Disclaimer

 

Saxophone Blues is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, are coincidental. References to characters, places, products, or brand names are for entertainment purposes only and no identification with such incidents are intended or should be inferred.

 

Saxophone Blues contains mature subject matter. Recommended for adult readers aged 18 years or over. Reader discretion is advised as the content may include explicit language, sexuality, violence, and other themes that may not be suitable for all audiences. The views, opinions, and activities depicted in this work are not necessarily endorsed by the author.

 

​​​​Episode 01

​

Scene 1

 

It’s night-night time in Los Angeles. I can see the heat steaming off Hollywood Freeway. 

 

The city is plunged in a heat wave. A massive high pressure cell has taken up residence in the upper atmosphere and shows no sign of leaving. Hot air is trapped beneath the lingering mass with no place to go. Worse. Los Angeles is like a giant parking lot baking in the sun. The urban heat island effect causes concrete surfaces, like buildings, roads, and pavement to slowly release this heat after dark. The temperature soars higher and higher, but the heat of Los Angeles only comes out at night.

 

The night heat comes like a mirage. It bends the light, causing illusions of neon fantasies to appear in the smog. People see what they want when they look into the heat. One thing’s for sure, everyone who comes to Los Angeles sees their name in lights. They will do just about anything to make it big, or make it by. They all find out one way or another. Nothing is as it seems in this phoney town. It’s all hot air shimmering in the ether.

 

I step on the gas pedal of my car, a Rosso Corsa Ferrari. Rosso Corsa is a colour of “racing red” that’s Italian for very fucking fast. The Ferrari revs into high gear. The motor crescendos into a staccato of sharp, high-pitched engine notes. A fiery melody of precision engineering ignites the car into forward motion. My crotch starts to tingle as the car picks up speed.

 

The force of acceleration pushes me back into my contoured leather seat, like the hands of some auburn-haired seductress pressing against my chest. The apparition of a sexy woman digs her pointy oxblood fingernails deep into my flesh. She presses her hands harder as the car goes faster, holding me down. The enchantress leans in real slow with her wicked eyes in wanting. I can feel her hot breath on my neck, making the hairs stand on end. Her scarlet lips whisper in my ear.

 

“Jesus Christ!” This car will have me wrapped around a goddamn Christmas tree in July, I declare, “I shall not fear the terror that comes by night. Be gone, temptress!”

 

The figure disappears into the heat. I come to my senses and level off the gas. The engine rumbles – snorts; and then, whinnies into a steady cruise in Hollywood.

 

I roll up the window and crank on the air conditioner. A refreshing blast of cool air flows through my slicked-back hair, evaporating the beads of sweat that have accumulated on my forehead. I’m on my way to the Saxophone Club and I’m feeling pretty chill.

 

The legendary Saxophone Club is a rock and roll venue located on the strip, Sunset Strip, a 1.6 mile (2.7 kilometre) stretch of Sunset Boulevard that is known for its famous night life, shows, and celebrity encounters. The most iconic moments ever to happen in Hollywood – happened on the strip. 

 

I take the exit to Sunset Boulevard. Cars whiz by like the electrons of a giant circuit city. Retro synthesizers and an analogue drum machine are vibing through the sound system. The warm bass and sweet, melodic reverberations undulate into the lines on the road. I turn the rear view mirror. The L.A. skyline twinkles like a million stars. Everyone’s a star in La La Land.

 

Scene 2

 

L’Hôtel Marquee comes up on the right, the premier luxury hotel in the valley. The Marquee was built during the Golden Age of Hollywood. During this time, the popularity of American cinema became synonymous with Hollywood’s obsession with fame, fortune, and physical perfection. The Marquee is the epicentre of celebrity culture, materialism, and scandal. Everyone, who is anyone, comes to L’Hôtel Marquee to see and be seen on the hotel’s signature red carpet promenade.

 

The Marquee is a true slice of Americana pie, featuring the aesthetic of classic American cinema infused with contemporary modern art and furnishings curated by the most fashionable culturati en vogue. The glass art in the grand entrance was designed by Chihuly. Each of the hotel’s 400 rooms comes with Texas king size bedding and Egyptian cotton patterned sheets; white polished Calacatta marble countertops; and a 32-nozzle walk-in shower with a proprietary fragrance body mist option that turns rich assholes into rose-scented pussies, for $50 extra. Guests can order room service 24/7, or reserve a table at the hotel’s Michelin-starred fine dining experience, Restaurant Marquee.

 

I saw actor, Colin Boil, at Restaurant Marquee back in 1994. He ordered the cannoli. It was on a night like this – hot as fuck and weird as hell.

 

Colin was with his wife and producer. They were celebrating the blockbuster success of Colin’s new movie, Explosion Force. Colin wore a million dollar smile and a pair of raw denim jeans that hugged his tight ass snug. His wife, Sylvia Valentina, wore a $3,000 dress and a brand new pair of fake titties.

 

After dinner, the producer, Fenelepe Corday, made Colin a very generous offer to star in Explosion Force 2, the sequel. That’s when Colin stupidly informed his wife, for the first time, he quit acting to become a writer. He was working on a screenplay. Sylvia’s eyes narrowed with contempt. She shot Colin dead in the hotel room later that night.

 

The coroner found one of Colin’s eyeballs dangling from a ceiling fan. The cops found Sylvia and Fenelepe three weeks later in Winnipeg with a copy of Colin’s screenplay. Sylvia never did get to star in her very own movie. Too bad – she could sing, dance, handle a twelve gauge. Now she’s directing puppet shows at San Bernardino Women’s Penitentiary. Tickets cost 25 years to life – in prison.

 

Scene 3

 

The traffic lights in front of L’Hôtel Marquee turn red. I pull up in front of the hotel’s vintage sign protruding from its palm tree-lined exterior. The Marquee’s doorperson, Bexley Zarakaiza, is standing ten feet away, talking to the valet.

 

“What’s the word, Bex?” I call from the car.

 

Bexley moved to L.A. four years ago, right after college. She changed her name from Edna Dorkleigh. Bexley’s been working at L’Hôtel Marquee and auditioning on the side ever since. I know Bexley from the Saxophone Club. She comes to see me from time to time.

 

Bexley looks my way with her sparkling brown eyes, wearing the hotel’s couture uniform, a fitted collared blouse with a satin sheen that glimmers in the light. The hotel’s uniform comes with a knee-length pleated skirt of the same material and a pair of sensible sneakers. The uniform makes Bexley look professional, confident, and beautiful.

 

“I got the part!” Bexley beams. Her dark hair is tied in a pony tail that bounces up and down as she comes running up, “It’s a television pilot!”

 

“That’s awesome!” I reach out for a high five. Bexley gives me a good slap, “Way to go, Bex.”

 

“Thanks, Sam.”

 

“You coming to the Saxophone Club later? We should celebrate.”

 

“Yeah – I get off work in an hour.” Bexley sighs and wipes her forehead, “It’s so hot!”

 

“Stay cool out there, Bex! See you soon.”

 

Scene 4

 

The light turns green. The Ferrari peels away from the intersection, gnashing its teeth at a group of scene kids, wearing band T-shirts and torn-up jeans, on their way to a show. One of the kids, a yahoo with a pair of drum sticks, starts howling at the moon - Awoo! Pretty good for a fucking drummer. Not much has changed since we were kids getting wild, packing the clubs, and making rock and roll history on Sunset Strip.

 

Sunset Strip played an important role in the Los Angeles music scene and its influence on popular culture. The L.A. scene kids coming out to the shows are the real headliners. They decide which bands will define the sound of rock and roll for the next generation, just like we did back when Johnny Tomato was the best saxman on the strip.

 

I remember standing outside the Saxophone Club, under the marquee, still wearing my workday blues, waiting to see Johnny Tomato. The Saxophone Club was packed that night. Johnny Tomato took the stage at ten and saxed circles around the moon. The Saxophone Club went bananas for Jonny Tomato. Little did Johnny Tomato know that Sheila Brass was watching the show from one of the private booths. Sheila Brass was saxing it up big-time when Johnny Tomato was still shitting in diapers. Sheila Brass got word in New York City that all the kids were talking about some fruitcake in Los Angeles, named Tomato. Johnny Tomato shat his pants after the show when Sheila Brass came backstage with a record deal. He shook that turd right out of his pant leg without anyone noticing. Johnny Tomato became a rock star that night. It was one of the best shows I ever been to. I still go to the Saxophone Club. They got a booth just for me.

 

Scene 5

 

I park my car behind the Saxophone Club. The Saxophone Club is a two-story brick building that was inspired by the Chicago style of architectural design. It looks like a building in Winnipeg’s Exchange District with a SoCal twist of ocean blue painted bricks and a buzzing saxophone sign that flashes neon technicolour light so bright, it burns my eyeballs.

 

The head of security lets me in right away. They call him “The Shield.” He’s the biggest man I’ve ever seen. The Shield stands next to Charlie, the Saxophone Club Manager. They escort me down a long narrow hallway. The passage is crowded and the floor sticky. A staff server carrying a tray of drinks pushes past a couple of freaks making-out, about some heavy metal shit. I can hear the band through the wall. The saxophone is wailing tonight, I can tell.

 

We get to the end of the hallway. Charlie unlocks the dressing room door and lets me in. There’s a full-length mirror, make-up station, and table inside.

 

“I’ll be around, Sam, if there’s anything you need.”

 

“Thanks, Charlie.”

 

Charlie closes the door behind him. I’m alone in the room. I let out a shaky breath. I still get stage terror before a show, even after all these years. I start pacing the room, poking at a vegetable platter next to a pitcher of cucumber ice-water. God, we used to party backstage at the Saxophone Club. This whole place used to be filled with saxophone smoke. Back then, everyone puffed on the saxophone. It’s all about the fruits and vegetables now – peaches this and eggplants that. I don’t get it. It’s all smoke. It’s all… dust.

 

I take a good, long look in the mirror. My long, dark hair is mostly grey now and tied off at the back, like the silver tail of an old dog. My body sags in all the wrong places – and goddammit, I can hardly fit my fat ass into these leather pants no more. Oh, God, I sigh, it’s getting harder and harder to get up on stage every night. I don’t play like I used to – what if they don’t like me no more? What if – there’s a knock at the door.

 

“It’s time, Sam,” Charlie calls.

 

I take a good, long look in the mirror. My reflection looks more and more like my father the older I get. I have his eyes. I see them looking back at me, “You got this, Kid,” they say.

 

Thanks, Daddio. I’m at the Saxophone Club and I’m ready to play my music.

 

Scene 6

 

The stage lights shift. The Saxophone Club is packed tonight. I can see Bexley bumping hips with her boyfriend, Chase Sommerset, on the Saxophone Club’s scuffed-up hardwood dance floor. Chase is a California beach bum and professional surfer with sandy blonde hair that falls in his eyes and a six-pack to die for. He sweeps Bexley right off her feet. Bexley looks up at Chase with hearts in her eyes. She keeps looking into Chase’s dreamy blue eyes and glancing at his soft lips. He’s got a cute smile, too. Bexley gives Chase a twirl, but her eyes do all the talking. Bexley finally found what’s she’s been looking for; and that’s my cue to get on stage.

 

I slip on my black fedora and step into the spotlight. The band jumps in with a juicy jam. There’s Patty Groove spanking on her bass; still looks great in cougar print. Paul Martin-Taylor does a little lick on his Flying V guitar. The drummer comes in with a frivolous fill – goddammit, Larry. Not another drum solo. The crowd loves it, and I love it, too. I flash Larry a silly wink. Larry’s loving it all.  

 

I step up to the microphone. The band quietens.

 

“This one here’s a new song I wrote, called, ‘Saxophone Blues.’ It’s a comedy of action and romance, with some saucy sass. It goes something like this…”

 

I bring my saxophone real close. Lola is the name of my saxophone. We’ve played together a lifetime. I press my lips to Lola’s mouthpiece. My fingers caress Lola’s neck. Lola’s long, sleek body is made of brass. It feels cool to the touch. I trace my fingers around Lola’s circular keys, ever so slowly. My fingers know every gentle curve of my saxophone lover. They know how to make Lola moan my name in the night heat.

 

I close my eyes and make sensual whispers. The movement of my tongue articulates each note with tender love. Lola makes a pouty face and lets out a flirtatious giggle, the kind I like in my imaginations, when I tease out a saxophone riff with the band behind me. The band is turned-up tonight. We’re really getting it on at the Saxophone Club.   

 

My fingers move down Lola’s body. It’s hard as steel. I’m fingering the keys to set the mood right, coaxing Lola’s voice to cream-out smooth. I can feel the music sizzling on my tongue.

 

My hips sway to the music, gyrating in slow circles behind my saxophone. Lola begs me to go faster. I’m riding my saxophone so fucking hard right now. Sweat is pouring off my face. It’s the most epic, back-arching, toe-curling saxophone solo ever. My heart’s pounding from the intensity of music-making.

 

I jazz so deep inside my saxophone. The musical climax comes when I hit that high “G” note. Lola cries out in long blasts of steaming passion. Waves of musical ecstasy culminates from Lola’s gaping wide bell-hole.

 

Lola and I are one heartbeat of rhythm and soul. Lola falls into my arms. I’m holding my saxophone so close. The band quietens. There’s only silence.

 

“Hey!” The Shield yells at some dickface in the crowd, “No smoking!”

 

Scene 7

 

After the show, I get back to my dressing room and splash cold water on my face; throw-on a light, short-sleeve button-up; and put on my hat. There’s a group of fans waiting for me when I open the door. Wolf-drummer’s there, too.

 

“That was an awesome show!” one of the fans says, “Can I get a selfie?”

 

“Sure, you can. What’s your name?”

 

“My name’s Rene, what’s yours?” Rene stammers, “I mean – your name is Sam – I mean – I know your name is Sam. I mean –”

 

Rene’s seeing stars, “Give me your phone, Rene,” I’ve done this a million times, “Let’s get a good one together, you and I.”

 

I pose for the camera and take selfies with the others, Devan, and wolf-drummer, Aimes.

 

“Your music helped me through some really tough times,” Devan gets all serious about some pretty fucking heavy metal shit.

 

“Way to go for sticking it out, Devin.” I say, “If all you can do is find the strength to take a shit – you’re a goddamn fucking rock star in my book. I’m glad my music was there to be a friend to you. You’re the reason I get to play my saxophone. Thanks for coming out and supporting the music.”

 

“Is it true you knew Johnny Tomato?” Aimes asks with a twinkle in his eye.

 

“Yeah. We played together all the time.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“Unfortunately, the saxophone lifestyle took Johnny Tomato too young.”

 

“He’s dead?”

 

“God, no! He collects postage stamps now; owns a hobby shop in Queens. We’re best friends – Johnny Tomato and I. Johnny Tomato only plays for fun so he can spend more time with his family. The saxophone lifestyle is hard work!”

 

“Saxophone players probably have sax all the time,” Aimes blurts out.

 

“Oh, yeah. I have so much sax! I’m not even kidding. I’ve saxed all over the place. I’ve saxed in New York City, Chicago, even Winnipeg in December. I’ve saxed with the best of them, too – Johnny Tomato, Sheila Brass. I even saxed with your mom – at band camp!”

 

Aimes’ eyes go wide, “Cool!”

 

I tip my hat to Rene, Devan, and Aimes. They’re going to be alright. There’s hope out there for Bexley and all the kids out there.

 

Scene 8

 

Bexley and Chase are already at the Saxophone Club lounge booth waiting for me. The couple gets up to greet me.

 

“Great, show, Sam!” Thanks for the tickets,” Bexley is glowing next to Chase, who gives me a warm smile.

 

I order us a round from the Saxophone Club server.

 

“Let’s celebrate your big acting break! Tell me all about this pilot, Bex.”

 

“If the pilot gets picked up – I’ll be on TV!” Bexley squeals.

 

A television pilot is the first episode of a TV series, used to sell the show to a production company.

 

“What’s the job?” I ask.

 

“Well…” Bexley builds up the hype, “It’s a show about a detective and her cat. They solve mysteries together! I’m the detective, Rachel Miau.”

 

We all burst out laughing.

 

“The show is called Mystery Cat, starring…” Bexley lets out a huge grin, “Bexley Zarakaiza as Detective Rachel Miau, and @hernameismswhiskers, the cat, as Kitty Holmes.”

 

“Kitty Holmes is the cat? Ha! I love it.”

 

“No @hernameismswhiskers, the cat, is Kitty Holmes,” Bexley corrects me.

 

“Who’s Ms. Whiskers?”

 

“The cat,” Bexley clarifies.

 

“The cat is Ms. Whiskers? I’m confused.”

 

“No. @hernameismswhiskers.”

 

“That’s what I said.”

 

“Oh my god, Sam.” Bexley dies a little inside, “@hernameismswhiskers, the cat, is from Canada. She’s famous on the internet - became a meme at six months,” Bexley sends me a link.

 

I look at my phone, “Aww.”

 

“I know, right!?! Bexley seems kind of nervous, “The cat’s a rock star, like you, Sam.”

 

“Ah, fuck it. Everybody shits their pants. Nobody ever talks about it. What’s she like, anyways, this cat?”

 

“@hernameismswhiskers. She’s a total fucking bitch.”

 

“Sounds like my second wife.”

 

The server returns with our order of drinks, along with the Saxophone Club owner. The owner compliments my performance. I introduce her to my friends, Bexley and Chase.

 

“We’re celebrating tonight,” I explain, “Bexley’s starring in a pilot.”

 

I raise a glass, “Here’s to you, Bexley. You’re gonna be a star!”

 

We all give Bexley a good cheer.

 

“Dude,” Chase says to me, “I just wanna say… you’re a real bro, man!”

 

There’s more to Chase than meets the eye. I’ve never seen Bexley so happy. I give Chase a nice nod of my hat, “Thanks, Chase.”

 

The Saxophone Club owner excuses herself to attend other guests. She shoots Bexley a deadly serious look, “I’ve been in this town a long time,” she warns, “Take my advice, Ms. Zarakaiza – don’t order the cannoli.”

 

I give the Saxophone Club owner a little wink, “Chill you later, Fenelepe Corday.”

 

That’s Hollywood, baby. Be somebody.