After Listening to Jack Teagarden. . .

AFTER LISTENING TO JACK TEAGARDEN. . . / James McKean I wiU blame him, the man who convinced my mother there was talent in long arms, whose baton held me lock-stepped all summer in three songs, who never revealed the old name for trombone is sackbut, as awkward as the black vinyl case I banged against my knees in a neighborhood where salvation meant running. Sackbut, the first girl I ever kissed, wet-mouthed and blowing and not a sound, much less a sob of music. I blame him for one lost summer, my mouth full of oil, stuck spit valves, the slide dented over and over by the ground. Yes, him, for my bird-flushing, window-rattling squawks, for the anonymous gift of a mute, for my memory of him yet like the music stand I could never fold right again. May he hear me once more in the Lake City parade, timed by his whistle, all oxfords and a new white shirt. May he forgive my faking the two songs I never learned. May he accept the blame for my marching out of step up the rear of the Ridgecrest Mounted Posse, their horses farting as I lost myself in "Sweet Georgia Brown," the only song I remembered as loud as I could. 56 · The Missouri Review ...