Jazz at Midnight

Three loud bumps dragged through the nighttime air. Jerome’s fist clenched around his pen, his head creaked towards the door, and with only a dim desk light guiding his vision, his eyes strained to make out the source. His tongue tasted metal and his ears were filled with the sound of his own heartbeat, suddenly diluting the warm honey of Miles Davis’s Boplicity with acrid water. He sat there as seconds trickled into eternities, let the music’s peace overtake him again, and for the first time since finding it in his uncle Jermaine’s old home, turned on the ocean projector light he wasn’t fond of. With the room awash in flowing blue light, Jerome couldn’t help but feel even more anxious, but at least now he could see.

He returned to his seat to continue staring at the song he was about to give up on, hearing another loud noise, he flinched, knocking a cup of water on his desk all over his open journal. He didn’t need it anyway. Groaning, he looked at his glowing phone to see a midnight happy birthday text. He ignored it. Jerome hated this day, more than anything in the world he wished it never happened.

The sultry keys of Ellington and Coltrane’s In a Sentimental Mood wafted through the air of his garage-turned-room and Jerome half-snorted, “Huh— your favorite song, right on the anniversary, you tryna tell me something, old man?”

In a fit of frustration, Jerome chucked his pen across the room and sighed, “You should still be here.”

He began to recount the memories of his birthday 5 years ago, the night he learned Jermaine had drowned. How he waited for his uncle to take him to their favorite jazz lounge all day. How he laughed at the cruel joke his brother must have been playing on him until he could find no more air for laughter, or for anything. Jerome recalled the hyperventilation, how the tears filled his nose and his mouth, and how he hoped they’d fill his lungs too to bring him to his drowned uncle. How when they found his body, they told the family that he must’ve been submerged for weeks. But they had seen him the night before. Everyone sitting around at Christmas dinner. It still made no sense.

He thought back to the funeral, where he played the first song Jermaine had ever taught him on the piano, and learned that his uncle had slowly been saving money for him to receive when he turned 20. At the time of his death, it totaled nearly $20,000.

Which brought Jerome back to his blues-soaked garage room, with the clock on midnight, it was officially his twentieth birthday. He had been both dreading and anticipating this day for years. Obviously, he was excited to get $20,000, but still, a part of him felt as though when he received this money there would be nothing more from his uncle.

With frustrated tears threatening to fall, Jerome pictured his uncle in his final moments, swimming peacefully in some random body of water. Thud… thud… thud… the noise from earlier quietly returned beneath the jazz. Jerome still lost in thought continued imagining his uncle, his body turning lead for some mysterious reason. THUD… thud… thud, his muscles refusing to listen. THUD…THUD…THUD… his watery tomb cascading onto him. THUD… THUD… THUD. Jerome gasped, back in reality and fully aware of the loud banging on his door.

He decided to finally get up and check it out. Tip-toeing onto the cold tile of his floor, he gingerly reached for the door handle. Opening the door he saw nothing but a hanging branch that must’ve snapped from the wind and kept hitting his door. He sighed and felt his heartbeat returning to a more regular rhythm. As he pulled the door back, he noticed it had caught on something. At his feet laid an ornate royal blue fountain pen and a small black notebook, only slightly bigger than his hand.

Curious, he picked them up and brought them inside. Returning to his desk seat, Jerome opened up the notebook. The first page was full of sketches of musical scales and vintage pianos. Charmed by the sketches, and left with no other journals, Jerome turned the page and wrote down a line,

You’ve got me listening to jazz at midnight, you sad old soul.

Jerome stared at the journal, impressed with how smoothly the pen wrote. He was about to write another line until he noticed it. Two spaces beneath the line he had written read the words,

Well, I wouldn’t exactly call myself sad.

He yelled, hurling the journal across the room and watching it sink beneath the depths of a pile of unwashed clothes. THUD… THUD… THUD… Jerome was trying his hardest not to begin hyperventilating, but the thuds were almost as loud as his heartbeat. Jerome turned up whatever song was playing to try to tune out the sounds coming from the notebook, but they only grew louder in response, he shut off the music and steeled his heart.

Scrambling over to the pile, Jerome rummaged through it until he found the notebook. With shaky hands, he opened it as if moving too quickly would flood his room. Written neatly in the space below the old lines read 3 new lines of text.

Well, that was rude.

If I’d known this was how you were gonna treat me maybe I wouldn’t have come back.

At the final message, the sound of a saxophone gently rose from the page in the shape of soft blue quarter-notes, Jerome’s eyes widened in utter disbelief.

I mean is that really any way to greet your old uncle Jermaine?

Jerome slammed the book shut. The music ceased, “Nope, nope, not happening, I’m going to sleep, goodnight,” he said trying to laugh through his fear.

The book vibrated, muffled trumpets now reverberating in his hands. “Stop that!” Jerome exclaimed, “Fine, fine I’ll go along with whatever this is for now, but I swear-” vibraphones echoed faintly. “Okay, okay, I’m opening you!” he said exasperated.

Inside the book were two new lines and a song that felt like laying out in the fresh air of an open meadow. Jerome's face lay slack, both due to the bewitching otherworldly song, and the notebook claiming to be his dead uncle.

You really haven’t changed at all, I’ve missed you kid.

We don’t have time for this right now though, you need to listen to me.

Jerome snapped out of his trance, irritated, “What are you talking about? H-how is this even possible? Am I hallucinating? Is this some kind of guilt response because I’m about to stop focusing on music and use the money on school?” he wondered to himself aloud more than anything.

No, I’m here to- wait.

The song ended and Jerome almost frowned, but a new one rose up to take the place of the first, the soft, singing saxophones melting into moody piano chords.

What do you mean you’re not going to use the money for what you want?

Finally abandoning reason, Jerome started to talk to the journal, “Well I don’t know what the rules of being a notebook ghost are, but I’m going to assume you don’t know-” the notebook interrupted him.

About the ultimatum your mother gave you, use the money for college or get out of her house, yes I know. But you’ve chosen to quit?

Jerome suddenly felt ashamed, ”I-it’s the sensible thing to do, I can pursue music on the side, or after I finish school, besides, I’m not ready to be on my own yet.”

The keys cut abruptly and a lively line of trumpets sprung up to replace them. A new sentence had already begun to form before Jerome could even finish.

Jerome, you stop that right now. You and I both know damn well how talented you are.

Jerome, who had been preparing to argue, paused.

And we also both know how fearful you can be. This isn’t about you not being ready to live alone, since the age of 7 you’ve successfully run away from home eight times.

Jerome swallowed a small laugh and smiled at his uncle’s words.

You’re not a coward, Jay, but you’ve stopped believing in yourself.

Jerome began to try to defend himself, but the trumpets just intensified their gallivant in response, his uncle continued to write.

You’re so scared you’ll fail you don’t even give yourself the chance to succeed in the first place. You have to try Jay. Being a scared child is one thing, but a cowardly man, Jerome? Honestly, we don’t even have time for this right now. I have something important to tell you.

Jerome sat there in silence, pondering his uncle’s words for a moment until he spoke. “You make it sound so easy, but you aren’t even here,” the trumpets began to crescendo, but he raised his voice as well, “I used to think you were a superhero, that I wanted to be just like you when I got older, but I realized you never did anything with your life. You never reached the grand heights of fame we always talked about, you just died unsatisfied, and left me with the weight of both of our dreams.”

The trumpets died. A guillotine of uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Jerome began to close the book.

That’s not true.

The trumpets started up again, slowly this time, a blues song. Jerome looked down at the words, irritated. His uncle continued.

How could I die dissatisfied knowing I helped teach you to play?

Jerome’s eyes softened. The bluesy trumpet in the air thinned just the tiniest bit, the blue light flooding the room seemingly grew darker around him.

Maybe I never became famous or had a million dollars, but I made the most beautiful music with you, seeing your growth, being happy doing what I loved was my success.

Jerome once again felt ashamed. “I-I’m sorry for being so harsh— and scared, it’s just been tough to keep going without your support. Mom looks at me and my dreams and only sees failure, you’ve always been the only one to look at me and see possibility. I’ve missed that so much,” he said, feeling his face wet, but not remembering when he had started crying.

His uncle started to write again, the trumpet almost wheezing now. “No, wait, I’m not done yet,” Jerome closed the book and continued, “I’m ready to stop being scared,”

The room grew to an even darker shade of azure, the book in Jerome’s hand began emoting wildly. “Ever since you died, I’ve been too scared to dive in and truly try, but that’s done. I’m gonna use the money on my dream. For the first time in a while, I believe in myself.” Jerome sniffled triumphantly.

He reopened the book to a slew of new messages, the blues song almost completely faded.

I’ve missed you too Jerome, but we’re running out of time.

No! Jerome listen to me, damnit!

This wasn’t what I came here to do, I need to warn you!

The next few lines were indecipherable, smudged by what appeared to be teardrops, but Jerome was certain he hadn’t cried over the book while it was open. He could only make out a few words before they just became puddles of watery ink.

Don’t let

Fear-- win-- I did.

Swim!

Jerome sat in an eerie silence, but he didn’t have much time to be confused, at that moment he heard a loud splash beside him. Water began crashing down from the blue lights projected onto his ceiling. He called out desperately to his uncle but heard no music. Jerome felt fear bubble up within him, but took a deep breath, as the growing pool began to rise past his ankles, and the absent jazz was replaced by the rushing cry of water.