There was no convincing the kid that watching the great Helen St. James work had been mostly boring. âOh, no it wasnât,â she said with a smile.
âTrust me.â
âCome on.â
âSmitty, listenâŚâ
âWhat did you just call me?â
For some reason, it seemed to fit. âSmitty, youâll find out, believe me. Ainât none of this nearly as exciting as it looks from the outside. Donât get me wrong, itâs fun as hell. Even today. How many people have a profession where even when itâs not interesting, it still is? Just because of what youâre getting paid.â
âThat doesnât make sense.â
âTrust me. It will. This time next year, itâll make perfect sense.â
She stubbornly was unconvinced, but let it go. Their drinks arrived. Sam had Southern Comfort, straight up with a beer chaser. He had his usual. They shared a plate of barbecued buffalo wings. And talked shop.
âSo,â he said, âyou doinâ some Jackson Browne, now. When I tried to get you to sing a cover, youââ
Sam flushed nearly crimson, cutting him off with a wave of her hand. âI know what I did, you donât have to remind me. I acted like a total jerk.â
Yes, she had. But, since she copped to it, that would be bad manners, cruel even, for him to say so. âYou actedâŚâ he allowed, âyoung.â
Turned out, singing backup for and hanging out with Helen had done her some lasting good. Since all Helen did was covers. And tunes by songwriters nobodyâd heard of. Lately, of course, established tunesmiths had started having their agents pitch her material.
Sam let him know she wasnât crazy about how often he, Helen, and the rest of them referred to her age. She definitely didnât like being called a kid, which happened on a fairly regular basis. Accordingly, she dismissed his reference to her age, saying, âEven a leopard can change its spots.â
He raised his glass. âHereâs to changing spots.â
She raised hers. âHereâs to it.â Adding, âAnd to Mr. Keith Jackson.â Then, gave him a dazed, dreamy grin with those gorgeous green eyes. He got ready to field and fend off an illicit innuendo. She surprised him with a perfectly innocent, âI wouldnât be here if it werenât for you.â
âHunh?â
âI wouldnât. Iâd be one of I donât know how many music school graduates trying to beat each other out for a job they donât even want in some dry old orchestra.â He cracked up.
She had to smile, too, continuing, âIf thereâs ever any way I can properly thank youâŚâ She winked. It was an innocent, friendly wink. âJust let me know. Really.â Then she leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. âThank you, Keith.â
âYâ welcome.â
âAnd itâs okay if you call me Smitty. I donât think I ever had a nickname.â They went on having a very pleasant conversation and getting seriously oiled. Once in a while, they got up and danced. Mostly, they sat talking until she looked at him kind of cross-eyed and said, âWell, are we gonna catch a cab back to the hotel?â At which point, he realized she clearly had had at least one or two too many.
He called Tarajiâs twin over, signed for the tab, and reminded Sam, âWeâre at the hotel, girl.â
âOh, thatâs right,â she giggled. He saw her to her room and then found his way to his.
 Next week: Mensahâs out, Yohannes in.
Dwight Hobbes welcomes reader responses to P.O. Box 50357, Mpls., 55403.