The Spaces Between

Mea culpa(again) - so awhile back I wrote the story 'Note by Note.' There was a significant portion of the pre-submitted story that just didn't fit. For various reasons it didn't feel right. Surgery was performed and 'Note by Note' was posted. To mild acclaim.

But the excised story turned into some bizarre kind of weird zombie erotica. It wouldn't go away, it wouldn't die. It kept following me, chasing me, suddenly appearing right in front of me -- or did I just turn around?

I was caught, I was consumed...cue the Physarum polycephalum (slime mold of smut) horror music and fade to black.

So, I needed a way to post the story; a diversion or a subversion or maybe even an perversion. And that was it, I just needed a heaping helping of music industry inversion and - voila.

THE SPACES BETWEEN

Irving Thaler Jr, ran his hand along the curving edge of the Steinway piano. He picked up the ash tray, emptying it one final time, then changed his mind and threw the damn nuisance in the trash. Moving around to face the keyboard he tapped the key for middle "C"

'Oh the stories this old girl could tell.'

He smiled, there were rumors - good rumors - that the great jazz pianist Art Tatum had played, and some of those rumors inferred that he possibly owned, this very instrument.

Art Tatum was one of James 'Kid' Rollins heroes. When The Kid Rollins Band's debut album, **Sunday Morning**, raced past gold record status on it's way up the charts, Irving (Sr.), Jerome Harrison, Lester Johns and a few others had hunted for a fitting gift that their friend and colleague would appreciate. Jimmy, upon receiving the piano and hearing half a dozen versions of the back story regarding this instrument, had been deeply touched.

It was at this very piano that Jimmy had laboriously put together a four album compilation of "Jazz Standards" that resurrected the sales and careers of many older jazz artists, both the living and the departed.

And now it was Jimmy who had moved from one group to the other. It had been a good service, well attended, even some press coverage. Well, music industry press coverage.

Irving thought of the series of concerts Jimmy put together with Irving's (mostly Jr.) help showcasing many of those jazz artists still living. Those concerts had really had an impact.

Evenings filled with a lot of stories, a lot of music, and the recounting and continuing of good times. A lot of good times, really good times. Irving scanned the room again thinking "the story's and songs these walls have witnessed. He was pleased that a number of those songs and more had been written down in the music books that Jimmy updated throughout his day, every day, for as best Irving knew, just about every year of Jimmy's professional life.

Oh the treasures Irving had discovered; he'd found songs, the fragments of songs, sometimes just a title and a date upon a page without a single note or lyric written down. Other songs complete, ready to be recorded. He shook his head at that loss, far too many of those songs were ones that Irving had never seen, let alone heard.

And GODDAMNITJIMMY there were pop songs! You wrote pop songs with lyrics, and you even made notes regarding who might best record it! A few of those songs had already been offered to the artist Jimmy had indicated and been very warmly received. Oh Jimmy, Jimmy, what we could have done.

There was one thing that Irving was absolutely sure of, The James Rollins Estate would be a major player in supporting jazz musicians through The Kid Rollins Foundation; awarding scholarships, fellowships, and promoting music through concerts and recordings for many years to come.

But where were the diaries, the personal journals, those 'three pages' Jimmy wrote down every morning? If he had been as disciplined with that as he'd been with his songwriting there should be a treasure trove of nearly 70 years worth of writing. Where in the world were those 70,000 pages?!

-=-=-=-=- Five Years Later -=-=-=-=-

"Mr Thaler? There's a man here who says that your storage unit lease is about to expire and he wants to know if you're going to sign a new lease, or clear out the unit, or whatever."

"Louise, I have no idea what you're talking about. I have no storage unit or whatever this man alleges. But, send him on in, and we'll see what this is all about."

"Yes Mr. Thaler." Mere seconds passed before a soft knock and a turning of the knob signaled the opening of his office door. "Right this way, you're sure about not wanting coffee, a water, or anything else? No? Okay then. Mr. Thaler, this is Mr. Gregory Hartainian, he's the owner/manager of Best Storage Solutions on 45th Street. Mr. Hartainian, this is Mr. Irving Thaler Jr."

Once the door closed, Irving smiled, "A pleasure to meet you Mr Hartainian." They shook hands and Irving smiled at the double take Mr Hartainian directed towards to door.

"Louise worked for my father. He hired her fresh out of college. When I took over from my dad, I assumed she would retire. My dad had made provision for her, she could certainly retire if she chose. Twenty three years later, she's still with me and I couldn't imagine how we'd get on without her."

"Now Mr Hartainian, you sir have me curious and at a distinct disadvantage, I have no recollection of ever leasing any storage unit, or garage. So Mr. Hartainian, the ball is in your court." Irving sat back and smiled.

"You find yourself in a situation not of your making, let alone your knowledge. Oh the tales I could tell," Gregory had played this role many a time, but he never tired of it. "Fortunately, Mr. Thaler, I have a copy of the original lease."

Gregory Hartainian opened his documents case and extracted a single sheet of paper. He of all people knew far too well the value of correct documentation, this paper was premium photographic stock enabling a clear and perfect reproduction of the original document. He passed it across the desk to Irving.

"The lease originated as a 10 year recurring agreement. It was initiated, by my father, almost sixty years ago. The lease was renewed regularly, until now. The primary lessee has not made any effort to respond or renew. You are listed as the emergency contact, so here we are."

Irving realized that he was expected to respond, to take up his side of the conversation. But he could not. He simply could not move his eyes away from the name of the primary lessee; James Rollins.

"Mr Thaler? Mr. Thaler are you interested in..."

Irving waved him quiet, "Are you able to tell me the contents of this unit, what's inside?"

"Yes I can, generally speaking. Primarily books, identically bound books, like legal journals. There are archival boxes with labeled folders. The original lessee had dropped off a packing box of loose papers, oh let me see here. It was just over five years ago. No contact since. So, what would you like to do?"

"This says the lease is up in three months, correct? Good. The lessee is deceased, I have his Power of Attorney, and copies of his death certificate. How much storage space are we talking about? My intention would be to bring it all here for cataloging purposes."

"Volume - um, let me think - it would probably be too much for the bed of a typical pick-up. But a standard 1-ton delivery van would be more than adequate. If you want, I can have everything delivered to you within twenty-four hours. Delivered to wherever you want it. Or, you can make your own arrangements. If you want to work out the logistics on your own, the contact information is on the back."

Irving Thaler Jr. watched the door close and latch. He looked down at the paper centered on his desk. He looked at the information for the Lessee and the Lessee's signature. A signature he'd seen countless times - James Rollins. There was a van-sized hoard of James's writing just waiting to find a safe home.

The missing journals, and papers of Jimmy 'the kid,' Jimmy 'the fixer,' Jimmy his client, his partner, his friend had been found. Jimmy had taken steps to preserve his diaries, journals, and who knows what else.

Surprisingly, Irving was to discover that the 'who knows what else' was way more problematic than he ever expected.

-=-=-=-=-

"Boss, I'm simply telling you that he was resolutely honest; names, conversations, actions, everything. You never saw any of these?" A thick sheath of papers was waved about.

"No Freddy, no I didn't, not a single thing. I mean, yes, I saw Jimmy writing, and occasionally I saw what he was writing, but that was music, and we have all of that. There were things he did on his own, like all of the loose pages in this box. This appears to be part of a daily practice he called 'Morning Pages.' He said it was some kind of a brain clearing process. I'm guessing he kept them just to keep them, because they aren't dated and don't seem to be in any particular order. The formal journals he did at night, and he was scribbling stuff down all day long. Then at night he'd distill it into an entry."

"What about the stories boss? This is some pretty wild stuff - the 60's, the 70's! My dad used to get Penthouse magazine and they published erotic stories as letters to the magazine. Mr. Rollins wrote genuine erotic stories, and I'm guessing from the way they read that most of them are real. He names names, he is very detailed in his descriptions, very detailed. There is even an index of who is in what story. Look at some of these names."

A stapled sheath of papers was handed to him and Irving shook his head as he read the names. "What do these notations mean? Any idea?"

Freddy held up a composition book, "See here, the numbers are his catalogue system, the letters I haven't figured out, maybe people's initials? I'm guessing the names and stars on the last page speak for themselves. If this is true, Mr Rollins certainly got his share, and then some."

Irving scanned down the page, marveling at some names, shaking his head at others. It was only when he reached the bottom that he was rocked back on his heels.

"Ok Freddy, let's see if you do have this figured out." He read off the cryptic information next to the name.

"Ah, I thought you were going to challenge me. That number means it one of his last entries...here, this folder...what you want should be in here."

"Here it is," Freddy handed a notebook to Irving. "Hey boss, my kids game starts at 4, do you mind if I call it a day?"

"No Freddy, no problem, I'll see you next week. Enjoy the game, say 'hi' to the family."

Irving sat down at his desk, opened the notebook and flipped through the pages until he came to a page entitled "Where's Wanda?"

+=+=+=+=+

My life is no longer my own. My time is no longer mine to schedule. It's spoken for, and then some. Even my mind seems ruled by others. Piano scores float through my dreams like a ticker tape parade. I'm definitely in the deep end of the pool - and I can't sleep! I look at the clock and note the passing of another quarter hour. Midnight Saturday is in the rear view mirror, it's 4 fucking 30 in the morning! SHIT!

And it's too goddamn quiet!

I'm a city kid. Born and raised in an undeniably urban environment. The only wild animals I've ever encountered were barking dogs, scurrying rats, and pigeons shitting everywhere on everything. The nocturnal sounds of my life are missing and noted all too keenly. There are no buses accelerating or braking, no taxis honking, no sirens wailing in pursuit or rescue, and strangest of all, no people arguing. It's deathly quiet and it fucking freaks me out. Like being in some crappy horror movie where the silence is the precursor to impending doom.

Then again, maybe it's the gig. Maybe it's me worrying too much about going out on the road. Going on the Giles Tour.

None of this is what I was familiar with - wait, let me rephrase that. It's not the music, that's actually been my saving Grace. It's everything else.

A couple of weeks ago I was a happy and successful studio musician, Jimmy the Kid or Jimmy the Fixer. I was making a decent living. Then unlooked for and unsought, I found myself involved in a serendipitous audition for the Giles quintet. A movie scoring gig had ended early, and one of the musicians, bassist extraordinaire Jerome Harrison, had asked if I wanted to go to a local jazz club for drinks and maybe get a bite to eat. Sure, why not?

It was a fucking set up!

I found myself right next to the stage, sitting at a small table with Jerome's youngest daughter, the stunningly attractive Wanda Harrison. We were enjoying our first drink, and I was pretty sure I was making some headway with her (hey, at least she hadn't gotten up and walked out!) That's when the trap was sprung. Three songs into the first set the piano player, Scotty Jefferson, looked sick or was somehow otherwise indisposed. The band took a quick break to deal with Scotty's situation and before I could flag the waitress for a fresh beer - I was nose to nose with Giles - and he was asking me if I wanted to sit in.

Fuck yeah I want to sit in! I was amped. I didn't even think about Wanda as I practically jumped up on the stage. Jerome told me the songs that would complete the first set of the night. I sat down at the piano. And that's when it really hit me -- oh shit, I'm sitting in with the Giles quintet!

Thus began an intense initiation into the dangers of NOT being careful what you wish for. Every time I thought I was finding my stride and getting comfortable with the band, they'd take off in a totally different direction and that was that. Somehow, I survived, although I probably lost ten pounds in fear induced sweat by the time the performance was complete. We all went backstage only to find the aforementioned Scotty Jefferson laughing his fucking ass off as he continued to drink and smoke while asking me if I enjoyed my audition.

My audition? Well fuck me! This was my audition!?

That's how I became a member of the Giles quintet. We played the club where I auditioned for two more weeks, during which time I was busy wrapping up my studio commitments. Then I was moved into a funky old trailer on Jerome's property in northern New Jersey. At "The Farm" I was spending double digit hours per day going over the entire catalog of Giles songs, plus I was practicing with the band for the upcoming tour. Grueling sessions - to say the least - both physically and mentally. Fortunately, the time to go out on the road was approaching, it actually sounded like a nice respite.

So here I lie in a bed not my own, in a trailer that hasn't moved in years, replaying in my head a dozen score of Giles songs. Couple that with the absence of my urban soundtrack and it bugs me to no end. After yet another fifteen minute clock check, "Fuck it, I might as well have something to eat."

I got out of bed, found the light switch and rummaged around through empty cabinets and drawers, realizing too slowly that a few days previous I had planned to go shopping. Oh right, I don't own a car. Fuck!

I was pondering my next move when a soft knock on the side of the trailer was followed immediately by the trailer door opening. Wanda, her hair going every which way, moved into the dim light. She was not smiling.

When I first met Wanda, at my Giles audition, she was a stunningly put together young woman. Her hair was perfect, her make up so subtle as to draw you in closer, her fashion sense impeccable, and her perfume intoxicating.

This was a different Wanda.

"Your trailer light shines up into my window, and the sound of doors and drawers opening and closing carries right up into my bedroom."

Wanda Harrison was Jerome's youngest daughter. I suppose some would say I was a fool when I first met her, before redeeming myself during my audition. As the daughter of a professional musician, and someone whose entire life has been peppered with musicians, and musicians families, and the various followers of musicians, not to mention all of the associated support and business people Wanda had been openly amused when she had returned to the table we'd shared, to find me no longer sitting across from her, but up on stage at the piano.

Hey, I'd told her I was a musician.

She did give me some encouraging smiles and quiet applause throughout my audition. Then she joined us for our post performance dinner. Wanda and I ended up sitting next to each other, touching thigh to thigh. I didn't try to move any closer, and she didn't attempt to move away. I struggled mightily to avoid looking down her blouse when I was talking to her dad who sat on her other side. My efforts, while oblivious to Wanda, caused her father no end of merriment.

As stated previously the weeks that followed were spent wrapping up my studio commitments. Then came those long hours of practice. I'd hardly seen, let alone spoken to Wanda. Yet now, here she was wrapped in a robe complaining about the noise I was making.

Crap.

I decided to exercise some of Ms Ketchum's common sense advice and apologize for my unintended but clearly ill-mannered behavior. I inhaled to speak.

That's when I finally noticed that the material of Wanda's robe was very thin, even flimsy. And her every movement, even her every breath was accompanied by the subtle gyration of her nipples pressing against the material.

I did not look away fast enough, Wanda caught me. Her response was to stand straighter in clear indignation. That only made her nipples press more dramatically against the material, I noticed that too. The combination of the two caused an obviously male response. My neglected dick expressed it's complaint of non use by pushing resolutely through the fly of my boxers, pointing right at Wanda.

She was not oblivious to that. And a death glare of epic intensity was aimed right back at me.

Her shoulders and arms moved, I was sure she was about to hit me.

And that was the very moment when the robe Wanda was wearing was shrugged off her shoulders, caught for a moment on her nipples only to pool at her feet. Wanda Harrison stood before me unflinchingly nude. The perfection of her naked form struck me dumb.

My undressing was as simple as Wanda pushing my boxers down and letting them fall to the trailer floor.

Wanda pushed past me and in the narrow confines there was simply not enough room. Her nipples dug furrows across my ribs, as my cock pressed against her abdomen leaving a slippery snail trail. Her wiry thatch of pubic hair tickled my thighs.

"Eager are we?" That was Wanda's succinct comment regarding my already stiff and twitching dick, we hadn't even kissed. My thoughts were bouncing back and forth between "who cares, I'm getting laid" and "you idiot, don't mess this up." I offered Wanda first position on the bed but she demurred and told me "lay your ass down on that bed. Now. You won't be of any use to me at all if I don't give you a blowjob first. So lay back, and warn me before you come. It's okay if you come in my mouth, but I want a warning otherwise you'll get your one and we will be done. Understood?"

Wow, a woman who knew just what she wanted - and told you plainly.

Then I caught the inference that there was the possibility that this could be more than just a one time thing.

So yes - no fool here - I did warn her. And I did cum in her mouth - voluminously (remember, I've been busy with tour stuff.) I figured she'd spit it out in a tissue, the sink, or toilet. Nope, that was not what happened, Wanda swallowed. I was still mostly hard when she climbed up, lined up, and sat down on me. My recovery time or expected longevity was no longer an issue.

Wanda fucked me with vivacious vigor. She made all kinds of happy noises before I finally warned her that I was about to cum again. Her reply was a simple and direct, "Go ahead, I'm safe."

She kept going even after I came and soon we were a squishy and messy mixture of my cum and hers. She came again, a silent shuddering spasm ending with her collapsing on my chest. I was nowhere near hard again when she pulled up and off. I got the feeling she thought we were done. She was wrong.