Jazz Hand

Two days ago, saxophonist Kamasi Washington released his latest ninety-minute jazz album, prompting a text message to my friend Connor about it.

“Trigger warning!” he replied.

In November 2017, Connor and I attended a Kamasi concert in Northampton, Massachusetts, a peaceful hippie haven. It marked the first jazz concert I’d seen. When attending shows, Connor and I used to abuse ourselves by each drinking a pitcher of beer beforehand, deciding to drink an equivalent amount prior to this concert. Connor, a man with Type 2 diabetes, once said to me, “I only drink on three occasions: when I mow my lawn, when I attend events, and when I see you. And Adam, you are an event.”

As you might guess, it was one of the greatest compliments I’ve ever received. Did it mean he needed to drink more when attending an event with me? Maybe. We each ordered a sandwich and three absurdly high alcohol by volume stouts after drinking a couple Heineken cans in the parking lot prior to the meal. Now almost blotto enough to attempt to enjoy the show, we went to our seats after acquiring another round of beers from the concessions area.

We talked at the pub about how being in the third row was going to yield excellent views of each band member, unprepared for the venue removing the standard orchestra seats to create a standing room only pit section. Stripped of any self-consciousness, I decided to cross my feet on top of the seat to the front right of me since nobody was sitting there, Connor and I relaxing in between sets after a hip-hop artist opened for Kamasi’s band.

“Would you mind taking your feet off that seat?” an older, well-dressed man in his sixties asked me. “That’s my wife’s seat.”

“I will whenever she comes to her seat,” I told him. “But right now it’s not bothering anyone.”

“Really?” he said, unprepared for my rebuff. It seemed like that was the end of our dialogue, but then he muttered, “You piece of shit.”

After a few minutes, the man and his equally well-dressed wife came to their seats, not the ones in front of Connor and me, but beside us. “Why did he care about the seat she wasn’t sitting in?” I thought to myself. The man sat next to me to spare his wife any of my future impertinence. Unfortunately, he was oblivious to the fact that his challenge had been accepted.

“Remember when you wouldn’t take your legs off that seat, Adam?” Connor asked me. “You were such a piece of shit for that!”

“How much of a piece of shit was I?”

“Oh, were you a real fucking piece of shit, Adam. You’ve always been a piece of shit, but this is the biggest piece of shit thing you’ve ever done!”

“Well, fuck me, dude!”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Cheat on my wife with a piece of shit like you! She knows what a piece of shit you are!”

“I didn’t mean it literally. I’m not that much of a piece of shit!”

“Oh, yes you are, and you know it. You’re the biggest piece of shit I’ve ever met!”

I could feel the man seething, breathing heavier as he occasionally elbowed my right arm. Contrary to my past behavior, I somehow showed restraint while continuing to egg him on for losing his cool. After a final zinger, he excused himself to speak with one of the venue’s security staff for a couple minutes as I glanced at his helpless, nonverbal wife, wondering what might transpire.

“So, this gentleman said there was an incident,” the security guy told Connor and me after consulting with another venue employee. “Nobody’s in trouble, but the two seats on the aisle in the row in front of you guys are unsold, so we’re willing to upgrade you both. It would make him and his wife feel more comfortable during the show.”

“Yeah, that’s fine by me,” Connor said, opting to retire our passive aggressive battle without discussing the resolution with me first.

“You know what?” I told the security guy. “I dunno about my friend here, but I fucking love my seat. Probably the most comfortable seat I’ve ever sat in. I’m not leaving it. How about this guy and his wife sit in that fantastic upgrade instead? I’m sure they’ll love it the same way I love my seat.”

The man had returned to his seat as I provided the security guy my counter-offer, and he immediately became enraged by my guile.

“You’re a real fucking asshole, you know that?” he said directly to my face while visibly shaking as he struggled to grab his jacket off the back of his seat.

“Oh, really?” I asked him. “I thought I was a piece of shit!”

“Fuck you!” he said. “You ruined our night. We’re leaving!”

“Why? Those aisle seats are amazing. Or were they good enough for us, but not for you? Talk about a piece of shit offer you made us, huh? Fuck you too!”

I didn’t move my legs as he and his wife made their way by us, and when Connor told me once again what a piece of shit I was, the perfect timing incited the man to pretend like he was extending his arm through his sleeve as he lightly punched Connor in the face, not leaving a mark but a memory. Being a far classier man than I am, he said nothing to security as we watched the man and his wife head to the exit.

“Can you believe that man punched me in the face because you were such a piece of shit, Adam?”

“I’m sorry. I really was a real fucking piece of shit, wasn’t I? I’ll buy the next round.”

As Kamasi and his band began playing, we realized that we couldn’t see anything from our seats, all the people standing in place blocking our view.

“Think I had a point about refusing the upgrade?” I asked Connor.

“Looks like I was the piece of shit. Let’s go.”

We enjoyed the remainder of the show while sobering up from the second-to-last row of the orchestra. The seat in front of me was empty, but I respectfully crossed my legs as the band played “Humility,” my new personal theme song.