes that took over her whole face. I was so caught off guard by her sudden presence I reacted in shock with my hands plastered against my chest as if someone was holding me at gunpoint.
She didn’t seem to notice. She smiled and swayed rhythmically.
“You can hear the music?”
She enthusiastically nodded her head and extended her hand for me to grab. Wait. This was weird. Where were her parents? Maybe she was lost, too.
The earnestness in her melancholy eyes was heartwarming. She patiently waited for me to surrender my hand to hers and she had no intention of backing down. I hesitated because I didn’t want someone calling the cops thinking I was some some kind of pervert, but there was no one in sight. I figured she needed me as much as I needed her right now in this strange fog.
Except the difference between us was she didn’t seem to have any fear.
She held my hand tightly as we walked. For a moment, I felt like the Frankenstein monster walking hand in hand with the little girl by the lake. She was self-assured and seemed to know where she was going so I just followed her lead. Again, I worried about what people would think, but oddly, there seemed to be no one around.
Most likely, no one would have thought anything because she looked like she could have been my daughter. Her eyes were large and almond shaped and our complexions were of a similar color. She wore a very pretty old fashioned dress that you might get at a thrift shop and the shiniest black shoes — looking like she was dressed up to go to a country church on Easter Sunday.
Even though we were in a fog, I used my free hand to wipe my sweaty forehead. We moved along in silence until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Hi,” erupted from my mouth. An obligatory greeting. No feelings attached.
All I really wanted to do was wrench my hand from her little monkey grip and run like a madman.
Nevertheless, I tried again, this time injecting a little life into my greeting. “Hello.”
She looked up at me and grinned, her big brown eyes dominating her face.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
She continued to grin.
“You don’t like to talk?” I asked with a parched throat. Her eyes darted confusedly as she clung to my wet hand. “Oh come on, I’m sure you can say something, young lady. You can’t say one word to me?” My effort to sound pleasant came off strained.
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Wait… oh, I’m sorry… are you deaf?” I asked apprehensively and pointed to my ear.
She shook her head and smiled again.
“All right, is there something wrong with your voice… I mean, are you mute?”
She playfully cocked her head.
“You know… can you talk?” I asked louder as if that might clarify it, pointing to my mouth. I didn’t know a whole lot about the physically handicapped.
She shook her head again. I couldn’t stop staring into her dark amber eyes.
“Okay, since you don’t want to tell me your name, I’ll come up with my own name for you. Now let me think… I got it! How about Angel? Yes, Angel is perfect for you. Anyone with eyes as pretty as yours ought to be one.”
Amused, she rubbed her chin as if pondering her new name. Abruptly a huge white grin spread across her face causing my dark mood to rise a little higher even though we were enveloped in this overwhelming fog.
“So Angel, you live here in Venice Beach or Santa Monica?”
Silence.
“As soon as this crazy fog lifts we need to find your parents. Are they somewhere around the beach? They’re probably going nuts searching for you because you seem a little too young to be out here alone. How old are you?”
She shrugged.
I was getting exasperated. “Are your parents at home? Work?”
Nothing.
“Are your parents alive, Angel?” My throat tightened. I really didn’t want to go there, but I still asked.
Sadness filled her eyes for the first time as she shook her head and released my hand. The depression bullied me again.
“Uh, I’m sorry for asking, Angel… are you staying with family, you know… like your grandparents, aunt, uncle, cousins?”
She gave me a puzzled expression.
Alarmed, I asked, “Do you have a home anywhere?”
A beatific smile crossed her face.
The trumpet music escalated. That’s the one thing the fog couldn’t obstruct was the enticing and melodic music filling my ears.
“Who’s playing that music, Angel?”
She grabbed my hand with urgency and beckoned me to follow her.
“Are you taking me to the trumpeter, Angel?”
I had grown used to her not saying anything so I just followed because she seemed to know exactly where she was going. As we got closer to the sound, the fog gradually parted and revealed a children’s playground. Ironically, it was the one off Windward Ave. I had brought my five-year-old son here a couple of days ago before dropping him off at his grandmother’s.
When I stepped onto the playground with Angel, I reached the Promised Land. It was as if I had walked on stage with the musician; the distinctive music was clearer now. I looked around and spotted a silhouetted figure seated on a bench near a carousel, playing a shimmering golden trumpet. The trumpet was obviously custom made with a long and skinny neck and its bell’s wide mouth bloomed like a colossal sunflower. Unbelievable sheets of sound poured out of that horn — I had never heard anything like it before.
Angel ran over to some swings and hopped onto one with a victorious smile.
After all this, I had to meet the trumpet player and as I walked towards him, sand crunched beneath my feet. The man was so into his playing he was oblivious to my presence as I stood and checked him out. He sat scrunched up in a tight ball occasionally arching his back as he accentuated various notes. Out of his horn flowed a stream of intense, raw, and overwhelming notes. Goose bumps paraded up and down my arms.
I’m a jazz aficionado and I’ve seen many of the contemporary greats in my time, but nothing like him. This dude had to be one of the baddest musicians on the planet. I could not categorize his music or style — there were hints of jazz, classical, country, even rock — but it was beyond definition –it was his own unique musical blend. They may talk about the legends such as Miles, Coltrane, Gillespie, Ellington, Goodman, or whoever, but this cat was a grandmaster among the masters.
He wore black shades, and a midnight blue single-breasted suit with a tie and white shirt. He looked like some of the hipsters that used to hang out on Central Ave in Los Angeles decades ago. He may have looked like an anachronism, but his music was timeless. Nobody in this era or any other could touch him. A very special timbre in his playing was otherworldly.
Mesmerized, I stood there, ears sopping up his music. I witnessed the melisma of a virtuoso who breathed a lifetime into every single note. Fog or no fog, I couldn’t believe that people weren’t rushing to gather around him like seamen to a siren call.
He got me good, too. He definitely hit a chord in my soul as tears crowded my eyes before they rolled down my cheeks while he played a soothing and haunting ballad. Ordinarily I’m not one to bare ass my emotions to anyone, but his music touched me so deeply. I guess I was more fucked up than I thought.