MISTY

It was one of those stormy evenings, the kind of weather that could make people think twice about venturing out into the elements. But “The Divine One”, the legendary Sarah Vaugan, was set to perform at the Blue Note.

Founder and owner Danny Bensusan’s business policy was well known: book big-name acts into a classy place with an elegant atmosphere and great food and the place would be packed night after night. That’s exactly what he managed to do and the Blue Note soon became the city’s premier jazz club.

I’d been working as a coat check girl at the Blue Note for a couple of months when I was “discovered”, if one could even call it that. The crew was cleaning up after the final show, me in the “Lost and Found” section of the coat room. It always amazed me how people could leave behind such things as mink coats and solid gold cigarette lighters! Were they that drunk or was money no object for the elite slumming it in “The Village”?

Well, there I was, stashing a forgotten cashmere scarf into the bin, absentmindedly singing ‘Misty’, when I heard a friendly voice behind me.

Hey, you been holding out on me, kid? You’re singing like an angel back here!” It was Danny. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asked.

Michelle” I replied, tapping my name tag with long red fingernails. “Michelle Grant.”

Pointing his index finger and winking, Danny clicked his tongue at me as if we were in cahoots over some kind of secret pact and walked off.

About two weeks later I got called into Danny’s office – something that never happened. I thought for sure I was getting canned but that wasn’t the case. Danny offered me a singing gig as a member of the group that performed with the house band. It was nothing special – just singing ballads while the people danced and dined – but it got me out of the coat check room and on stage. I also got a nice little increase in my paycheck and the clientele started recognizing me as one of the singers. I got to hang out with some pretty big names back then: Lionel Hampton, Carmen McRae, Oscar Peterson and the one-and-only Ray Charles who Danny booked for a full week every year.

So there we were on this particularly nasty night, ears glued to the weather report on the radio, hoping people would still come out in this February snowstorm ….. and we were not disappointed. Slowly the house filled up with fans eager to hear Sarah Vaughan. Danny was beaming, grinning from ear to ear. This was going to be a night to remember. There was just one little hiccup: Sarah Vaughan was nowhere in sight.

Danny kept pacing back and forth, checking his watch every minute. I could see him starting to sweat. Then the call came in: “The Divine One” and her crew were stuck in snow on the FDR Drive! They said they’d get there “as soon as they could” but who knew when that would be?

By now the natives were getting restless and calling out for the show to begin. Danny grabbed me by the elbow and said “It’s up to you, kid. Stall ’em as long as you can. Just get out there, sing something and act like everything’s okay.” Before I could object, Danny shoved me onto the stage; hundreds of eyes stared at me like “Who the hell is this chick?”

I stared back like a deer in headlights; you could hear a pin drop. Even the waiters stopped working. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Danny gesturing for me to get the show started.

I walked up to the mike with feigned confidence and in a hushed tone that got everyone’s attention said “Good evening and welcome to the Blue Note. I’m Michelle Grant and this is ‘Misty’.”

The audience gasped; that was Sarah Vaughan’s signature song. Even Danny and the piano man, Erwin “Sweetness” Brown, looked up in stunned disbelief. I sang the all-too-familiar first three words, “Look at me”, a cappella and “Sweetness” joined in just like we planned it that way.

I sang like my life depended on it and I guess, in a way, it did. When I was done the place was silent, then all hell broke loose, everyone standing on their feet cheering and applauding. I was floored, thrilled that they liked me that much! I twirled around in delight and that’s when I saw “The Divine One” standing about 10 feet behind me. Reality slapped me in the face; the people weren’t applauding for me; they were cheering the arrival of Sarah Vaughan.

I wanted to get off that stage as fast as I could but Sarah took my hands in hers and smiled broadly. She hugged me like a proud mama on her daughter’s wedding day and whispered in my ear “Nice job, honey – but you do know ‘Misty’ is MY song, don’t you? And you ain’t ever gonna sing it again, except maybe in the privacy of your shower! Ain’t that right, sugar?”

I nodded mutely.

Now, what’s your name, honey?” Sarah asked.

I whispered my name and before I had a chance to scramble off the stage, Sarah turned me around to face the audience and raised my arm up in the air like a champion. “How about showing some love to my protégé, Michelle Grant? She took a pretty big leap of faith tonight by jumping into my shoes. That takes guts and I admire her.”

And the people went wild but this time they were clapping for me!

NAR © 2023

IN THE KEY OF GEORGE

With exactly 67¢ in his pocket, George Adams made his trek for a morning cup of coffee. He would walk from his rent-controlled Greenwich Village apartment, buy his coffee and sip it while flipping though his beloved book, “The Complete Organ Method”. 

On this particular morning, he trudged through the slush in his beat-up boots, 67¢ jingling in his pocket. Placing the coins on the counter, he ordered his usual.

“Sorry” said the girl behind the counter. “The price is now 69¢.” 

Befuddled, he exclaimed “I’ve been a patron here for years. The price is always 67¢!” 

Apologizing, the girl explained that she didn’t set the prices. George scooped up his 67¢  muttering “oughta be some laws” and trudged back home. 

George was, to put it nicely, frugal. He grew up during The Depression and knew how difficult his parent’s life was. His father’s last words were Never trust banks!” Fortunately George was an excellent student, earning a scholarship to college and a grant to continue his studies, receiving a Doctorate in Music. 

His first job was assistant organist at Trinity Church. The following year the organist retired. George replaced him and began teaching organ lessons. He made a good salary yet continued his frugal lifestyle by eating canned soup, buying used clothing and drinking 67¢ coffee. 

George’s favorite student was Brad Ridgeway; he reminded George of a young version of himself. Brad worked in the mailroom at Dun & Bradstreet; his salary was so meager the only place he could afford to live was at the YMCA. He was determined to become a great organist some day but music school was beyond his budget. Brad’s parents worked for Walmart back in Ohio and he wouldn’t dream of asking them for money. Times were tough but he just kept on trudging through one day at a time. His only real friend was George; Brad didn’t realize it at the time but George felt the same way about him.

One day at his lesson Brad noticed that George was coughing more than usual and not looking well at all. He asked George if everything was alright, if there was anything he could do. George just shrugged it off, mumbling something about the long-term effects of a case of childhood tuberculosis. At the end of the lesson George handed Brad a small sealed envelope and whispered “Son, if anything should happen to me, I want you to open this. Keep it safe and don’t tell anyone. It’s for your eyes only.” Brad slipped the mysterious enveloped into his pocket, knowing better than to ask any questions. If George wanted him to know more, he’d tell him.

Uncharacteristically, George missed Brad’s next lesson. Brad waited at the church for about fifteen minutes then went to George’s apartment to check on him. The landlord informed him that “the old guy” had passed away in his sleep three days earlier. Crushed, Brad slowly walked home. Suddenly he remembered the envelope. Reaching into his threadbare pocket, he opened it finding a note with a key taped to it and the inscription “For Brad: G.C.S. #520”.

Everyone living in Manhattan knows “G.C.S.” stands for Grand Central Station and the key was obviously for a locker. Brad raced there, found locker #520 and with trembling fingers unlocked it to discover at least fifty paper bags stuffed with $100 bills! Scrawled on each bag was “NEVER TRUST BANKS!”

Dumbstruck, Brad slowly closed the locker and with tears in his eyes, he looked heavenward whispering “Thank you, my dear George!”  

NAR © 2018