Chapter Fourteen: Affection

Affection: when hearts are open, affection enters and shines warmth and love upon the world. Affection cannot be manipulated, for its only purpose is to give…control freaks, listen up.

Jake leaves for Hamburg with 250 pounds of musical equipment, including three synthesizers, assorted cables and wah-wah peddles, and one duffle bag of carefree black and blue clothing. He’s nervous about the trip, but not because he’s charting unknown territory. Jake is afraid for his equipment like most people are afraid for their children, or animals. He takes a deep breath; out of my hands now, Jake assures himself. He swallows an Ambien, dreams fitfully through dinner and the in-flight movie, then reads, sketches, and writes until landing.
Jake is not a seasoned traveler; a trip to Quebec for the jazz festival, a quick stint in a Jamaican jail during college, and scuba diving off Isla Mujeres are the three marks on his passport. But make no mistake; Jake looks like a veteran as he seeks out and pays for the help he needs. The foreign words playing against Jake’s ear are confusing, but money is the universal language in tourist town; he has plenty.
Odessa books Jake into the Wedina, a lovely eighteenth century town house on Gurlittstrasse, near the lake. All he has to do is check in - the room is paid in advance - and wait for Odessa’s call. A shower, a nap, and some food would be nice, he wishes. But, the unthinkable nightmare shatters Jake’s revelry, compliments of the front desk. “A minor glitch, Mr. Reston; there has been a slight change in your reservation,” says the impeccably dressed and sincerely polite agent. “Unfortunately, your original room is still occupied. The couple preceding you had an emergency and will be with us for another few days. However, we’ve taken the liberty of moving you to a very nice suite on the third floor.”
“That’s fine,” Jake assures the gentleman. “Where is your elevator?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir, we have no elevator at the Wedina.”
“No elevator? Do you see my luggage?” Jake looks at the mile-high pile of cases stacked behind him, and grimaces. “A third floor room will not work, not at all. Please, find a room on the first floor.”
“Let me check again, Mr. Reston.” After a few seconds, the kind man shakes his head and sadly looks at Jake. “Sir, I am very sorry, but only the third floor room is available.”
Jake emits a long, low moan. “Can you move the couple in my room to the third floor?”
“Ah, impossible. The wife suffered a bad sprain yesterday and cannot negotiate the stairs.
“How many stairs are we talking about here?” The man counts in his head, visualizing the winding path. He knows he can’t fix this, but he is determined to make it right somehow. “Forty-five, maybe more.” Jake never loses his cool, but he feels beads of warm sweat meet in the middle of his neck and create what feels like a major tributary coursing down his back. “Will you please call Odessa Hargrave?”
“Yes, of course; one moment.” The kind man dials, waits, looks at Jake, and, once again, shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but there’s no answer.”
“Did she by any chance leave a message for Jake Reston?”
The man knows she didn’t, but feels compelled to show Jake he’s trying. “Let me check…no, nothing is here, sir.” Jake rubs his forehead as if conjuring a genie from a magic lamp, but all three wishes are denied, delayed until the genie feels Jake is more deserving of the grant. “I can’t drag this equipment up and down forty-five stairs; therefore, I am unable to stay at your wonderful hotel. Where else might you suggest?”
“Mr. Reston, please accept my sincere apology. Please, relax in the lounge while I make new arrangements.” Jake is too tired to relax. “No, I’ll stay right here,” he says, closing his eyes and stretching his tired back. His body absorbs his well-disguised anger, and begins to ache. He paces, but feels like a caged bear; he turns to the window and listens to the conversation at the front desk. “Hello, this is Hans at the Wedina calling. I need a room immediately for a very weary traveler, can you help? Bottom floor, please. Yes, private, eight nights. Yes, please take good care of him; we have caused some trouble for him here. Yes, he will arrive within thirty minutes, and will need help with his luggage.” Hans pauses. “American, yes. A musician, I think, and by the look of his baggage a very important person. Thank you, he is on his way.” Hans leaves his station, quietly approaches Jake and gently wakes him from a wall nap. “Mr. Reston? I’m sorry to wake you, but you are booked into the Steens on Holzdamm, not ten minutes walk from here. They are expecting you, and I will take you there myself.”
Jake sighs, smiles graciously, and extends his hand. “Thank you, Hans; much appreciated.” Jake scribbles a quick note to Odessa and gives Hans the folded paper. “Will you please make sure Ms. Hargrave receives this message?”
“Certainly. Shall we go?” Hans asks.
“Yes, we shall certainly go,” Jake answers.

The Steens Hotel is short on style – short on the one thing Jake cares nothing about; Jake has style to spare. He soaks up every last drop of water hot enough to melt his bones. He takes another Ambien, falls down on the bed and says a prayer. No gig tonight, thank you God, he whispers, and sleeps for seven blissful hours before awakening to Odessa’s rap on his door. “Hey baby,” she says as Jake pulls her close for a bear hug. “Sorry about the mix-up. Everything make it?”
“Yep, no problem there,” he says. “I’m starving; what time is it?”
“Time to eat, Sugar Pie.” Odessa takes a chair and wraps her long, ebony legs into an elegant curve. She takes a look at Jake’s sparsely appointed yet sleek room and nods. “Nice digs; not as pretty as mine, but nice.”
Jake’s priorities don’t include comparing room décor with Odessa. He moves to the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face, runs a hand through his bed-head, rehydrates his rested but dry blue eyes, and changes into the least wrinkled of his four black shirts. “When do I meet the rest of the band?” Jake asks.
“Tomorrow night; they’ll meet us at The After Shave for sound check at nine.”
“What time’s the gig?” Jake asks as he pulls on a black jacket and opens the door for Odessa. “We start at eleven, can you believe it? A normal gig, like New York!” Jake follows her tall curvaceous body out the door. “I could eat the ass-end out of a rag doll about right now,” Jake says, and his stomach agrees wholeheartedly. “Come on, then,” laughs Odessa, “we’ll hop on the Bahn and take a little trip.”
“What’s the Bahn?”
“The subway, Jake, only it’s above ground. U-Bahn for the city, S-Bahn for the suburbs; it’s a fast ride. We’ll hop off near the Reeperbahn and go to the Old Commercial Room for dinner.”
“Okay, what’s the Reeperbahn? Ain’t related to the Grim, is it?” Jake is goofy from hunger and jet lag, and Odessa loves it; she’s never seen this side of Jake. “It’s the Saint Pauli’s district – the Genital Zone, as it’s affectionately called,” she says. “You’ll see; we’ll take a walk on the wild side after dinner. You up for that?” Odessa winks and grins; her pliable lips spread across her animated face, reminding Jake of a Tall Ship in full sail. “I’ll tell you after dinner, Odessa,” he says, looking toward the road. “Man, I could eat some road-kill about right now.”
“Save room for dessert, Jake,” she says. “I’ll take you to the Erotic Art Museum tonight and you can get pussy on a stick.” Jake takes Odessa’s arm. “Liking this town already, Odessa.”

Jake orders Labskaus, or sailor’s hash, a tradition at the Commercial Room. Corned beef and ham, onions, potatoes, leeks, hardtack, and heavenly spices create a luscious stew that warms even the coldest man’s heart. Top the bowlful of goodness with a fried egg and, voila! Jake devours a devoted chef’s house special filled with love, fat, and enough gas-producing matter to create the ultimate gut bomb. Jake is happy and full, but takes Odessa’s advice and saves room for dessert.

The Reeperbahn makes Amsterdam’s Red Light District look like Pollyanna’s playground. Prostitutes are highly regarded members of the income-tax-paying financial base of Hamburg and are officially sanctioned by city officials; Saint Pauli Girl beer is named in honor of Hamburg’s hookers. Hamburg: a good time town! “Geezus, Odessa, where did all these people come from? And why are they all naked?” Jake is gawking. “My God, wouldja look at that thing? What is it?”
Odessa chants her answer. “The freaks come out at night, Ba-Boo; the freaks come out at night.”
“Damn, I can do an internal exam on that one from right here on the street! Is that legal what she’s doing?”
Odessa takes a closer look before responding. “Honey, I think that’s a shemale. Everything’s legal here except bestiality; no animal sex acts. That’s where Hamburg draws the line.” She looks at Jake’s wide eyes. “It’s a city with a conscience, don’t you know. Wanna go to the theatre?”
“A movie? I don’t think so. I’d probably fall asleep.”
Odessa laughs. “No, innocent boy, the erotic theatre.”
Jake shudders. “Would I have to touch anything, like a chair, or a handrail?”
“Probably.”
“Forget it, then. I’ll watch erotic theatre from the comfort of the sidewalk. Makes me want to wash my hands.”
“Wow, you are one uptight little white boy, aren’t you?”
“My mama raised me to stay clean or she’d beat my ass,” says Jake. He smiles wickedly at Odessa. “Now let’s go get that pussy on a stick.”

Four stories of sex make Jake dizzy. He goes to the gift shop, buys postcards and his sweet pink treat, then begs Odessa to get him back to Steens before he does something stupid like blush in her presence one more time, or erect another tent in his pants; Jake needs privacy. He thanks her for the educational tour, bids farewell after seeing her safely to the Wedina’s front door, and, not quite satisfied, hurries back to his quiet ground level room. He washes his hands three times, pulls a virgin bottle of travel-sized Aura Glow from his shaving kit, partakes of his dessert before passing out in a slick sweat, and dreams in flesh-tone.

Jake meets the band on Tuesday at sound check. Peter the drummer speaks fluent English as a second language, but Marc the bassist and Franz the sax man rely on vibe rather than words. Jake knows the secret password and enters the sacred world of musician-speak, phraseology of simple facial expressions and body language, a most sought-after territory, this ground; solid and familiar ground for Jake. And oh, the conversation is magic; pure and simple magic, transporting the most eloquent of linguistics experts, if they are paying attention, to frenzy. It is the language of God that is heard at The After Shave, a language of ascension, of higher and higher elevation. Watch Jake’s face; last night’s dessert orgy means absolutely nothing, cannot begin to compare to this moment of completion and fulfillment.
Three nights of playing straight-ahead jazz at The Cotton Club, the band tightening up their sound; two nights of standards at Dennis’ Swing Club, the band loosening into improvisation and building momentum; two nights at Birdland, the band moving instinctively into fusion. Inspiration! The guys are hot, but when Odessa hits the stage, they move easily back into straight-ahead and standards. Crowd-pleasing standards are Odessa’s bread and butter, her highest calling. Jake rarely turns down the sheets before the sun comes up, and sleeps until Noon. Then he walks the Aussenalster Lake bridges, watches the old world in silence, feels the beat of Hamburg under his feet. He grooves on his silent day routine because post-gig late-nights take him Molotow for funk or the Mojo for acid jazz or Grosse Freiheit for smoking, toking, and joking with Peter and the band. Now, the Reeperbahn represents music to Jake; music, not sex. He no longer feels like a tourist. He is home.

Dear Mimi,
How are my farm girls? Fine here, just short on sleep; nobody sleeps. I saw this funk hat and thought of you playing dress-up. Put it on and play your music loud and dance with Molly for me one time. Funk Hat will protect you from the wrath of rabid animals and snooping neighbors. Write back, but don’t send as I have no address; will collect mail directly from source upon return, whenever that may be. Headed to North Sea Jazz Fest for three days of gigs…more surprises to come!
Love, Jake

Dear Jake,
I’m playing with my funk hat, learning its many styles. I am a Cajun chef, a sexy tart, a farm marm goofball. I am blinded by the bill or protected by it. I stuff it, roll it, bend it, point it, flatten it, and decorate it; what a lid! The ultimate good juju reality diversion. I fall down, roll around, perform splits, handsprings, and belly flops, burn things, dance like a maniac, skip, laugh, sing loud badly but in perfect pitch, turn circles, and howl at the moon. Funk Hat? It moves with its own mind, but never leaves my head. I wear my funk hat during yoga meditation. I make carrot juice while singing Baby Love in my funk hat. I stalk skunks and am invisible under the bill of the funk hat. You have set my imagination on fire. So much creativity inside the threads of the funk hat. It’s the A ticket, Mr. Jake Reston. Molly looks good in it, too, but the Boogieman wears it better than both of us.
Love, Mimi

Miles played there; so did Ella and Joe Zawinul. The Brecker Brothers, BB, David Sanborn, and McCoy Tyner are frequent performers at the North Sea Jazz Festival. Tony Bennett and Chick Corea and Herbie Hancock, they’re there. The spirits of Dizzy Gillespie and Count Basie are there. Stage upon stage upon hall upon hall; indoors, outdoors, in town and all around, hours and hours of pure sound. Pick a room, any room. Listen and learn, or don’t learn, just listen. It doesn’t matter if you understand as long as you feel it. Jazz is jazz, and it rules Europe for three days every year; over 70,000 visitors representing most countries on Earth and the outer rings of Saturn are transported by unending notes ranging from the abstract to the sublime and back again. The Hague is Mecca for the jazz masses; it’s the industry equivalent of the Super Bowl.
Odessa Hargrave and her ace musicians check into the Dorint Hotel Den Haag, famous for catering to festival musicians. The Dorint pulses with activity, drawing serious listeners and relaxed performers to its lobby. Jake’s first gig is there, in the lobby, before the festival officially opens. He looks across the expanse, and damn, he’s excited; standing at the bar is Archie Shepp chatting with Freddie Hubbard. Archie recognizes Jake from past gigs in the States and gives him his props. There’s McCoy! Jake’s on go; no nerves, he’s confident. He talks to Peter and Peter talks back and then Marc and Franz join up and all conversation ceases at the bar and the focus is on the band, man, on the conversation between Jake and Peter and Marc and Franz. In walks Stanley Clarke and he watches Marc coax some serious love out of his bass. Odessa walks to the bar and orders wine because she can’t control them, doesn’t want to; she’s grinning because her boys have taken the lobby – they own it – and Stanley walks toward the band and Marc hands his baby to the master with a deep bow and picks up a set of Peter’s sticks and keeps time to Illegal which rolls right into Funk Is Its Own Reward and nobody, nobody is standing still. And, holy shit. Michael Brecker blows in and all of a sudden it’s four a.m. and nobody wants to go home. But, they are Home, and they know it.

Although the festival officially begins at five p.m. and closes with a Midnight jam session each night, and although Jake is proud to be part of the various workshops and clinics and performances in Van Gogh Hal, it is the Dorint lobby that provides the most satisfaction; it’s the lobby that fills his daydreams when he is old and his hands are arthritic and his shoulders are locked, and he is thankful to remember.