Santa. a Sacful of Surprises

Santa- A sack full of surprises

The basis of this story is entirely true but the names and places have been changed to conserve the privacy of the individuals depicted. As for me, if you know my other stories, it's the same old routine: Work, training, sweaty sex etc.

"It's a long story. Stick around."

Anyone who aspires to a career in the arts is going to have to make some stark choices between what we want to make, what satisfies us as artists and what the consumer wants.

It makes no difference whether you're a poet or a broadway dancer, a portrait painter, a jeweller or a composer.

We might start off with high ideals about the importance of preserving artistic integrity and not bowing to commercial pressures but even the very greatest have to make some compromises in order to pay the rent.

Leonardo, who designed weapons systems for his patrons as well as fantastical machinery for theatrical street parades, sculptural masterpieces and some of the most exquisite paintings and drawings ever created, he went where there was a living to be earned.

On a more mundane level, the mere mortals among us can choose to make the art which satisfies our needs as makers and, totally separately, earn our living in some other way.

So it is with Aubrey James, whom I knew first as a sometime gym buddy and we talk about this stuff. Our common ground is broad and very fertile. Even though, as you will read, it took a long time to discover. Though we work in radically different media, we became very close through our dogged insistence on keeping the love in our personal work and only making what pleases ourselves, not because of outside pressures.

You know me, I travel a lot for my work and, in its way, that feeds me and inspires me and makes me more appreciative of home. Aubrey is rooted in our home town. He had a taste of the travelling life, touring with a few big-time musicians but, like me, he caught the bug for the Gym big time and it's rare to meet a touring musician who has much of a healthy lifestyle.

Neither is Mr. James what he would call a natural performer. Music is a primary part of his DNA, he couldn't function without it but a showman? One of the many reasons for my intense love of this man is his modesty. I first saw this guy working out solo. Squats and power lifts, one afternoon in the "dead zone", that time I like so much, between 2 and 4 in the afternoon when there's no pressure for space and the guys you meet are usually really focussed.

He's big. Way bigger than me in every way. 6' 5" 265-275 lbs.(Me, 5'10" 205lbs), depending on the season. I feel like a hobbit alongside this African American Adonis. His toes would curl with embarrassment if he heard such talk but it's true. His glasses might give him a kind of Clark Kent nerd appearance but if you're as used to looking at and looking for muscle men as I am, his physical beauty is easy to see, despite his preference for loose fitting casual clothes that disguise his towering musculature. He likes to think of himself as inconspicuous in every way. As his friend, I'm happy that he's happy in this self-deception.

Now, I've done downtime gym sessions almost everywhere I travel in what I think of as my day job. That might be Abidjan, Jeddah, Canberra, Shanghai, Durban. Though the people differ, habits are broadly the same. If you want to check the eye-candy, pick up a trick, fuck in the showers maybe, then you're probably out of luck, there's often nobody else around.

If you want some serious focus, time to think, work-out at your own pace, avoid the poseurs and the guys who talk more than work, it's nearly perfect. The only down-side I know is if you really want to push yourself, there's nobody around to "Spot" you in the last rep or two of a set.

It took me weeks to begin a conversation with Aubrey. Even though he was so obviously not one of the competitive guys you see in groups in evening sessions, bragging and swaggering, I observed him at a few sessions before I allowed our paths to really cross. I confess a deeply buried reserve, it's not shyness but speaking to another man at the gym requires experience and diplomacy and I'm not going to lie, though I hate to confess it, the fact that he was black made me extra cautious but the fact that he was awesome gave me the courage to speak to him.

During the coming months (I get to my home gym, at most, once a week) I would see an opportunity to spot for him, train the odd set together, compare notes, break the ice. It was months before that reserve and the stiffness of gym etiquette wore down enough for us to accept the welcome of the other. As well as my buried racism, my buried homophobia / self-oppression would not allow me to question his sexuality although every time I saw him I longed to press my body to his and smother him with extravagant kisses.

Then, when I really thought we were getting somewhere and I began to feel he was as comfortable in my company as I was with him, he vanished.

I crunched my way through frozen snow to my occasional December sessions, I just assumed that Mr. James had changed his routine, maybe changed his job, even moved away. The solitary handshake between us, the afternoon he told me his name, came back into my mind like an arrow into wood and I knew he was under my skin and I knew that the wriggling little root of loss was tugging at my heart strings.

I'm a solitary bear but I need people. That sounds like a contradiction. I love people easily, not just for sex, if that's what you're thinking. That's just what I write about here. I'm choosey. I stick around people when I like them and I grow attached to them quickly but I like my space.

It was New Year when he suddenly reappeared, looking a few pounds heavier but certainly not fleshy.

I admit, I gushed. I was more than delighted to see him. There was no rushing up with a big hug but I was overcome. I marched over directly, he smiled in a kind of unexpectedly enthusiastic, obviously honest way. I shook his hand and cupped it with my left (Oh no! Had I just offended a Muslim? There goes my racial Tourette's again). He didn't flinch or try to resist my affectionate greeting in any way.

"You ok?" I asked, concerned, with a deeply furrowed brow.

"Sure, Yeah!" He replied, thankful and slightly amused by my grave concern but also realising I was mad with curiosity as to his absence. Keeping his cards pretty close to his formidable chest, he said "Seasonal work." and his face creased into a bit of a grimace, "Been getting here for an early evening session but I hate those busy times."

I was so grateful to see him back. Same style, loose tank top, baggy sweat pants, he's not into killer trainers (phew!). Those superbly shaped shoulders and the cleavage in his upper chest seemed to glow in the studio lights with a kind of supernatural beauty. I desperately wanted to let him know how I'd appreciated his company but he surprised me by telling me how much he'd missed the peace and focus of our afternoon sessions, how much he derived from having an occasional training partner and how much he'd been looking forward to serious work out sessions. He admitted to being a bit of a loner.

He even said I was looking "sharp" having survived the temptations to mid winter holiday excess. I'm not easily embarrassed but I blush to my boots at the slightest hint of heart-felt compliments. I sometimes get shallow flattery, I'm not that bad looking and when someone notices the work I've done on my body or the fat joint between my legs, it happens. I laugh it off. Sincerity, however, is priceless and my pale complexion is the perfect medium for that hot red glow. I think, as a modest man himself, he understands how powerful that kind of truth really is. At that moment something passed between us even though, as yet we knew almost nothing about each other.

Through to the first green shoots of spring, despite work commitments, I made a more conscious effort to be there when I knew he would be training, I altered my training routine, patchy as it was, to fall in line with what Aubrey would be working out. He'd never have known I was rescheduling flights to be home. He works legs a lot, which I like, as it's the hardest facilities to find in poorly equipped gyms on my travels.

I loved to look at him, working out, watching attentively as I took a turn on the bench. Encouraging, with a "You got this!" as the last rep wavered. Congratulating. Always knowing, instinctively, just when to intervene with the minimal pressure under the bar, to guide it safely home. It's a pretty intimate moment, so different from what passes between two men making love but I could not help understanding how the trust, the intense, unspoken two-way communication and the physical thrill were common factors.

Men don't look one another in the eye much unless it's a challenge. I almost never look another man in the eye unless we are on really intimate terms. It's a dominance game played by schoolboys that never grew up. Lovers and most trusted friends only. So it surprised me how easily, without anything more than this gym work, we'd slipped into this intense sharing of trust. It's like how strangers become interdependent in moments of crisis (Yeah! Like 250lbs of iron about to crash down on your neck, when you think you're up for one more repetition and your arms suddenly turn to jelly).

We'd had never seen one another naked, never shared a shower stall, I scrupulously avoided any unnecessary touching, comments or compliments that were not entirely appropriate. I always wore a jock and baggy shorts that cover my rather noticeable sex and although I could imagine what a hot lover Aubrey would be, I was too inspired by and grateful for the connection we had to risk spoiling it like some childhood crush by making a move on him in a sexual way.

As weeks went by we planned what we'd work on in our next session and I could see that Aubrey looked forward more and more to these structured sessions. Shortly after this evolutionary step, can't remember how exactly, we started chilling with a juice in the diner next door after our workout, to plan our next move.

The subject matter of our conversations just naturally escaped the strict business-like topics of exercise, into nutrition, motivation, rest, then life-style and, before we knew what was happening, work and the way it always interfered with life and so beyond.

It never occurred to me to read anything into the fact that he didn't talk about women. Nor did I. You get that incessant referencing of relationships with women from guys who are scared of your sexuality but don't want to offend you by fucking you off totally. Oftentimes, they don't even recognise they're doing it but mostly it's like "I'm straight ok?"

Well, I don't talk to anyone about the sex I do (except here of course and you're not going to tell are you?) or who my partner is right now or where my kids go to school (surprise!).

When he told me he was a musician, in particular a jazz pianist, I deliberately cooled my surprise reaction. Somehow the power in that body, those hands, seemed to contradict my pre-conceptions of the sensitivity required but I'm a man of contradictions myself, I was excited by this apparent incongruity and would never have dreamed of asking how this could be. I'm a keen listener to serious music of all kinds but have no specialist knowledge nor the ability to play and I told him so. That day, I saw him first, I realised, he wore no headset, no earphones that would have been another barrier to our communication.

I learned of his love of improvising and how it came about, a much beloved Grandmother who had encouraged his early interest in music, taken him to church, introduced his first piano teacher, a starchy matron called Miss Burrows, who, when the theory lesson that followed Aubrey's bi-weekly piano class was over, explained the evolution of African American music in the form of the Blues, Ragtime and Jazz.

This was no expansive, dewy eyed, self-indulgent personal history but the matter of fact, condensed, "taken for granted" kind of pocket history repeated over and over by professionals with similar experiences. I could have sat there for hours, goggle eyed, head in hands. At last, a legitimate reason to stare. Instead I took in the brief resumé and took my turn with my, well practiced, minimal account but when he learned I was a music lover, he asked me if I ever went out to gigs.

How I wished I could have told him I was out every night checking out the local hotspots where the groovier people go but it had been years since I'd given that kind of listening any of my time and I told him so.

"Right!" Said he, almost thumping the table in his enthusiasm. "When are you next in town on a Friday night?" He asked so pointedly that I sat bolt upright in surprise.

"Mnnnn, Fridays? Tricky. I'm often late home." I replied defensively.

"Late is not a problem!" He chuckled, letting another guard down. "Nobody, who's serious, plays until after midnight!"

"Ok! Let's do it!" Said I, happy for any chance to expand my relationship with this fascinating man. "Where?" I pestered "I can take a cab straight there from the flight."

* * *

A three day convention in Albuquerque later, my taxi from our local airport squelched to a halt in a steady drizzle outside an inconspicuous cabaret venue downtown. I guess the regulars would have recognised the tell tale signs of a Jazz venue. It was 12:15 am and I trudged in and struggled down a narrow stairway, clutching and thumping my overnight bag, the sound of a drummer warming up his skins drifting up from below.

A sassy, dark skinned woman in her mid to late sixties, dressed in a turquoise spandex gown and bold, stage make-up, greeted me with an amused smile, taking in my open overcoat, my business suit, my flight bag, my tired face, and said with a chuckle "This ain't that kind of bar, Mister."

I flushed like a kid and stammered "N n No Mam! I'm here for the music."

"You are?" She laughed "Why you look as though you came straight from the convention centre!"

"Sure enough!" Said I, recovering my sense of humour. "It's a long way from Albuquerque, Mam"

"Well, that's the best reason to make you even more welcome!" She boomed and pointing to herself with both hands in a big, theatrical gesture. "My name is Desrê Chandler and this is my club! C'mon in" She urged, taking my arm as if we were lovers strolling in the park and she led me with a serpentine grace from the cramped "foyer" at the bottom of the stairs, into the coat check, where I left my bag and overcoat. I heard the first few tinkling chords and running, expressive lines of piano, the distant drummer's noodling coalesced into a honeyed structure of brushes on snare I recognised as music. A lovely duet began to drift through from the theatre and a ripple of polite applause greeted "Apple blossom time." as no-one had heard it before, made new again in that moment. I wondered how that felt for the musicians creating it. The burden of the working week just floated away.

The place was comfortably full, I slipped off my jacket and loosened my tie, feeling kind of both overdressed as in too formal and underdressed as in not nearly fancy enough for the sharp dudes in shiny slacks and patent dancing shoes and their elegant, shimmering ladies. Desrê told me with her casual amiability, as she checked me out with a swooping bat of eyelashes, they turned off the heating at 11 so as not to cook the customers.

A long cocktail bar with a mirror back like an out take from Belle Epoch Paris, dispensed lazily to skinny waiters ferrying back and forth to the tables, which circled a dark wood dance floor.

The talk was low, serious and respectful of the performers but I was to learn that when it got late (early to the rest of us) they'd pick up the tempo and the joint would be jumping.

At first, I didn't recognise Aubrey, hunched, uncharacteristically to my eye at least, over a sonorous Fender Rhodes Electric Piano, rather more transported than engrossed in his playing. What gave him away in the end were the scowls and exertions which occasionally played across his ruggedly handsome face, such as those I'd seen when his heavy sets were reaching their exhausted conclusions. He put everything into these meandering, down tempo improvisations, just as he did at the gym. It made a massive impression on me.

He would likewise struggle to recognise me as a besuited business man, I later realised, but in Aubrey I thought I recognised a kindred spirit because, like me, he satisfied the physical and the cerebral as if he were two different people.

I ordered a Strawberry Daiquiri and my hostess raised a quizzical eyebrow at my choice of a large, pink, cuban cocktail (I am so delighted by a chance to confound people's expectations).

Drinking with my clients is a no for me, it's a slippery slope and I was therefore not much surprised when Desrê graciously declined my offer. She obviously liked the power in my body which she studied brazenly with her expert eyes; security, sexuality, it's all the same. Her curiosity peaked "We're the best kept secret in town," She puffed "So, tell me, who recommended us?"

For a moment I felt transported to a Bogart movie. Determined to wallow in my imaginary world I nodded towards the stage in response and said "Your piano player there, Aubrey. Aubrey James"

"Aubrey?" Her brow furrowed and a strange confusion flattened her painted lip line. "You're not a player are you." She stated flatly after a subtle pause, holding up a hand. "No offence intended." She grinned disarmingly as I shook my head. "I don't know what he calls himself on the street," She said "but down here he's Santa." and, leaving me with a huge, enigmatic smile, she called out "You have a great night."

Santa?

Occasionally I would recognise snatches of tunes as they surfaced and then submerged again in the flow of improvised rhythms and harmonic transitions, each a tantalising morsel snatched away and woven back into the whole. It was like brain massage to my fried Friday night senses. This was such a contrast to my usual way of life, as if floating offshore, looking back at the land I'd escaped.

I lost track of time but when a little guy with a Tenor Saxophone and a statuesque woman, with a stand-up bass took up a position on the stage, the mood changed and some up tempo Be-Bop style numbers had the audience on it's feet. No power on earth would tempt me to any kind of dance floor but I was so happy taking in the spectacle of those who love to translate the flow of sound into body movement.

It was 3:30 when it all wound down. A time that only usually existed in my universe for emergencies. Flight cancellations due to storms. An hotel evacuated when the fire alarm went off. This time I was so glad to be there, determined to see the man. There was so much talk, back slapping, comparing notes on what went well accompanied by mimed instrumental gestures, greeting old friends, regulars. I hung out, hoping he'd see me as customers made their way up to the twinkling confusion of life at street level.

Suddenly, he is distracted, there's a double take and as he points right at me his face explodes with a joyful recognition I could never have expected. "You came!" he yelled "Wow!

Not knowing what to say, I gibbered. I guess I was star struck and exhausted. "Awesome!" I burbled "Love you, Man!" was all I could manage.

"You totally made my night!" He said in a flood of emotion, the big eyes welling up. "I can't express this but you have connected two worlds that are so important to me" So saying, he wrapped his massive frame around me and hugged me as if his life depended on it. It was as if we were long lost brothers reunited.

The psychological barriers that kept me from his touch were shattered in an instant and here we were in a long, emotional embrace and wouldn't you know it, I got a boner.