The Art of Making Love

The Art of Making Love

D. Van Robinson

© Copyright 2011 Fave Media

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my brother-from-another-mother, the late Herman Alvin Polk, Jr. May you continue to rest in God’s perfect peace.

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Chapter One – Arthur

The cold November wind caressed my face as I sat in front of Club Pulse, the hottest jazz club in the ATL. Alvin pulled up in his black Range Rover—late as usual. I chose to be on time because after all, I was on his payroll.

We met at a local talent showcase a couple of years ago. Alvin was more like a mentor than an employer. He was continuously teaching me about the business and how to preserve the art of live instrumentation. Before Alvin came along, I was a struggling music student trying to find my way—but he gave me a chance.

He stepped out the Range rocking a black, leather overcoat draped over a brown turtleneck and jeans. His bald head shined brighter than the diamond studs in his ears—looking like an urban halo above his salt and pepper goatee. At 6’4", Alvin looked like a retired NBA star. He walked towards me, fumbling to find the keys to the door.

What’s good, young blood? he stopped at the steps.

I stood up to greet him face to face and gave him some dap. It’s 4:30, man. I thought you said four o’clock? I adjusted my backpack on my shoulder.

I had a lil’ business I had to wrap up, he replied.

A lil’ business, huh? I raised my eyebrow and shook my head with a grin. A ‘little business’ meant he was caught in a little’ afternoon delight’ and lost track of time.

Yeah, he chuckled. You know how it is. Let’s get out this cold air—I can’t have you getting sick on me!

Alvin unlocked the door and we walked inside. He turned on the house lights and took off his jacket. I walked up to the stage to flip the switch on the amplifiers and keyboards while Alvin went to the back to turn on the sound mixer.

Tonight is gonna be packed! he yelled across the floor. I can feel it! Wall to wall women and dudes buying ‘em drinks! The clicks and buzz of the amplifiers powering on followed his outburst.

I hope so, I replied and I started to pick at the keys of the keyboard. Gimme a little more gain on the keys, Al!

Alvin turned up the volume until my jazz chords flowed through the room. I clicked on the microphone in front of me. Testing…testing…one, two, and three…yeah --that’s good right there.

When the rest of them knuckleheads getting here?! Alvin shouted.

I spoke into the mic, I told them six o’clock.

Cool. Let’s go in my office so we can talk! Alvin marched down the hallway in the back of the club and I followed.

The last time we had to talk, Alvin revised my contract and paid me and the fellas more money. Talks were a good thing…usually. By the time I walked into his office, he was already at his desk.

I did a lot of promoting for tonight, man. A lot of industry cats will be in the building.

That’s nothing new, I took a seat in the chair across from him. We’ll definitely be on point, Al. Don’t worry about that.

He sat up and placed his forearms on his desk. "I’m not talking about a bunch of A&R reps and wannabe producers running around looking for their next baby mama. I’m talking about real industry cats coming to hear you."

What are you talking about?

What I’m talking about is that you are talented, Art. You got more talent than most of the so-called artists on the radio, he pointed at me. You are a REAL musician who takes pride in your craft.

I was humbled, I still got a long way to go, man. I’m only twenty f...

You underestimate yourself, Art, he interrupted. You got your own band, making a living as a working musician. But from where I’m sitting, you’re afraid to go to the next level, so I’m gon’ help you.

How are you planning to do that?

I’m shutting down the club for a few weeks. Alvin pounded his palms on the desk. I’m doing some upgrades and getting a mural painted on the wall.

Shutting down the club meant no gigs. No gigs meant no money. No money meant no rent. This was his way of ‘helping me’ to the next level? What was the next level…poverty?

I—I don’t understand, Alvin. Shutting down the club means no check for me. The rest of the fellas are still in school, but this is how I eat, man. My voice shook.

You think I’m gon’ keep you from eating? After all we’ve been through? He sounded like I had insulted him. That’s why I got the heavy hitters coming in tonight. I’ve already got some studio work lined up for you. I got some people who saw the band on YouTube and they’re coming tonight to hear you perform live…as a formality. This is gonna open up some big doors for you and I’ve just been waiting for the right time.

But Alvin, I love playing at the club, I contested. It ain’t the same in some stuffy-ass studio.

Arthur, I’m talking about cats willing to pay you five large over the next four weeks…plus expenses. His massive fingers spread out to symbolize the enormity of the cash.

I raised my left eyebrow. You know, I love the feel of the studio. We both laughed. Are you serious?

As a heart attack, young blood. It’s time to YouTube and Facebook and really get in the business. I think you’re ready.

Meanwhile, you’re gonna shut down the club get a mural painted?

Yeah, I got this really talented young artist flying in to knock out this mural idea I’ve had for a while, he said. If I’m gonna keep being featured in the AJC and TV stations, I need to upgrade the image…y’know what I’m saying?

I feel you.

Alvin looked at me and smirked. You thought I had some bad news, didn’t you? he chuckled.

I didn’t know what to think.

Well, now you know. I have nothing but the utmost of confidence in you and I know you’re destined for some big things. I just need you to believe in yourself just as much, if not more, he added.

I know, Al. It’s just that back in the da…

It’s just nothing! he frowned. I’ve been investing in your future, not that bullshit in the past that seems to keep you bound in frustration. You got to rebuke that shit, man!

You sound like a ghetto preacher, I laughed.

Well, what can I say? I was listening to my man, Creflo on the way over here.

I stood up, I appreciate you for believing in me. I’m gonna go warm up before the fellas get here.

Speaking of them, you keep this to yourself, Alvin instructed. I know they’re your boys, but you are the leader and – at the end of the day – they play the music you write. Plus I know they got finals coming up so this break will help them stay in them books. You feel me?

I feel you, Al.

Go warm up, man. Just remember the cardinal rule of life…above anything else.

And what’s that? I asked.

Never, ever, EVER…under ANY circumstances…play yourself.

I knew he was referring to the time when he and I met—when I almost threw away my college career over a woman. It’s not a proud moment and I still deal with the fact that I almost ruined my future over a love that was never real. Those memories were buried deep in my mind, and now was not a time for them to resurface. Alvin literally ushered me into the life I have today: a young bandleader respected throughout the South. And here he is again, betting his resources and connections on my talents. I was not going to let him down.

Chapter Two – Arthur

After running through a few songs, the first band member to show up was Theodore Johnston, aka Ted. I met him at his father’s church in Decatur a few years ago. He was one the nastiest bass players in the city and despite offers to join other bands, he was loyal to us.

Ted was the choir boy of the bunch. He didn’t drink, smoke and still dating his high school sweetheart. If he wasn’t in the Clark Atlanta library, he was with his girl or practicing with us. As a former star football player at Lakeside High, he kept that stocky, physique well into his twenties. And those sausage-like fingers helped him perfect his sound and earn the nickname Chocolate Thunder.

What’s the business?! he yelled as he walked into the club.

Just warming up, I replied. You know how I do.

Yeah, I know—early as usual.

You heard from DeJuan or Silas?

Ted took off his coat and unzipped his four-string bass out its case. Silas just pulled up behind me and I just talked to DeJuan on his cell. He’s down the street at Burger King. He pulled out his ¼ amp cord and looked around. Everything’s turned on?"

Everything is on and waiting for you to plug in, I answered. Where’s your girl?

Mad at me ‘cause I ain’t going to revival tonight, Ted lamented. I’m telling you, Art…she’s getting worse than my father. But the real reason she’s trippin’ is because she has a solo tonight and I won’t be there.

Dayum Ted, y’all been dating since forever. So what if you miss a church service? This is your job—she doesn’t understand that?

She understands it about as much as my father does, man, he answered. But you know, that’s just women. Ted paused for a second before placing his amp cord into the monitor. Well, maybe you don’t know.

And what’s that supposed to mean? I asked.

It ain’t like you got some woman breathing down your neck on a regular. I don’t see how you do it. Week after week, you got women practically handing you the draws and you don’t take advantage.

It’s about the music for me, Ted, I smiled. Women are too much of a distraction.

You know, the fellas think you on the ‘down low’ or something, Ted confessed. I mean…I know better, but I’m just saying.

I stopped playing on that comment. Who thinks I’m on the down low?

You know you gay! screamed Silas from the door, pointing his drumsticks in my direction. Just admit it, man. We’re not here to judge!

Oh, you got jokes? I fired back.

Silas – a lanky loudmouth and professional college student – walked onstage, took off his bomber jacket and threw it the drum set. If Ted was the stockiest member, Silas had to be the skinniest. Our resident percussionist was never at a loss for words, yet rarely had anything meaningful to say. I think he was trying to compensate for the fact that light-skinned brothers weren’t fashionable anymore.

I met Silas Thomas at Morris Brown while attending a music workshop a few years back. He got kicked off the drum line for always managing to start fist fights he with rival schools. They almost sent him back to the south side of Chicago, but his grades were good and his alumni/politician father was even better. He’s finally one semester shy of getting his degree and for the most part, he’s learned to control his temper – but not his mouth.

When was the last time you even seen some pussy? he continued. All you do is stand behind that keyboard like you Herbie Hancock.

I hope your drumming skills come with as much heat as your mouth tonight, I replied. Alvin said we’re gonna have a full house.

Oh, that’s what’s up, Ted chimed in.

Silas sat down at his drum set and started adjusting the high hat. We always started rehearsals with some sort of banter. There was always this perception that being a musician was synonymous with being somewhat of a whore and Silas was the epitome of that stereotype. At the same time, he never missed an opportunity to remind me that I was the opposite that description.

Don’t think you gon’ avoid the subject tonight, Silas continued, When you are gon’ get you some ass?

What makes you think I ain’t getting none, Silas? I asked. Just because I wasn’t walking out of the club with a different woman every weekend didn’t give him a right to judge my flow…or lack thereof.

’Cause you ain’t and I know it! he shouted as the high hat slammed together. You’re the leader of this band, dawg. You should be swimming in booty – more than all of us. Well, except for Marriage Bed Ted over there.

Don’t even start, man. Ted interjected.

It’s like I was saying before you came in, I kept it cool even though Silas was starting to irritate me, women are distractions and I ain’t got time for that right now. They get under your skin like cancer. They say they love you and wanna take care of you and that’s when they start eating away at you ‘til there’s nothing left.

Silas looked at me, then looked at Ted before bursting into laughter. Dude, you need Doctor Phil or somebody to work out your issues! It ain’t even that serious, Art. I’m just talking ‘bout sparking off a session every now and again…not falling in love and all that bullshit.

It all leads to the same thing, man…destruction, I concluded.

Damn nigga, you need a hug! Silas cackled.

Just in the nick of time, our saxophonist walked in to disrupt this meaningless dialogue. DeJuan Patterson was the youngest and probably the most ambitious. He and Silas were roommates during their first two years at Morris Brown. DeJuan juggled school, cutting hair at a barbershop and playing with us for the past three months. He was a pretty boy on the grind.

DeJuan and Silas no longer lived together, but they were still cool. Silas was the thick-headed, loudmouth while DeJuan was the polished, wanna-be-something-when-I-grow-up brother. We shared the same passion for musicianship and he reminded me of myself at twenty-two: very eager and into academics…not letting anything distract him from his goals. He was to me what I was to Alvin…a musical progeny.

What’s goin’ on, fellas? a gust of cold air followed him from the outside.

What’s up Patterson? Silas invited him into the conversation. We were just sitting here talking about how Arthur likes hot cocks up his ass instead of warm titties in his hands.

What? DeJuan looked perplexed.

Never mind him, D. Ted explained. Silas is just being…Silas. Meanwhile, Silas continued to laugh in the background.

A look of understanding covered DeJuan’s face. Oh, I get it,