Hatty

Harlem, New York 1927.

Its evening time, the sun faintly smiles from the clouds, cool breeze as the smell of rain-soaked soil fills your lungs. Langston Hughes the big cheese himself is having a book signing across the street for his new collection of poetry. I could be in that speakeasy introducing myself, shaking his hand after he finishes placing his signature in a copy of his new book I purchased, enjoying the hibiscus and lemon cake they placed out for those who attended. Instead, I’m up here hanging for my life in one hand and an old trumpet in other hand, praying to the Almighty that I will not die.

FEW HOURS EARLIER….

Recently my grandfather passed away, my mother and father never spoke much about Grandpa, said he was always screwy, talking about magic and the Gods being real, my mother thought it was baloney, since we were Christian. She continued saying how It scared the family to the point they hired a maid to look after him in his big house, her side of the family was one of the first black families to migrate our fortune to Harlem creating a new life for themselves playing and selling custom made instruments to Blacks and Whites. When he died, he left the house in my mother’s name. Now that I look back at it, probably because she was the only one who ever bothered to check on him from time to time while everyone else kept their distance.

Being in my new room had a lovely large window that viewed the rest of the neighborhood, not the most desirable maroon colored wall paper but a fairly wide space for a fifteen-year-old to expand his mind in the melting pot of art, poetry, and music that is Harlem. Langston Hughes was having a book signing this evening for his new collection of poetry. I convinced mother and father to let me go alone into town and see him. I rushed to the bathroom to freshen up my hair and clean my teeth with this funny smelling brush mother got me, she said it’s made from Salvadora persica. I’ll inform myself what that is later. I picked out my best bow tie, after all a young man such as me should look 100% bonafide when coming to such an occasion. Meeting and gathering in a room of artists like me. Not toleration but celebration of new creativity blossoming in this world, plus everyone looked like me. Everything was in accordance to the evening.

My family loved music but I was a writer. When I was two-years-old I immediately felt the need to document my own thoughts on a piece of paper, a leap of exceptionalism to the naked eye of my mother. She and father did everything in their power to make sure my talent was fine-tuned like any other instrument this family had manufactured. Before I left out the door to the freight my father handed me a suitcase carrying an old rusty trumpet that had been in our family since before the Civil War. It was Grandpa’s most prized possession, he loved it so much my old man said when he first met mom’s dad, he caught him talking to the trumpet in his office like it was a person, my mother hated this trumpet because it pre-occupied so much of her father’s time, but he was no longer with us and she was intent on getting rid of it, mother almost seemed frightened of it. So, I was to drop off the trumpet at Wesley’s Antiques on Central.

I would have contemplated more on the subject as I rode on the freight to the Speakeasy but I was nose deep in my new book. Hughes words began to immerse me into his thoughts. There was a rumor cooking around that W.E.B. DuBois would make a guest appearance at the signing. Two great minds in one room. Looking away from my book for a moment to grab my handkerchief from inside my suit pocket I noticed a stranger turning his gaze upon me.

This stranger looked like some kind of businessman with a lot of money. That gold tip cane and black suit of his painted him that way, chain hanging from his suit vest no doubt connected to an expensive pocket watch. Probably heading to the same place I was but he kept just staring down at me. No one else noticed him but me. The freight had stopped and I decided to walk the rest of the way. Stranger's staring and stoicism gave me the heebie-jeebies. Walking the rest of the way to Wesley's Antiques wasn't too bad, it's right across from the speakeasy. As I began walking I heard footsteps behind. Father told me to always keep eyes in the back of your head walking in New York. “Always mind your surroundings, " he would say in that low pitch voice to let me know the seriousness for the love of his son. I can hear the footsteps moving faster, I pick up pace to see if they would mimic. They did. Quickly glimpsing back it was the Stranger with with his Gold tip cane, I could see the red brick of Wesley's around the corner peaking from the street tree line.

As a New Yorker not much scares me, especially some over dressed snob trying run me up, and yet, my instincts were telling to keep walking, a soothing calm voice telling me to keep going. Hearing this voice gave me comfort but also confusion. Comfort because of how lovely it sounded, confused because it was not my voice in my mind. My inner monologue had company. A voice of a woman. "Who is this?" I asked. Reaching anxiously I grab the door of the shop and look back and just right in that moment the footsteps had stopped, the stranger had disappeared and the voice in my head was gone. I try for the door but it doesn't budge, the door was locked, but the store doesn't close until 7.

Wesley was an old friend of Grandpa, I never asked his age, somewhere in his 60’s. Grandpa loaned him money so he could move his antique shop from Atlanta to Harlem back in 1912. He had been interested in the trumpet for some years, understandably he worked in aged goods, but why this old trumpet? For emergency, Wesley gave me my own key to the shop, walking through the store, the smell of dust and rust filled the air. It felt good. Bringing back memories of me as a child here. Wesley is usually behind the counter to greet me with his smile and pantaloon voice greeting me with warmth. Maybe he closed early so he could join me at the speakeasy like he said he might. I'd be glad if he decides to go. His apartment was upstairs above the store, pretty fancy home for someone who sold antiques. I go up the winding stairs to see his apartment door is slightly open with light coming from the living room. "Wesley you there?" I projected halfway down the steps. Slowly approaching the door as calmly as I can though profusely sweating I say his name one more time, "Wesley.” Opening the door to analyze the the living room and there on that luxurious forest green rug lied a body.

My heart sinked to my stomach as I drop the suitcase and my book to run towards Wesley on the ground and turn his body over. "Oh Lord, " I say out of gratitude, he was still alive, just knocked out cold, his head was bleeding. Before I could try to get him up the sound of the hammer being pulled back on a revolver is heard behind me. I didn't mind my surroundings well enough. " Turn around," he says in a strong voice and I remember the sensation, the fiber of my being began to scream internally when I saw it was a cop.

He was tall, he had a unsettled look on his eye as if he was running out of time. Like I said I don't scare easily, but this was something else. Why was he here? The cop looks at the suitcase, suddenly he is hexed by a sigh of relief. He tells me, " Get up, you see that suitcase, grab it, " he says. I listen and do as he wants with the unquestionable intent of not wanting to be shot. Slowly I grab the suitcase, he then tells me to sit down in the love seat next to the window. "Open it, nice and easy," he says while he puts his gun down calmly but still keeping his eye on me.

This was it. This is how I die. Over a stupid old rusty trumpet not worth a cent. This cop probably thinks its full of cash or valuables, something stolen, or something he can steal for himself. Both my parents say " Never trust the law because not all are lawful." Those words roared in my head as I opened the suitcase. This would be my final moments alive or as a free man. When I looked inside, my eyes widen, a rusty old trumpet was no longer present in this suitcase.

Gold, shiny, and new with strange glyphs chiseled on the side. The trumpet had resurrected and my parents words in my head were replaced again with the same soothing voice of the woman I heard early urgently saying, " Play Me, Play Me, Play Me." again and again ringing through my head. " Stop it! " I say out loud. The cop looks at me angry and confused. The voice begins to overwhelm my mind so much it begins to physically hurt me. Unable to think I see no other choice but to grab the trumpet, uncaring for whatever note I press, my lungs fill so quickly. I raise the trumpet to my mouth, the cop raises his gun. I play the note and the impossible happens.

Bellowing loudly like thunder while a yellow-orange light shot out, the trumpet threw the police officer off his feet, through the apartment door, over the stairs into the antique shop like a storm had blown him away. I was swiftly swooped up from my seat and crashed out of the window of the apartment. Immediately, I grabbed for the first thing I could reach, clinching on as hard as I can to the sign of Wesley's Antique shop, I feel my grip begins to loosen, hanging there with the trumpet still in my other hand, hoping this isn't the end. I say out loud to myself " I'm sorry, Mom and Dad.” Inevitably, my fingers givein to the fatigue and I let gravity take over as the my breath stops, but then like a miracle….something caught me.

The trumpet had spread red wings with golden tips gliding me through the sweet deiseled-fueled air of Harlem landing me to safety. Once I was safe on the ground it knocked itself out my hand and levitated in the air while the shine of it’s bronze body began to glow intensity. I hear what is heard like the muffled sounds of a voice coming from the body of the trumpet. A profound amount of red smoke and golden ash dance like sparklers from the trumpet and appeared a teenage girl dressed Egyptian white silk walks out from the sanguine mist, she appears powerful and yet silly, "By the Gods, Hello, nice to finally meet you, your all dusty" she says excitingly. She helps me up while I stare baffled at what I just seen unable to construct any kind a sentence until she says to me like a hero in a western " Hi, I'm Hathor, Goddess of Music, you can call me Hatty."

…to be continued.