Sambo and Pokey

The loft was huge. It had a full sized white Steinway piano in perfect working condition, and a fifteen piece drum set in the middle of the living room. These pieces were accompanied by two 1960s carnation colored sofas, and a puke green car seat that had clearly been extracted from an ancient station wagon. The wooden floors has been varnished and stained, and in the right light, one could see one's own reflection. The walls were a blood orange that seemed to have been picked for its singular ugliness.

Sambo sat at the piano and played a few chords. He donned a royal purple robe that obscured his slight figure, and wore his trademark crocs on his feet. He was 31 years old, but when he went out, he was always carded. It was his boyish face and ridiculous wardrobe that always confused people. He still sported a backwards caps, colorful sneakers, and tee-shirts. When it was cold out, he wore sweatshirts, never jackets. He was fluent in teenage trends and speech, addicted to fun, and dependent on the $8000 allowance his parents sent him monthly. The $1200 a month he spent on his apartment in the Bronx allowed him to have a good time, and he spent a considerable amount of his waking hours either high or drunk.

Sambo also spent a tremendous amount of time at his piano. He practiced five hours a day, starting with classical fingering exercises, moving on to sonatas and scale work, and concluding with jazz and be-bop improvisation. His training at New England Conservatory was sure to stay with him, for art was the only place where he exhibited tenacity, perseverance, and self discipline. Sambo was just finishing up with his advanced Hannon's piano exercises when his phone rang. Typically, he turned off all distractions while practicing but he had been waiting for a call from a girl he had hooked up with the night before. She said she'd call him and take him out to a brunch spot her father owned in the city.

“Baby doll?" He answered smoothly. Despite his petite stature he had a deep bass voice.

“ Man, don't you ever look at your phone before you pick it up? It's Pokey!" Pokey was the drummer for the jazz trio Sambo played for.

“ What do you want Pokey?"

“ Well good morning to you too!"

“ I'm PRACTICING."

“ Chill man. Look, remember that YouTube video we put out?"

Pokey had been on a social media binge over the past several months, launching a Facebook page, website, twitter feed, blog, and now a YouTube presence. They had recently played and recorded a gig at a local dive bar that had gotten over 3000 hits in a week mostly as a result of a monster solo Sambo had laid down.

“We got a call from Letterman," shouted Pokey, “They're inviting us to do a guest spot!"

Sambo took a deep breath.

“Pokey, if this is about money you KNOW I could get you some cash, if you need some."

“ Nigga, don't rich boy me on this. I'm talkin' exposure and a chance to make a statement in the world"

“Who watches Letterman anyway?"

“ Its the beginning of something," Pokey went on, “You wanna PRACTICE the rest of your life or do you wanna actually get out there and PLAY?! "

Sambo looked at his piano and his gauche apartment. He wondered what life would be like if he constantly had high profile gigs. He probably wouldn't have as much time for his extravagant extracurriculars, and would constantly be stressed. He might actually visibly age, and the pace of life might become unbearably fast. Most of all, where would he find time to practice?

“Tell them no Pokey."

“ Excuse me? Are you crazy man, I already said YES."

“Well, then do it without me then, I really gotta practice," Sambo said irritably.

“But we need you man! They already asking if you gonna perform a solo like the one on YouTube! Come on think of Greg and me, man!  We NEED this!"

Greg was the bass player of the trio.

“I'm gonna go," Sambo said simply, and hung up.

He could not stand sentimentalism and hated it when people relied on him. He lived for his own immediate pleasure, and that suited him fine. As he resumed practicing, he sincerely hoped the girl would call him for brunch. He could go for several mimosas right about now.