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ChapterFour
Gideon
I studied St.Louis before packing my stuff in my old Camry and heading across the country from Colorado. The city is divided into several neighborhoods. Skye’s place is in the Tower Grove area. The Hep Cat—the music store where I’m interviewing—is in Soulard.
When I park across the street, I check to make sure there’s nothing valuable in the cup holder or on the passenger seat. I’ve had three break-ins in the past four years, so I’m super paranoid. I saw that look Skye gave me when I asked her if her apartment complex was safe. It’s bad enough when it’s your vehicle, but having someone break into your home is a whole new level of violation.
The sun’s out, but it’s chilly when I close my door and stand in the street to study The Hep Cat. Looks like any other old warehouse repurposed for something new, but I see something special. The three-story brick building looms taller than those on either side. The dark wood trim on the windows and door looks fresh, as if someone cares about the upkeep. There are no lighted signs in the windows; rather, there’s a rectangular sign hanging from a bar over the door. In fancy bold black letters, the sign simply says The Hep Cat. Apparently, people in the area know what it is, because from all the discussions I’ve had with Wamba, the place is always busy.
I cross the side street with ease and check out the other buildings as I do. Next to the music store on the right is a bakery. To the left is a tiny neighborhood market. An older woman steps out of the bakery as I step out of the street. She gives me a small nod and tells me to say hi to Wamba as I pull the heavy wooden door open.
Inside, the place is cool. Exposed brick walls and scarred wooden flooring. Tables and tables of vinyl records. Sheet music further back. The store is deep, and I see there’s a second room behind the service counter. From where I stand, I see brass—French horns and trumpets. I can’t wait to get a look at what else is back there. My fingers are crossed there’s a piano and hopefully it’s in tune. The keyboard I have is functional, but I would much rather have a piano. In order for that to happen, I need to settle permanently and buy a house. My dad has reminded me of this a million times since I got out of college.
“That you, G?”
I squint my eyes and look for the source of the voice coming from the back of the room. When I finally see the short, graying black man bent over a guitar, I start walking. I met Sam Wamba a few years ago in Tupelo. He’s a great guy and one hell of a musician. I learned a lot from him—music from watching him play and life from watching him live. Wamba’s wife passed away last fall, and he’s thinking about retirement. Hanging up the brass and the percussion and moving to Arizona to be near his son and daughter-in-law.
“Wamba.”
The old man flashes me a big grin and steps around the counter to hug me and slap me on the back. He’s aged, but he was madly in love with Clarice, so I know losing her was hard on him.
“Lookin’ good, son.” Wamba decides after studying me for a few minutes.
“Whatcha got going on there?” I nod at the guitar on the counter.
“Just changing the strings,” he answers and waves at it like it can wait. “Lemme show you around.”
I should tell him to finish the guitar first, but I’m anxious to see the rest of the place. I want the guided tour and then I want to spend hours flipping through the vinyls and looking at the instruments in the back room. And then I want to sit down and fiddle with something. If not a piano, a trumpet.
“We buy, sell, and rent,” Wamba tells me as he leads me into the back room. It’s packed back here, but everything is meticulously organized. There’s a section for brass instruments, reeds, even two drum sets. On the other side of the room are the stringed instruments—acoustic and electric guitars, cellos and violins. I even see an oboe and a couple of ukuleles. But no piano.
“It’s great.”
It is great. I play everything, so I love a room packed with so much possibility. If I have to, I’ll find a music school with practice rooms where I can rent one to bang around on a piano.
“’kay,” Wamba says as he leads me through the back room to a staircase. “Next.”
I follow him, assuming there’s an office up here. If I take the job, I’ll be managing the place for him while he’s in Arizona. We’re doing it on a trial basis, not to see if I work out, but to see if Wamba can deal with retirement. He’s a mover, and he’s uncertain about walking away from his busy life. The situation suits me. I’ve been wandering around since the year after I graduated from college, doing a little of this and a little of that, and composing when I can squeeze it in. My goal is to have an original piece of music recorded before I’m fifty. My parents think it’s a pipe dream that I should hang up and trade in for a pencil and calculator so I can crunch numbers.
At least here, I’ll be using my business degree, too.
“Office.” Wamba nods his head at the room as we pass by. A quick glance shows me a neat desk, an iMac, and a filing cabinet. But Wamba’s moving on, so I follow him without question. “You gotcherself a lady friend yet, G?”
My parents seem to think I’m allergic to a real career and women. While my dad keeps bulldozing me over the music stuff, telling me it won’t pay the bills, my mom drops subtle hints about me settling down and getting married. She wants grandchildren. Chloe was seeing someone seriously for a while, so the pressure was off for a bit. But her guy took some environmental job in Alaska, so that killed their relationship.
“Not since Alaina,” I answer Wamba. Wamba laughs and nods as he walks. He’s dressed in brown trousers, a beige button-down shirt, and a cardigan. Clarice was a stickler about him looking good when he left the house. It makes me happy to see he’s still dressing for her.
“She was a hellcat,” he says as we reach the first of several doors down a hallway. He opens one and flips the light switch. Alaina Godfrey was a hellcat—a cougar, to be exact. She was sexy and illicit and everything that would have made my mother cry, I’m sure. Alaina and I had a fun ride, but it was never going to be anything permanent for either of us.
Wamba nods at the door, so I step closer and peek inside. It’s a soundproof practice room. And there’s a beautiful upright piano against the wall facing the front of the building.
“Six practice rooms,” he tells me. “Three with pianos. We rent them out. Also do some lessons. You up for that?”
We hadn’t discussed me giving lessons, so that’s a pleasant surprise.
“Absolutely.”
Wamba nods to himself as if he knew I would say yes.
