Mea culpa(again) - so awhile back I wrote the story 'Note by Note.' There was a significant portion of the pre-submitted story that just didn't fit. For various reasons it didn't feel right. Surgery was performed and 'Note by Note' was posted. To mild acclaim.
But the excised story turned into some bizarre kind of weird zombie erotica. It wouldn't go away, it wouldn't die. It kept following me, chasing me, suddenly appearing right in front of me -- or did I just turn around?
I was caught, I was consumed...cue the Physarum polycephalum (slime mold of smut) horror music and fade to black.
So, I needed a way to post the story; a diversion or a subversion or maybe even an perversion. And that was it, I just needed a heaping helping of music industry inversion and - voila.
THE SPACES BETWEEN
Irving Thaler Jr, ran his hand along the curving edge of the Steinway piano. He picked up the ash tray, emptying it one final time, then changed his mind and threw the damn nuisance in the trash. Moving around to face the keyboard he tapped the key for middle "C"
'Oh the stories this old girl could tell.'
He smiled, there were rumors - good rumors - that the great jazz pianist Art Tatum had played, and some of those rumors inferred that he possibly owned, this very instrument.
Art Tatum was one of James 'Kid' Rollins heroes. When The Kid Rollins Band's debut album, **Sunday Morning**, raced past gold record status on it's way up the charts, Irving (Sr.), Jerome Harrison, Lester Johns and a few others had hunted for a fitting gift that their friend and colleague would appreciate. Jimmy, upon receiving the piano and hearing half a dozen versions of the back story regarding this instrument, had been deeply touched.
It was at this very piano that Jimmy had laboriously put together a four album compilation of "Jazz Standards" that resurrected the sales and careers of many older jazz artists, both the living and the departed.
And now it was Jimmy who had moved from one group to the other. It had been a good service, well attended, even some press coverage. Well, music industry press coverage.
Irving thought of the series of concerts Jimmy put together with Irving's (mostly Jr.) help showcasing many of those jazz artists still living. Those concerts had really had an impact.
Evenings filled with a lot of stories, a lot of music, and the recounting and continuing of good times. A lot of good times, really good times. Irving scanned the room again thinking "the story's and songs these walls have witnessed. He was pleased that a number of those songs and more had been written down in the music books that Jimmy updated throughout his day, every day, for as best Irving knew, just about every year of Jimmy's professional life.
Oh the treasures Irving had discovered; he'd found songs, the fragments of songs, sometimes just a title and a date upon a page without a single note or lyric written down. Other songs complete, ready to be recorded. He shook his head at that loss, far too many of those songs were ones that Irving had never seen, let alone heard.
And GODDAMNITJIMMY there were pop songs! You wrote pop songs with lyrics, and you even made notes regarding who might best record it! A few of those songs had already been offered to the artist Jimmy had indicated and been very warmly received. Oh Jimmy, Jimmy, what we could have done.
There was one thing that Irving was absolutely sure of, The James Rollins Estate would be a major player in supporting jazz musicians through The Kid Rollins Foundation; awarding scholarships, fellowships, and promoting music through concerts and recordings for many years to come.
But where were the diaries, the personal journals, those 'three pages' Jimmy wrote down every morning? If he had been as disciplined with that as he'd been with his songwriting there should be a treasure trove of nearly 70 years worth of writing. Where in the world were those 70,000 pages?!
-=-=-=-=- Five Years Later -=-=-=-=-
"Mr Thaler? There's a man here who says that your storage unit lease is about to expire and he wants to know if you're going to sign a new lease, or clear out the unit, or whatever."
"Louise, I have no idea what you're talking about. I have no storage unit or whatever this man alleges. But, send him on in, and we'll see what this is all about."
"Yes Mr. Thaler." Mere seconds passed before a soft knock and a turning of the knob signaled the opening of his office door. "Right this way, you're sure about not wanting coffee, a water, or anything else? No? Okay then. Mr. Thaler, this is Mr. Gregory Hartainian, he's the owner/manager of Best Storage Solutions on 45th Street. Mr. Hartainian, this is Mr. Irving Thaler Jr."
Once the door closed, Irving smiled, "A pleasure to meet you Mr Hartainian." They shook hands and Irving smiled at the double take Mr Hartainian directed towards to door.
"Louise worked for my father. He hired her fresh out of college. When I took over from my dad, I assumed she would retire. My dad had made provision for her, she could certainly retire if she chose. Twenty three years later, she's still with me and I couldn't imagine how we'd get on without her."
"Now Mr Hartainian, you sir have me curious and at a distinct disadvantage, I have no recollection of ever leasing any storage unit, or garage. So Mr. Hartainian, the ball is in your court." Irving sat back and smiled.
"You find yourself in a situation not of your making, let alone your knowledge. Oh the tales I could tell," Gregory had played this role many a time, but he never tired of it. "Fortunately, Mr. Thaler, I have a copy of the original lease."
Gregory Hartainian opened his documents case and extracted a single sheet of paper. He of all people knew far too well the value of correct documentation, this paper was premium photographic stock enabling a clear and perfect reproduction of the original document. He passed it across the desk to Irving.
"The lease originated as a 10 year recurring agreement. It was initiated, by my father, almost sixty years ago. The lease was renewed regularly, until now. The primary lessee has not made any effort to respond or renew. You are listed as the emergency contact, so here we are."
Irving realized that he was expected to respond, to take up his side of the conversation. But he could not. He simply could not move his eyes away from the name of the primary lessee; James Rollins.
"Mr Thaler? Mr. Thaler are you interested in..."
Irving waved him quiet, "Are you able to tell me the contents of this unit, what's inside?"
"Yes I can, generally speaking. Primarily books, identically bound books, like legal journals. There are archival boxes with labeled folders. The original lessee had dropped off a packing box of loose papers, oh let me see here. It was just over five years ago. No contact since. So, what would you like to do?"
"This says the lease is up in three months, correct? Good. The lessee is deceased, I have his Power of Attorney, and copies of his death certificate. How much storage space are we talking about? My intention would be to bring it all here for cataloging purposes."
"Volume - um, let me think - it would probably be too much for the bed of a typical pick-up. But a standard 1-ton delivery van would be more than adequate. If you want, I can have everything delivered to you within twenty-four hours. Delivered to wherever you want it. Or, you can make your own arrangements. If you want to work out the logistics on your own, the contact information is on the back."
Irving Thaler Jr. watched the door close and latch. He looked down at the paper centered on his desk. He looked at the information for the Lessee and the Lessee's signature. A signature he'd seen countless times - James Rollins. There was a van-sized hoard of James's writing just waiting to find a safe home.
The missing journals, and papers of Jimmy 'the kid,' Jimmy 'the fixer,' Jimmy his client, his partner, his friend had been found. Jimmy had taken steps to preserve his diaries, journals, and who knows what else.
Surprisingly, Irving was to discover that the 'who knows what else' was way more problematic than he ever expected.
-=-=-=-=-
"Boss, I'm simply telling you that he was resolutely honest; names, conversations, actions, everything. You never saw any of these?" A thick sheath of papers was waved about.
"No Freddy, no I didn't, not a single thing. I mean, yes, I saw Jimmy writing, and occasionally I saw what he was writing, but that was music, and we have all of that. There were things he did on his own, like all of the loose pages in this box. This appears to be part of a daily practice he called 'Morning Pages.' He said it was some kind of a brain clearing process. I'm guessing he kept them just to keep them, because they aren't dated and don't seem to be in any particular order. The formal journals he did at night, and he was scribbling stuff down all day long. Then at night he'd distill it into an entry."
"What about the stories boss? This is some pretty wild stuff - the 60's, the 70's! My dad used to get Penthouse magazine and they published erotic stories as letters to the magazine. Mr. Rollins wrote genuine erotic stories, and I'm guessing from the way they read that most of them are real. He names names, he is very detailed in his descriptions, very detailed. There is even an index of who is in what story. Look at some of these names."
A stapled sheath of papers was handed to him and Irving shook his head as he read the names. "What do these notations mean? Any idea?"
Freddy held up a composition book, "See here, the numbers are his catalogue system, the letters I haven't figured out, maybe people's initials? I'm guessing the names and stars on the last page speak for themselves. If this is true, Mr Rollins certainly got his share, and then some."
Irving scanned down the page, marveling at some names, shaking his head at others. It was only when he reached the bottom that he was rocked back on his heels.
