Paul is a character. A 6 foot one or two character. A light-skinned black brother whose hair has thinned but whose mind is always thick with stories. He worked for an airline many years on the east coast. He sometimes wears a captain’s hat that gives rise to memories of varying altitudes. Spending time with Paul is always a trip, a journey. It is the fourth of July and Paul is sitting near me listening to music on TV—piped in via a radio network that caters to every musical taste. Paul appreciates vocalists and the power of the lyric—the timeless songs sung by singers whose time has come and gone—and come again. Others on July the 4th might be eating hot dogs and drinking beer but Paul and I drink in the music. On the screen is Sarah Vaughn. The footage is in black and white. She is performing before an audience. She wears an elegant dress and her glistening skin is a resting place for stars wept from the sky. You know, Paul says, my mother used to have a boarding house where entertainers on the road would stay—black entertainers that were refused at white hotels and motels. And Sarah Vaughn sings, her honeyed voice dipping into the constellations of sound fused with emotions never bitter in its taste but connecting all who listen, who feel.
I’m too misty and too much in love
I’m too misty and too much in love
Paul is a fine singer, mouthing the words to songs, his baritone seeking out the right lyrics, the lyrics that speak to him. He stresses the difference between a singer and performer. Just because you’re a good performer doesn’t mean you can sing, he says. And soon Sarah Vaughn is joined by Billy Eckstine on stage. They stand close to the hip singing a classic, Body and Soul. And in the living room we sit, in the presence of royalty—a black man and a black woman whose voices interpret the world—transcending language, political boundaries etc. Royalty that had perhaps spent time at that boarding house that Paul’s mother ran. At the end of the song, Sarah and Billy kiss. The kiss is an exclamation point, a bond that can’t be broken—the black man and the black woman—together. And Paul’s baritone sits in his chest; he wants to sing more but something holds him back. Perhaps he needs his own Sarah Vaughn.
It’s the fourth of July and I sit with Paul. He is my stepfather’s older brother. My stepfather is grilling chicken and burgers on the outside deck. It is starting to rain and Paul begins a story. He played trumpet in school and was part of the JROTC. I went into the army, he says. The commanding officer approached me and told me he was going to make me platoon leader. He assumed that since I was in the JROTC, I could do all the drills—he was wrong. But the perk in being platoon leader was that I didn’t have to pull KP, patrols—stuff like that. So Paul became platoon leader leading his fellow troops in formations and drills. Paul led the marches but the marches were casual—more unlocked step than lock step which caught the eye of a superior officer. “Hey, tell those guys to stop.” the officer said. Paul continued walking in his casual step, like Billy Eckstine or Arthur Prysock across a stage. The superior officer raised his voice, ordering Paul to tell “Those motherfuckers to stop!” In response, Paul turned to the troops in his command and called out: Motherfuckers, halt! The superior officer was not pleased, grilling Paul, asking him if he thought he was being funny to which Paul replied, I told them exactly what you told me.
At that moment the commanding officer yanked the sergeant’s stripes from Paul’s shoulder. Outside, Paul’s brother Pete is doing another kind of grilling for the 4th of July. And Paul gets up, his baritone sitting deep in his throat, always ready to sing a song or share a story. He gets up and walks across the living room in a movement that is an improvisation that lives in his blood and bone. No Cadence. He lost his stripes but earned his mark. He fills his glass with some holiday punch and switches the channel to watch an interview with Minister Louis Farrakhan.
© 2024 Tony Robles
