Short Story: Giant Steps

Short Story: Giant Steps

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Harmonious musical jazz notes ricocheted off of the towering skyscrapers surrounding Baker Street. Heming Plaza was where the local bands and musicians that were selected to showcase in the Jacksonville, Florida Jazz Festival jammed with the legends of Jazz: Sonny Rollins, Spyro Gyra, Kenny G, Chick Corea, and the great Patti Austin. Thousands of enthused fans, some slightly intoxicated, grooved to the music, blaring through supercharged amps, amidst the tantalizing smoky aroma of grilled food and fried sweetbreads.

Before it was cordoned off by police, one did not want to get caught alone at night on Baker Street. Twenty-seven year old Howard Peter Jennings, known as Fast Pete, lived there. And it was atop his home that the Swingin’ stage was built. When announced that his hubble, several layers of plywood and cardboard boxes, would be demolished, it did not unnerve him – relocating was as natural to the homelessness as breathing air. What did excite him, however, was a chance to display his musical genius for people who considered him no more than human refuse.

“I can do this, Ma,” he anxiously petitioned his mother, Helen Jennings, for the entrance fee. “It is my only chance.”

Too many times she had heard false promises of rehabilitation and sobriety. This time, though, there was something different, an air of truth, perhaps. Reluctantly, she handed him a crisp twenty dollar bill. “Good Luck, Pete.” Frightened, she quickly re-latched the screen door, which made him to tear– once before, he had attacked her for money when he needed his fix.

Days later he was on stage with his weathered, rusty Saxophone auditioning for a line-up in the jazz festival behind Sonny Rollins’ performance; he passionately soloed John Coltrane’s,Giant Steps,working up a pouring sweat in the blazing summer heat in front of the voting committee. The following afternoon, he anxiously waited for the selections to be read for hours with other teary-eyed and praying contestants inside the Ritz Theatre, hoping for an opportunity to shine with the stars.

The festival had arrived. Fast Pete took his position: The corner of Adams and Baker, where he had played every day for passing pedestrians who were generous enough to donate. This day, unfortunately, he and his saxophone were hauled away by police outside of the festival zone to an abandoned port where many other homeless persons had also retreated.

“That’s Bullshit, Pete,” a homeless friend comforted. “That is our home.”

“Well, folks, might as well make the best of it…got a busted case of wine from one of the vendors… said I could keep it – afraid to sell it,” another offered.

As the festival raved, Fast Pete, saxophonist; Flashin’ Jack, trombonist; and Stormin’ Norman, trumpeter, stepped onto a small barge, pushing out into the center of a canal. The homeless trio played phenomenal jazz for the flock of homeless, drinking wine and eating discarded festival food. Thousands of festival goers that heard them playing ventured over along the canal and also watched them perform.