John Domini - Highway Trade and Other Stories

GILLARDS PLAYING with my daughter on the park swing set. I just got here. Humming my Sunday blues, wagging my horn case in rhythm and there they are. If the rosebushes hadnt been so ugly, January ugly, I might have walked right into the man. I do like those roses. As it is, the best I can manage is stumbling to a halt. And then my first thought has nothing to do with getting out of there. Instead Im looking those two over, and Im thinking: at least hes got the girl in the right swing. Carries not two yet. She still has to be fitted as deep as shell go into the smallest swing, the middle one of the three on the park set. Its made from a tire, this smallest swing, but its not like your classic down-home tire-swing. This is a tire cut and hung like a crescent moon. Instead of fitting her feet through a center-hole and leaving her back unprotected, Gillard has settled Carrie inside the black rubber U where the inner tube used to be. Her feet stick out the front of the crescent and her back is cradled by the rest. I wouldnt even know it was my daughter in there, if that werent positively Gillard with her. Theres only one cowboy that big with WILLARD crimped in tin across the back of his belt.

But give the man credit, hes making it fun. He squats in front of the girl. Hes there partly so he can catch her if she gets too crazy of course, but mostly so she can feel as if shes the one running the show. On something like every third forward swing, hell puff up his chest, shell stiff out her feet. Annnnd, boom! Plus Gillards so wiry. Even back before the sauce had turned me into such a lard-belly, back a year ago or so when I first taught the girl the game even then I dont think I could have popped up after each kick as fast as old Willy Gilly.

Then finally Ive got my brains again, Im backing off. When I go out on a Sunday Ive got my horn and my Jack Daniels, which these days Ill put in a Diet Coke can. Thats not too much to keep quiet.

Before making any major move, I hug up the case in both arms, pinning the can to it with both hands. Dont take my eyes from those two at the swing set for more than a look-see left-right. Makes things a little pinchy inside my coat, my old Chesterfield, and with the lapel right in my face I can smell last nights smoke. Of course I also have to get a thumb over the opening at the top of the Diet Coke. Then with everything held up tight like that I break sideways. Backwards and sideways, when earlier all I got was maybe one glance at the bench where I figured itd be safe. So naturally I end up going straight into one of the damn rosebushes. I clip off a dead New Years bud or two, break a few soggy thorns with my knuckles. One shoelace catches on something and next thing I know Ive got to drag that foot. But Carrie goes on squealing, and Gillard keeps up his patter. I keep on telling myself that its an honest mistake, coming here, since there arent that many parks in this part of Eugene anyway and the ones down by the Willamette are nothing but lowlife.

Eventually I make it over to my bench. Clouseaud my way through things as usual. Id been planning to set up on the pavilion, off the other side of the swing set. But the afternoons on the sunny side anyway. The clouds have knuckles, but so far theyre holding off from real trouble.

And as soon as I get a decent mouthful from my Diet Coke I can do a little damage control: its okay, its okay. Yes this has got to be a mistake. No way I went out looking for my daughter and my wifes new man. On my Sunday blow I try and keep my mind blank to that kind of situation altogether. Of course its not like word doesnt get around; its not like either me or my ex has no idea what the other one does on a weekend. Granted. But soon as I get my mouthful and open the case on my knees, I can feel what Im really out for.

I mean, Ive been blowing on Sunday ever since I started doing gigs on Saturday. Going on twenty years now. Ive found an opening about one-thirty, two oclock, when church or brunch is done with and Im also out of synch with the serious joggers. Everybodys deep into whatever their home thing is. But with me it gets way too intense for home. Like now Ive got this couple in the apartment upstairs, all their natter-natter and jumping around. I need it cleaner than that. I need to be sure Ill catch the moment when I should put aside the Diet Coke though I do love these sassy gold ones, the caffeine-free and concentrate on my saxophone. There are things you can discover in a more picky and useful way, like knowing when to lift the bridge from one song and take it to another. But you might also get a whole different kind of satisfaction, just making a lot of noise out there. Or then again from time to time youll understand that all you honestly have to do is oil a few keys till theyre quiet again, after which if you hold one of the stoppers open and get the horn up at the right angle you can see some reflections, you can see the trees, or the pavilion itself or some people here and there, and there are moments when you can even find the roses and a couple of the park playthings, all caught and bent a little in that single clean golden stoppers circle not much bigger than a bottle cap. After that of course Ill play.

Except as soon as I start to put the horn together, I can see theres another problem. If I play, Gillard will hear me.

So much for trying to get into my ready groove. I screw the top back on the cork grease. Set the Diet Coke to one side of the bench, the horn (I mean the pieces, halfway there across the velveteen fittings in the case) to the other. Then its round and up onto my knees so I can check out the situation on the swings. Im so flabby now that the most comfortable I can get is by resting my gut on the topmost rail of the bench. But through the skeletons of the rosebushes I can make out Gillards back, Carries feet. Theyre still at it, swingtime boogie. She gets him a good one while Im watching, bang in the chest hard enough to make him whoop like a smoker. Plus theres the bouncy-animals next to the swing-set, the lion and mustang and dolphin all fixed on springs. Just past thems the slide. Most likely the little girls planning on staying a while; I used to start on the swings too. And like I say word gets around, I know what my ex is saying about me these days. I know that one way or another Id come out hurting if Gillard heard me play.

My wife after all was a woman who towards the end would say of my horn: Lets take it to New York. Shed say: Lets take the damn fishhook to L.A., why dont we? Granted, she might have looked angrier than she was. Shes got these very fine lines, the kind of tight-knit hips and shoulders I always think of when I think of Western women. She could glare like if you kissed her, youd cut yourself on her cheekbones. And granted, also, I was no help. How much of my take on the weekends wound up going to the bar tab? But there are rules nonetheless. A person cant go round saying she wants a kid, saying it would be so exciting to have a kid, so Im thinking of like a hokey Christmas card with the whole family in a paper moon or something and then as soon as the first ones born she turns around and starts talking about L.A.? A person cant do that. The woman was from Cottage Grove, just down the highway here, after all. Very small town, very kids-and-family. She should have known what she was getting into.

So now Im back facing front, sitting on the bench like a normal person. But my next hit of Diet Coke is much too heavy; it floods the sinuses. After that its straight to the cork grease and the rest of the horn. I even put the reed in my mouth so I wont be tempted.