Sambo and Pokey Part II

Sambo settled into the scalar patterns of his practice routine, when he heard pounding at his door.

“What do you want,"Sambo called rudely.

He did not have a good relationship with anybody in the building. This was in large part due to the fact that he often hogged the elevator, a huge makeshift space that stopped right outside his apartment.

“Nigga, open this door before I burn this whole building down," growled a voice in the hallway.

Sambo rolled his eyes as he sauntered from his piano and unlocked the huge lime green door to his apartment. Gregory Chasten, the trio bass player stood with his arms crossed. He was a hulking figure, 6 foot 5, 320 pounds of pure muscle. He had played two years in the NFL before a head injury had sidelined him but he continued to aggressively work out. He was a man of surpassing intelligence who, after only a year of playing the bass, had mastered it.

“You gonna invite me in?" the big man asked.  Sambo shrugged his shoulders, and let his friend pass. Gregory went to the piano, and took a seat on the bench. His position was an unconscious play at power.

“Pokey sent you over here, huh,?" Sambo inquired dully, looking about his own apartment uncomfortably. He desperately wanted to tell the big man to move the fuck off his piano but he knew this would be a very foolish thing to do. Gregory lived in an apartment in one of the old style brownstones on 138th and Cortlandt avenue, about a 5 minute walk from Sambo's place.The two had met when Sambo, after playing a gig at “The Galley," a local bar, had been approached by the ex-athlete and asked to join a jam session that he hosted every Friday at his place. The idea had sounded low key and stress free and Sambo has acquiesced. It was there he had met Pokey and the musical chemistry the three had was magical.

Gregory fingered some of the keys in a blues progression. He was the sort of person who was good at everything and so despite his lack of training, his keyboard skills were more than passable. He began to croon in a husky voice:

“ A white man done wronged me!
Yes he done did
He showed me the bacon
But won't let me dig in
Oh I'm starving, for a chance to be a money makin' man, mm!
A white man done wronged me
Yes, he done did"

He played several variations on this lyric, each verse sung with more absurd emotion than the last.  Finally he turned back to Sambo whose arms were folded in obvious agitation.

“You like my song?" Gregory asked, grinning widely.

Sambo was pissed off. Gregory was always giving him shit about his very fair skin. He was further angered by the implication that he was “wronging" anyone.

“Gregory, I don't appreciate this. If you don't have any thing of merit to say I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

“Of course my dear dear fellow, I dare say, I don't mean to be a burden," Gregory snipped with heavy mockery. Then he became serious.

“You're a tease you know that? Show the goods but you can't touch. You selfish ass."

“I'm selfish?! What about you! It's in YOUR self interest to do this TV shit. " Sambo spat back.

“OK, that's fair, but at what COST would it be to you to do this? You lose exactly nothing man but an extra hour of Becky hunting for this gig, yet you act like you got some big principle your fighting for," Gregory said, clearly at the end of his patience.

Sambo looked at the floor in frustration. He wanted to tell his friend that he didn't owe anybody anything. That his reasoning for not wanting to play didn't have to center around some grand logical explanation. That his own happiness was a good enough justification for anything. Finally, Sambo addressed Gregory.

“I'm not doing it," he said simply.

A look of a intense violence crossed the big man's face. Then, turning back to the piano, he began to play and sing:

“A white man done wronged me!
Yes he done did... "