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BOOK OF GREAT MUSIC WRITING 395 for tips. But the joint had become a kind of repository for Gabe’s down-and-out relatives:Thedishwasherwasabrother-in-law,oneofthebusboysanephew.The attendant,Albert,wasacousinofGabe’s,aheavy,batteredmaninhismid-fifties with the ponderous movement, puffy ears, and banged-up nose of an ex-boxer. I asked the bartender, Louis, if this were so. “I don’t think so. He’s just naturally kind of punch-drunk,” Louis said. “But probably harmless.” I had occasion to avail myself of Albert’s services early on. He was hovering behind two patrons using adjacent urinals, armed with a stack ofpapertowelsandawhiskbroom,randomlybrushingthebackofaman’snylon jacket. He wore a short, too-tight red mess jacket, clip-on red bow tie, and black pants shiny with wear. A penciled sign taped to the mirror over the sink said: MR. ALBERTO SALVO ATTENDENT (FASTEST BROOM IN THE EAST!) While waiting for a urinal to free up, I introduced myself. “I’m the piano player.” “How do,” Albert Salvo said huskily, tucking the whisk broom in his left armpit and offering a hand; it was as soft and yielding as five pounds of butter. I wasabouttomentionthemisspellingonthesign,thoughtbetterofit,andpointed insteadtothechippedshavingmugonashelfadjacenttothesinkmirror.Asmall square of cardboard attached to the mug by an elastic band said TIP. “You ought to prime it,” I said. Albertgazedatme,adimuncomprehendingsmilesofteningthebulbousface. Itookadollarbillfrommywallet,foldeditlengthwise,andpoppeditinthemug. “Like so. Give folks a clue.” “Good idee!” Albert exclaimed. He hunched awkwardly and delivered a jab to my upper arm, rocking me back a foot. As I moved to reclaim my dollar bill, Albert’sbeefymittcircledmywrist.“You’llbeusin’thefacilitiesinaminute,might as well leave it there.” “Good idea,” I allowed. I stepped into a vacated urinal—the nylon-jacketed man hastily exiting, dodging Albert’s fistful of paper towels—and soon felt the back and shoulders of my blazer being briskly brushed. “Could you wait a minute until I—” “Touch o’ dandruff there, boss. Shows up real nasty on blue.” Backonthestand,Itoldtheguystocutdownonthebrewandavoidthemen’s if they could manage it. Just a little bit south of North Carolina You’ll find Pa-ra-dise. 1SMIRNOFF_pages.qxd 8/27/08 10:43 AM Page 395 396 THE OXFORD AMERICAN Around the first week of August, a small pale lady, neither young nor old, began dropping in. She roomed at the Hotel Sincere and was strolling by on a humid open-door night as we were closing the set with “Stars Fell on Alabama.” Bobbylikedtosingthattuneinasimperingbreathyvoice,battinghiseyeswildly onthelines“Myheartbeatlikeahammer,myarmswoundaroundyoutight/And starsfellonAlabamalastnight.”Sheslippedontotheendbarstoolclosesttothe bandstand and listened intently. As we faded out on Bobby’s vocal, she headed straight across the floor for us, oblivious to the perspiring dancers, her sandals shuffling through the thin sawdust. “I was brought up in Phenix City so that song means a lot to me.” We stared at her. What was the connection with Phoenix? She had a soft bruised face—not bruised in the sense of, what, contusions, but a lived-in face; on the stolid side, but not unpretty. I said, “Are we talking Arizona here?” A tiny frown. “Phenix City, Alabama.” NowIcaughtawhisperofaregionalaccent,anupturnon bama.“Sorry,never heard of it.” “We are a small town on a rather large river. Do you know what stars falling on Alabama should sound like?” Bobby snorted; I shook my head, waiting for the put-down of our version. “Consider the stars as toys—small as jacks—and you skip a handful across a frozen pond, across the whitest, clearest ice.” Okay, we had an odd, possibly nutcake, lady here. “Ithoughtyourvocalistmighthaveintended,inanottoosubtleway,totreat slightingly . . . to mock my state.” “Not me,” Bobby said. “I got nothing but respect for Alabama.” “ThenI’llacceptyourdenialintheproperspirit.Graciously,evengratefully.” Inthecomingweeks,Iwouldhearherdeliversuchformallocutions—things you figured she must mean in a humorous vein—in a measured, leisurely manner , gaze solemn, straight-on, the light far back in wide-set gray eyes. But you’d wait in vain for a hint of a smile. “Would you happen to know any other compositions from my neck of the woods, as it were?” “Would we ever,” Felix said. I’ll be right there with bells When that old conductor yells All aboard! All aboard! All aboard for Alabam’! She came in regularly after that, at odd hours, always solo. We wouldn’t see her for a night or two, then there she’d be at the end of the bar nearest the music, a slight lady in skirt and blouse drinking a pink lady (that Louis had to look up in 1SMIRNOFF_pages.qxd 8/27/08 10:43 AM Page 396 [3...

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