-with a step backwards to fix the narrative, and the first song-
The way the man played it was like this, he’d talk-over whatever uselessness the sucker would ante-up as the icebreaker. He’d make his pitch right there and save them all the nice weather talk. Doubly he found the abruptness of the interruption amplified his challenge, and forced the sucker so irrationally onto defence that he overplayed his hand. Often the man was met with an immediate raise in stakes before the guidelines of a bet could be agreed upon.
Something like- “100 bucks says this purse can play any instrument you hand him” met with- “Why not make it 200 pal?”
Even with his skyscraper of disdain for suckers the man was always able to find a gorilla of contempt for the rube that doubled everybody’s losses. Still, any good poker player knows that character is also good for a free drink.
“Buy me a single malt, get your cronies in single file, and you’re on.”
They had chosen that happy hour to walk into a local hotspot across from a concert hall. The place was packed with shirt-collared musicians, marching band misanthropes, and jazz-daddy hipsters- and while the man saw himself as more Vicious and Rotten, he knew this stage better suited the octopus. Rock bars got fighty, nightclubs were too loud, and nobody played ukuleles in dinghies under the shade of parasols anymore. Coming here had been a deliberate move and as the suckers lined up, brass flashing in the sunlight, the octopus began to feel that same satisfaction he excused in the man.
The first musician in line hadn’t scrambled to get there, he simply and coolly walked to the front and the others stepped back. He was young, twenty something with dirty long hair and wry underpinnings, the perfect casting for a coke commercial in 1992. It was obvious he fashioned himself a bit Clint Eastwood in the way he slowly handed over his trumpet- raising it lazily on an outstretched arm and letting it fall forward on his index finger like a sixgun.
The man was fond of a little showmanship, but was seldom outdone. He got up from his stool just in time to receive his scotch from the bartender and made the trumpet player wait, his exaggerated gunfighter gesture seeming more ridiculous with every second, until he’d taken a drink. The man wasn’t the musician of the pair, but he had a diabolical gift for timing. He set down his scotch and without any acknowledgement to the cowboy, took the instrument and handed it to the octopus on the bar.
It was in this action that the octopus seemed most like a pet, such was his giddy anticipation. In the beginning the man had coached him not to be overzealous and grabby, thinking the image of the wiggly tentacles might be frightening. He later reneged while watching the octopus in line for an ice cream cone. The flailing wasn’t scary, it was dopey and if anything, the man felt it might inspire confidence in the sucker. To spare his feelings he never explained this logic to the octopus.
It was a Bach standard weight horn, a New York #7. The octopus also noted it was shiny. He took it eagerly and handled it thoroughly with all but one limb left on the bar for balance. It had first and third finger rings which he found small and annoying, but ultimately inoffensive. He settled on a grip, thought a moment about what he’d like to play, and changed it. The man noticed and discreetly cautioned the octopus not to overdue it on this first tune. The octopus pretended not to see the mans look, sealed up his beak embouchure and warmed-up with a long low C, followed by a beak slip down to G. The man tried not to roll his eyes.
The octopus swelled like a beach ball and punched out the explosive reveille that begins West End Blues. If the crowd had been wearing hats they would’ve collectively blown first up three feet in surprise and then clean off their heads with the gale force of the trumpeter. Then the loping melody, the gentle swinging on a southern summer porch. The octopus played with a bedeviling command of the instrument, so much that the crowd forgot to care about the spectacle.
“Go man go!” And “Boy can that octopus blow!” Shot up from the crowd and the man, wary that the fullness of this con was slipping away, took some relief in that it was a short song.
When the octopus finished, he handed the instrument back to the man, who in turn handed it to it’s owner, now wide-mouthed like a fish. The man collected the $200 and noticed no thinning of the line. This always happened and for the monetary gain of it, the man was pleased, but he mostly liked the con and now these suckers were only lining up to see what the sea creature would do with their instrument.
This is another reason why you choose a bar across the street from a concert hall, the man thought, it takes longer to run out of instruments. With that the man motioned the bartender for another scotch and the suckers clamored to pay for it.
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