"And I am too shy and dignified a girl to tell him," Mamie continues
sadly. "So you see I have the same problem as your friend and cannot
help you."
"See," I whisper to Hotlips, "it is perfectly normal."
"Yes," he hisses back. "But I am still miserable, and the only company I
desire is that of Stella Starlight."
"Maybe it really is your trumpet," I suggest, not very hopeful, though.
Hotlips shakes his head. "Look," he says and takes the trumpet from his
case and puts it to his lips, "and listen to this."
Inwardly, I quiver like all get out, because I figure that is just what
the management will tell us to do, once Hotlips lets go. Hotlips puffs
out his cheeks and a soft note slides from the end of the trumpet--low,
clear, and beautiful, without a waver in a spaceload. Only a few people
close by can hear the note and they do not pay us any attention, except
to think that maybe we are a little nuttier than is normal for
musicians.
From his first note, Hotlips shifts to a higher note which is just as
pretty. Then he goes on to another one and then to another, improvising
a melody I do not hear before and getting higher all the time. After a
while I can hardly hear it, it is so high, but I can feel the glass in
my hand vibrating like it wants to get out on the floor and dance. I
hold on to it with both hands, so my beer will not slosh over the side.
Then there is no sound at all from the trumpet, but Hotlips' cheeks are
puffed out and he is still blowing for all he is worth--which is plenty,
if he can play like this when Stella Starlight is around.
I tap Hotlips on the shoulder. "Hotlips, that is all very well for any
bats in the room which maybe can hear what you play, but--" He does not
pay me any attention.
Suddenly there is a large crinkle-crash of glass from the bar and a
hoarse cry from the bartender as he sees his king-size mirror come down
in little pieces. At the same time, glasses pop into fragments all over
the room and spill beer over the people holding them. Even my own glass
becomes nothing but ground glass and the beer sloshes over the table. At
the moment, however, I do not worry about that.
There are other things to worry about which are more important--like
Hotlips' and my health, for instance, which is not likely to be so good
in the near future.
Like I say, Hotlips does not play loud and it is noisy in the place, so
there are not too many who hear him. But they look around, all mad and
covered with beer, and see him there with the trumpet in his hand and a
funny look on his big face, and they put two and two together. I can see
they figure the answer is four. And what makes things worse, they are
between us and the front door, so we cannot sneak past like maybe we are
just tourists.
"Hotlips," I say to him, my voice not calm like is usual, "I think it is
a grand and glorious idea that we desert here and take ourselves
elsewhere."
Hotlips agrees. "But where?" he wants to know.