No Friend Like an Old Friend

No friend Like an Old Friend

“Pardon me. Can I interest you in a demonstration?” The Southern drawl accentuated the peddler’s mild demeanor; my smile was enough for him to place the mouthpiece of the unusual-looking instrument to his lips. Syncopated sounds filled the air, slightly reducing the chatter in the outdoor café. The horn was a hybrid between a bamboo recorder and a saxophone. I’d heard it played by local artists many times before. Each deep, breathy note danced and resonated, like a personalized welcome to my favorite place in the whole world: The Spanish Quarter in St. Augustine, the oldest city in America. I savored the liberating moment, along with juice. Nothing compared with freshly picked Florida oranges.

An elderly couple, with a wide-eyed girl (maybe fifteen) seated between them, clapped enthusiastically when the song ended. The girl begged them to buy one of the instruments—her prospects appeared tenuous at best. I paid my check and decided to walk past the bay before heading to St. George Street.

The soothing rhythm of the waves whispered secrets from long ago. Each time the water splashed against the seawall, below The Castillo de San Marcos, it reminded me of the city’s longevity. The old fort was made of coquina—ancient little shells bonded together to form a substance similar to limestone. Amazingly, over three-hundred-years old, the structure was a century younger than the city. Can you imagine? It was this, and much more, that originally rnticed me. years earlier my first visit here thrust me headlong into a journey of self-discovery. I suppose, like Ponce de Leon, I came looking for the Fountain of Youth.

The ocean breeze tempered the close heat; the air was filled with a smoky aroma of exotic seasonings, fish, spices, lingering perfumes, and the earthy gumbo of every race, creed, and color. Four hundred years of history filled my nostrils. It was good to be back.

Two young lovers strolled by with a look of wonderment in their eyes. Their countenance projected an essence of invincibility. Maybe it was a sense of transcending time, finding a refuge, or possibly the magic that belonged only to those with a common destiny. Make no mistake! Old Town offered all this, and more. She welcomed all comers—all dreamers with the courage to pledge their allegiance.

I quickened my step. A horse-drawn carriage, clacking over the cobblestone street, heightened my anticipation. This hopeful feeling never subsided over the years; if anything, it increased in measure! Memories jockeyed for my attention, all in a row, like the line of pelicans gliding overhead. One two, three, four, five, six . . . I made it to thirty-three—the most I had ever counted. The exercise functioned like a time machine. I remembered the Indian woman who gave my wife a bundle of sage to burn, to cleanse our new apartment for good luck. Next, a homeless woman that ran a cardboard village behind the Day Labor Hall, Shelly was her name. She decorated her shopping cart with Christmas lights; she allowed me passage into her world. There were so many memories. I could hardly wait to see all the street musicians eager to tell their old stories to new people, and have new people tell them their old stories.

Before the entrance to St. George Street, I stopped at Trade Winds for a cold beer. A lone, soulful singer, with a seasoned guitar-style, sat on stage finishing a John Prine number:

Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery
Make me a poster of an old rodeo
Just give me one thing that I can hold on to
To believe in this livin’ is just a hard way to go

____

Entering the oldest section in the Quarter was like running into an old friend. I rubbed my hand against the first building I came to; the texture of the stucco tingled my fingers, much like the handshake of a stronger man. The shops were crowded with people from all walks-of-life: Four Mexican men, in cowboy hats and boots, carried shopping bags; their wives wore bright-colored dresses and worked feverishly to keep ice cream off their childrens' new clothes. Two Cuban men, dressed in expensive white suits, smoked large cigars and nonchalantly surveyed the crowd. A mid-western, middle-aged couple fussed over a menu in a restaurant doorway, deciding the best use of their finances. Three pale-skinned ladies (the accent suggested Carolinians), adorned with floppy hats, mingled with the regulars up from Anastasia Island, who were obviously there for afternoon refreshments. Their voices ran together, their demeanor animated. All ages, shapes, and sizes—many experienced Old Town for the first time that day. I suspect many of them pledged their allegiance.

A group of small children came running out of The Old Wooden Schoolhouse, singing: “School’s out, school’s out, teacher let the monkeys out.” The leader of the field-trip attempted to explain the significance of the building: “This is the oldest wooden schoolhouse in America,” he said, glancing at the brochure. The kids refused to listen and begged to go to the Alligator Farm. They had seen enough old buildings and were too young to grasp the history that surrounded them. Many great artisans lived and worked here. Many of the shops remained in the same families for generations.

I climbed the stairs to the upper deck of the Mill Top. Having been there many times, I anticipated viewing the old Water Wheel and the sights below. More importantly, talented folk artists performed long into the night. I came to see one in particular. No trip was complete without hearing him play.

The waitress’s surprised expression warmed my insides. “If this don’t beat all,” she said, and giving me a hearty embrace. "How long has it been?”

“Almost three years,” I said, suddenly embarrassed, contemplating my next response. “You know how life can get in the way of things . . . Truth is, I’ve landed on hard times. Oh, Bonnie, I’ve missed this place. Is he here yet?”

“You haven’t heard, have ya? Guitar Sonny died last year. He left ya something. Old Joe said he’d hold on to it ’til you showed, no matter how long it took.”

Bonnie disappeared. I felt empty, small, worthless. I missed my chance to properly thank Slim for his music, for everything. My head began to spin. I saw Joe, the owner of The Mill Top, amble out of the kitchen. He carried a cloth draw-pouch.

“Better late than never,” Joe said, without taking a seat. “I saw to Sonny's last wishes. He left me his sea trunk . . . Lightning Bob got the fiddle. Sonny’s daughter came in from Kentucky for the Gibson.” He handed me the pouch. “Sonny got you this shortly after your last visit. He knew how much you enjoyed hearing it played. Shoot, after a couple years, he started playing it himself. You know how Slim is . . . was. He could make music come out of anything. He always said you’d be back. I was beginning to worry. Sonny never doubted you, amigo. No sir, not for a minute.” Our eyes met, Joe nodded and went back to work. The bar was packed to capacity.

I pulled the wooden saxophone from its bag. The shaft was worn. I envisioned Sonny's long fingers manipulating the bambo. Bonnie reappeared She explained how Sonny kept his good humor right up to the end, and how the cancer was just too far along. There was an uncomfortable silence.

“The way I see it, being happy is what matters,” Bonnie finally said. “Slim was happy, for sure. He lived the way he wanted, and made other people happy. He loved it here, Lou. He believed anybody drawn to Old Town was born lucky, that's all, just plain born lucky. Slim said the laid-back feeling was what drew him. For me it was the Lighthouse and the tan surfer bums. It’s mostly the Lighthouse nowadays. Time changes things. What was it for you?”

“This right here,” I said, holding up the horn. “It’s the first thing that I remember about Old Town. I hear it in my dreams . . . Bonnie, I have to go! There is something I need to do.” We downed the whiskey and I beat feet for San Marcos Avenue.

I stopped at restaurants, looked in hotel lobbies, and eyeballed every taxicab. I walked the streets for over two hours, interrupting groups of strangers. Nothing. I don’t know what I was thinking. It was a crazy idea, a long shot. The news about Slim really had me going. The gift of the horn validated a lifetime. It confirmed all my journeys, the thousand of miles, the wind and sand, the reasoning behind my choices—the magic, everything that made Old Town, Old Town.

The chattering from a group of tourists, walking up from the fort, turned me around. I was astounded. The young girl was right in front of me.

“Didn’t I see you earlier, at the café?” she asked.

“It’s true, where the horn player was.”

“Oh, yes!“ she exclaimed, glancing at what I assumed were her grandparents. “One day when I have the money, I’m coming back and buying one of those horns. There is something magical about it. In fact, there’s something magical about this whole place.”

“I know. You don’t have to wait," i said, handing her the pouch. An old friend left me this--I want you to have it.”

She held the instrument in the air. Her eyes lit up the night. My sadness, and the sting of Slim’s death, disappeared in her bright reflection. “I’ve been coming to Old Town for a long time,” I whispered. “It draws me here.”

She smiled and touched my hand. “Mr., one day I'llk be an old friend. And one day you’ll hear me play it, right here in Old Town.”

____

St. Augustine is not for everyone. The summer heat combined with palmetto bugs, tarantulas, scorpions, and the threat of hurricanes is too large a leap for many. Who knows what draws a person to Old Town. Maybe it’s the rich history and being able to examine and touch the ancient buildings, maybe the smell of exotic aromas, the taste of fresh-squeezed orange juice, or seeing pelicans flying all in a row. On the other hand, it might be hearing the deep, earthy notes from a little-known instrument that places a spell on its listener, like a pied piper.

____

Author’s note: This is a piece of autobiographical fiction. The bamboo saxophone is a real instrument. It’s creator, Jim Brock, sells them in the Old Spanish Quarter in front of Monk’s Vineyard Restaurant.


(1875 words)