Tribute to the Old Trumpet Player
“Bang the drum slowly” comes to mind, given the old trumpet player always liked a good downbeat. Throw in some laughter, because that was surely there—most days I’m sure. He had that kind of “life is ridiculous” take on most things, even though he understood probably everything through a mathematical steel trap that said emotion has no place. That’s where all that smooth jazz came in, the notes floating here, there, and everywhere (one of his favorite Beatles songs).
Strange: a couple of friends revealed around Christmas just past that they listened to Firesign Theatre back in the day. How many times did we spin those LPs? I repeated lines verbatim to my two friends, who had no way of keeping up. And then I learned the old trumpet player passed away on Christmas Eve. “All out for Fort Stinking Desert.” There’s that laughter again.
Laughter carried the day for him. He could laugh at math problems. He could laugh at physics. A beautiful woman passing by? A certain smile, I’m sure. Oh to be inside that mind of his, but no—no chance. One could get close. He was okay with close. He was okay with silence. He was okay with me and you and everybody else.
I last spent time with him in Portland, Oregon, his new-found hometown. It’s been almost twenty years. He picked me up at the Portland Airport. Ate at Jake’s downtown. Great West Coast seafood. He seemed content in Oregon. I enjoyed being around him, talking, catching up about the years that had zipped by. Laughter, there it goes again.
When I learned that he was gone, flying high in some super nova somewhere, I went to a bar on Earth and drank some Shiner beer. In his honor. To his memory. The old trumpet player and I were once tripping through the Hill Country, down by the Blanco, throwing horse shoes at a post. Debating, and laughing. So cool, so cool. The old trumpet player, my friend. Now gone. Keep flying, you super nova, wherever you are.
Hags Rags 