when the saints go marchin' in
I just heard this very sporadic, warbly trumpet music downtown and it brought back a memory or two for me.
A couple months back, one of Rachel's law school friends (Dorian) invited us to a little party he was having to celebrate the conclusion of their first tough semester.
Since we knew Dorian didn't drink, we brought our own booze to the party. I think we were already a little drunk when we showed up to his place on Coquina Key.
The party was pretty much back in the back yard. (See what I mean, Jojo?) There were about 6 or 7 law students sitting around a modest bon fire talking about their recent exams. The only music was from this trumpet player who was standing off by himself in the darkness, playing the same ten or twelve notes from "when the saints go machin' in" over and over and over. The atmosphere the music created was kind of grim, post-apocalyptic and slightly insane. As it turns out, Dorian had hired this street musician from the vicinity of Baywalk a few days before. I guess he figured live music would give the party a special touch.
Rachel and I sat down with the other law students and a couple of stiff drinks. While I tried to make conversation with the law student on my right, I noticed that someone got up and broke a few planks from the back yard fence and threw them on the fire. I was told that anyone was invited to feed the fire in the same fashion since they would be tearing down the fence in a matter weeks anyway. So I got up and kicked off a few planks myself and threw them in the fire. I did this a few times, and it was pretty fun. Meanwhile, the trumpet player kept playing the same ten or twelve notes from "when the saints go marchin' in."
Pretty soon I was drunk, and I got my usual urge to climb the nearest tree. As it turned out, I had looked at this nearest tree a couple of weeks before, when Dorian said he wanted it trimmed. I'm not sure what kind of tree it was, because most of its limbs had been hacked off back to the trunk. The one limb that remained arched right next to a high-voltage line. It was one this one remaining limb that Dorian wanted hacked off, but after looking at it, I decided it would be sheer suicide to try.
But still, when I got drunk at the law school party, with the warbling trumpet player, I decided I would try to climb it. I got up the trunk and pretty far up the high-voltage limb before I ran out of handholds and energy. So I just kind of sllid back down to the crotch of the tree and held on there, looking down at the law students and saying silly nonsense.
Dorian was worried that I would injure or kill myself and he told Rachel to tell me to get down. And when I finally jumped down, I did give myself a small puncture wound in the palm of my hand.
A week or so later, Rachel and I had these plans for a big exciting night of dancing and clubbin' in South Tampa. We had talked about it all week and bought special new outfits and everything. The only problem was, I had stayed up late the night before and felt kind of burnt out. So, I laid down for a little nap to kind of recharge my batteries. Since I was taking an evening nap--which can easily turn into a full nights sleep--I made sure to set my alarm and put my cell phone by my head just in case I overslept. (I can't over-emphasize how much expectation and anticipation we'd built up about this night of going out).
After tossing and turning in bed for a long time, I finally fell into a deep, coma-like sleep.
I awoke with shock and confusion to the sound of someone banging on my front door. At first I was totally confused and disoriented. I didn't know if it was morning or night. I didn't know if it was a work day or the weekend. All I knew was that it was totally pitch black and someone was banging loudly at my door.
I looked at my alarm clock. It was after 11pm. I had overslept by more than an hour. I looked at my phone. I saw no sign that anyone (like Rachel) had called. And then there was the banging on the front door. I went into the living room in my boxers to see who the hell it was.
It was Dorian. Since Rachel lived way over in Ybor City, and I couldn't be roused by phone, she had called him and pleaded with him to drive across town and come wake me up.
I opened the door, still trying to clear the cobwebs out of my head and get a grip on the situaiton.
"Fuck! I overslept! I'll be ready in ten minutes!"
"Don't worry about it. I'll meet you at Hyde Park," Dorian said. I thanked him profusely for driving across town and saving our big night of going out. Then I got ready at lightning speed and headed across the bridge to Tampa.
About an hour later, Rachel and I were blowin' up at the Hyde Park Cafe. The music was great. The vibe was great and we were having the big night of clubbin' just like we anticipated. But the strange thing was, there was no Dorian to be found.
Then Rachel's cell phone rang, and she plugged her finger in one ear to hear the person on the other end.
It was Dorian. Apparently, he had shown up when the club was at full capacity, and they couldn't let him in. At least that's what the door man said.
But then the door man let these chicks in. Dorian went up to the door man and wanted to know what was going on. The door man said they still had room for chicks.
A couple minutes later Dorian saw the door man let some couples in. Dorian got very upset and wanted to know what the hell was going on. The door man said not to worry about it. But Dorian did worry about it. Dorian got very upset and said he was going to sue the Hyde Park Cafe for discrimination. (Dorian is a very dark Indian.).
Rachel tried to be sympathetic while Dorian ranted and raved about the discrimination at the Hyde Park Cafe. But the whole thing was kind of a bring-down and finally she told Dorian she had to go.
Then me and Rachel went dancing in the fog and colored lights until we forgot about everything.
10:30:29 PM 
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I think I've been really excited about the progress in St. Petersburg lately, because I'm resigned to the fact that I'm stuck here for a while. (Here are some things that are keeping me here: a kid; probation; and the fact that I probably couldn't find a job in another city making 70k a year as an assistant tree trimming salesman. But you never know, I could just up and bolt one day anyway.)