Chapter One: I meet Mr. Jackson
Dateline: Buffalo, NY 1969…July
It is the summer that I turned 17 years old.
I am a gang member and part time numbers runner.
I have a new motorcycle, and a very fast muscle car.
I am sitting in a bar with a guy named Manny, a friend/boss old enough to be my father.
I am the only white guy in the place.
The band is playing music I’ve never heard before.
They call it Jazz, or maybe the Blues?
I think it sucks and I want to leave but Manny wants me to meet someone, a friend of his, the Sax player up on stage.
The name of the place is Whispers Bar & Grill, East Side, Buffalo, NY.
The Sax player’s name is Mr. Jackson.
At the time I didn’t know it but Mr. Jackson, between sets would change my life.
For good.
And he would do so with music and a well-used paperback book.
Friendship too.
His Name Was Mr. Jackson…he told me, “Just call me, Mr. Jackson.”
And so I do.
First set is finally over.
About 15-2o mins, a lifetime of squeaks, bangs, horns, and a saxophone.
Mr. Jackson is back, pulls a chair over from an empty two-top table, wipes his face with a purple hankie he had in his purple sport coat, sits back as a waitress puts one hand on his shoulder as she bends in to put a Seven 7 Seven Highball drink in front of him on the table. “On me Mr. Jackson,” came from behind red lipstick and white teeth.
“Why thank you honey,” and as soon as “honey” was out of earshot of the table came this, “…and yes I hope to be on you too tonight as well.”
Mr. Jackson stirs his drink, looks at his watch and says, “I got 10 minutes to my next set, so you got 8 minutes to tell me, who you.”
I look across the table to see Manny looking at me through his fingers which seem to be holding his face on, he knows something is coming from me, but he doesn’t know what that something will be, but he knows that something will BE SOMETHING.
Looking straight ahead I grab my cigarette pack, knock out a Camel filtered, grab the red tabletop candle, light the cig, eyes still on Manny I take a slow head turn to my right and blow the smoke out of my nose in long billows Mr. Jackson’s way.
As Mr. Jackson is about to say something I lock eyes on him while reaching into my cocktail glass and taking out an ice cube which I put in my mouth and start chewing.
My turn, “So, who you…Pops.”
I look back at Manny, the pretty waitress is standing behind him just looking at me, Manny is about to say something, but the movement of my chair stops him.
As I stand up, I reach past Mr. Jackson and put my cigarette out in the ashtray in front of him, look at Manny, look at the pretty waitress and turn around and walk off to the bathroom.
Two minutes later the racket starts all over again, screeching, nails on chalkboard kind of noise, but this time from inside the “john” I hear the saxophone start to play.
And the saxophone now is playing louder than it did in set one.
As I come out of the “john” I look straight at Mr. Jackson up front there on stage, and I smile.
And Mr. Jackson winks at me.
And the saxophone plays even louder.
