The Horse Is Led To The Mountain

Who is the horse. I was thirsty when I wrote this title. But it fit into the music I was listening to. It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.

(from wikepedia) “It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing)” is a 1931 composition by Duke Ellington with lyrics by Irving Mills, now accepted as a jazz standard. The music was written and arranged by Ellington in August 1931 during intermissions at Chicago’s Lincoln Tavern and was first recorded by Ellington and his orchestra for Brunswick Records (Br 6265) on February 2, 1932. Ivie Anderson sang the vocal and trombonist Joe Nanton and alto saxophonist Johnny Hodges played the instrumental solos. The title was based on the oft stated credo of Ellington’s former trumpeter Bubber Miley, who was dying of tuberculosis. The song became famous, Ellington wrote, “as the expression of a sentiment which prevailed among jazz musicians at the time.” Probably the first song to use the phrase “swing” in the title, it introduced the term into everyday language and presaged the Swing Era by three years.

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THE HORSE IS LED TO THE MOUNTAIN

The big man reached over the counter and placed his large hand on the drugstore clerk’s head. Like it was a doorknob. The girl, called Josephine, smiled uncomfortably, waiting for someone to knock. What if he sneezes? Josephine did not want to be a name on an accident report. Beyond the terror of the moment, Josephine came to a new appreciation of the mental state of household pets.

“Just come back from Nassau,” Everest said. For a big man he had a small voice. In a small mouth. Almost childlike in its timber. “See the tan on my arms. Did not want to come back….” The big man hesitated, then finding the clerk’s name on her uniform, added, “… May. I love that name. Spring like. So full of hope.”

It was then that Josephine realized that she had put on May’s uniform. It would have been May’s name on the accident report. May, whose head would be spinning around like a top on the floor. Caught on tape by the store cameras. Auctioned off between the late local night news programs. Maybe she would go provincial. Or the big time. The National. Was it possible? She had always admired Peter Mansbridge. Perhaps there might be a one on one interview. With her head. May always wanted to be in show business.

“Last thing I wanted to face was the cold,” Everest said.

The big man shivered. Not actually shivered but acted as if he was shivering. And proud of his performance. Can still charm the young girls, he thought.

Josephine looked up apprehensively at the hand on her head, fearing that too much shivering might cork screw her head off. The big man noticed the girl’s apprehension, grinned, and took his hand away. His pinkie tapped lightly on her head – goodbye.

Everest placed his purchase, a hemorrhoid ointment, on the counter.

“It’s for my wife,” he added then winked. Everest did not have a wife. Everest did not want to place an image of himself using the ointment in the girl’s mind, so he lied about having a wife. The girl looked so happy. And spring like. But Everest was having some difficulties with hemorrhoids. One of God’s little curses. Everest was sure that hell was made up of such irritations. Not fire and brimstone. But hemorrhoids, psoriasis, gum diseases, varicose veins, incontinence.

Josephine smiled with relief. She rang up the purchase on the cash register and put the ointment in a small plastic bag. She felt quite gay. Focused. And for the first time in years, confident. Nothing like a brush with death to clear the mind.

“People are so friendly in Nassau,” Everest continued, his eyes rising to the ceiling as if he was praying. “Pat on the back. A smile. Polite conversation.” The big man’s smile melted into consternation. “Not like Canadians.” He looked down at Josephine with a scowl. “We are a cold lot. A stark and stern people. Parochial in our imagination. You can always tell when an immigrant becomes truly Canadian. They stop paying attention. To mother nature. To their own thoughts. To other folks. Folks pay attention in Nassau.” The big man leaned over as if to share a confidence with the young clerk. “They had a nick name for me down there. They called me The Mountain. Can you guess why, May?”

The girl looked around hoping to see another clerk. She had no idea where this conversation was going. And she remembered the stories related by the other girls who worked at the drug store, stories about strange men who leered, ogled, drooled. The girl looked up at the large man, thought for a moment, then responded.

“Because you were so pale,” she said.

There was a bewildered expression on Everest’s face. He looked… angry. The girl wondered if she had said the wrong thing?

“I never thought of that,” Everest said, pondering the girl’s insight.

“Hurry up, mister,” a voice said from behind Everest.

Everest turned around. A small boy, about six or seven years of age, stood in front of his father. The two looked like two versions of the same person. They were dressed identically, blue jeans, t-shirt, leather jackets, and white running shoes. They smiled the same. The father was clean shaven. The boy had a tattoo on his forearm. Of an anchor. The father blushed and squeezed the boy’s shoulder.

“That’s no way to speak to people,” the father said looking down at his son. The boy looked up at his father, grinning.

“You’re upside down.” The boy laughed.

Everest looked at the father. He raised his hand and pointed his finger at him.

“I recognize that accent. Where are you from?”

“Brampton,” the father responded.

“Originally,” Everest added.

“Nassau,” the man said.

“Nassau, eh?” Everest nodded. “I thought I recognized that accent. Just came back from Nassau, myself. Lovely people. How long have you been here?”

“Three years,” the father said.

“My father is a copper,” the boy said proudly. “And if you’re not careful, he could put you down in three shakes. Ain’t that right, father?”

The boy looked up at his father. The father looked down at his son. They nodded to each other.

Everest put his hand on the boy’s head to rustle his hair. The boy swung at the man’s hand. Everest laughed but did not remove his hand. The boy swung again.

“Leave my head alone you big ox!” the boy cried.

Everest continued to laugh. Everest liked kids. Most kids liked Everest. They liked his size. And his gentleness. And his laugh. Not this kid.

“Maybe you should take your hand away,” the father suggested.

Everest smiled. “Kids like their hair rustled.”

The father reached out and grabbed Everest’s wrist.

“Please!” the father said.

There was a moment of silence. Everest pulled his hand away. He looked at the clerk who smiled uncomfortably.

“How much do I owe?” he asked.

“Two thirty five,” she said.

Everest reached into his pocket and took out some change. After he had paid and the clerk handed his small plastic bag to him, Everest turned back to the father.

“I wouldn’t have hurt the kid. I was just trying to be friendly.” Then he turned back to the girl behind the counter. “See what I mean, May. Three years here and already a fucking asshole.”