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Show Acting Alone Page m at it and he was routinely using a super-stiff #5 reed - the kind Charlie Parker himself used to shave with, scrape paint off windows with. Sam played the shit out of Spikey's old student-model sax, had already blown three pads completely off, shot them clear across the Wamsutter living room like frisbees, to chip plaster off walls. Hot dog! - a new saxman is born in Kiev! Sam had even ordered one of those newfangled metal mouthpieces with the sympathetically vibrating inner reed. It cost $80.00 - worth more than the whole rest of the sax put together. (Just like in the old cowboy song: "With a ten dollar horse and a fifty dollar saddle, yatta-yatta"); but that was okay, because Sam would be rich soon, right? What's more, the sympathetic vibrations of the higher sax notes seemed to be having a therapeutic effect in accelerating the drainage of tropical pus from Sam's terminally infected nose. Whenever Mae Bell complained that she couldn't seem to get that drainage to come out of his shirt sleeves in the wash no matter what pre-soak or bleach product she used, Sam simply reminded her that it was all her son's doing, so try scrubbing a little harder. So, fuck writing. Sam had a contract, the advance was forthcoming, and the book would simply write itself as soon as Meredith or Minaret Press sent a real, professionally skilled whore out to Kiev to take over. Maybe they'd send Norman Mailer himself, and he and Sam could get into bitchy altercations with one another, and Sam could devastate the little prick with a few well-chosen pithies, and Mailer would lose control and charge Sam like a goat, and Sam would simply pick him up under one arm, lay him |
