text: The fire at the Cascade Arms in Roseland was a five alarm blaze that reduced the place to rubble. I was working the swing shift at Advocate Trinity Hospital when the ambulances brought in a half dozen of the residents suffering from smoke inhalation. The neighborhood around Cascade Arms is predominantly black and poor. Known to most folks as Section Eight Housing. I don’t live far from there and I am all of those things, too. During my senior year, I became part of a special program where I receive training as a medical aide for a future career in the medical field. I hate to brag, but this is a much better outcome than a lot of my classmates from Buchanan High School, because half of the student body is serving their first prison term for possession. Assigned to the swing shift from 4 pm to midnight, I sometimes get to see first hand the damage being done by people facing the worst demons of addiction. “Brecker, give me a hand with this one.” Slim Walton called out as they wheeled this octogenarian patient on a gurney with an oxygen tube already placed over in his nose. Slim accurately describes his physical presence. “Sure.” I hustled over to the side of the gurney. “He’s pretty feisty.” Slim warned. Slim accurately describes his physical presence. Sometimes he looks like an unlit match with his tall lean shape wrapped in his scrubs and his unruly afro shooting out from his head. Slim has been at Advocate for almost ten years and has been through just about every medical emergency you can imagine. He is my mentor who weekly signs off my training records. “I punch ya righteously.” The elderly man raised his fists just to emphasize the point. “Says his name is George Bryson.” Slim read it off the report the ambulance crew handed Slim. “Dat’s raght.” He coughed. “Take it easy old-timer.” Slim shook his head. “He’s-” “Ain’ no old timer. Doncha give me that-” He struggled to get up. “Hey, hey, lie back.” I put my hand on his emaciated sunken chest. “I ain’ gonna...” He pouted. “Feisty, right?” Slim shook his head. “Put him in Room 14 up ahead.” “How are you feeling, Mr. Bryce?” I asked as Slim turned the gurney into the room. “I’m fine. Wanna go home.” He squawked. “You don’t have a home anymore. The place went up in smoke.” I explained. “I didn’ have nuthin’ to do with it.” He poked his bony finger into my side. “Never said you did.” I put my hand out to prevent him from continuing to poke me in the side. He was a black male whose age was undetermined with a naked dome and silver hair surrounding his bald head like a halo. Slim was right in saying he was an octogenarian. Even if he wasn’t eighty years old, he was coming up to that neighborhood quickly. Slim left to assist with other patients coming in from the Cascade Arms. “Do you have any relatives we need to get a hold of, Mr. Bryce?” I asked as part of my routine questioning. “None thats wants to talk to me.” He shook his head. Nobody? Yeah, that figures. Most people who live in that part of Chicago don’t have anyone keeping tabs on them. Dr. Bolden walked in already gloved and gowned. “Who we got here Landry?” “George Bryce.” I answered. “Well Mr. Bryce, we are going to have a look at you to make sure you’re in good shape.” Dr. Bolden was a very outgoing ER doctor who made an effort to build a rapport with some of the patients who came into our ER. “I’m in good shape, lemme tell ya.” His high pitched voice rang out. “We got some patients from your apartment complex who got hurt in that fire.” Dr. Bolden looked at Mr. Bryce over his glasses. “How old are you?” “I’m old enough.” He nodded. “How ‘bout a number?” Dr. Bolden glanced over at me. “Eighty three.” He scowled. “And we want to be sure we take very good care of you.” Dr. Bolden nodded, “If you want to go, Landry, feel free. Me and Mr. Bryce are going to have a look under the hood.” Growing up, my grandpa told me about the excitement of the Cotton Club in Harlem where he worked as a busboy before the war. “Let me tell you about The Cotton Club on 142cd Street in Harlem. Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and Bessie Smith all came to perform there. Man, those were the days.” He would tell me before he passed away from some kind of cancer mama didn’t want to talk about. I remember how my grandpa Waldo Young would tell me all kinds of stories as he sat in his chair. Mama would roll her eyes when he started telling one of his famous yarns. She would tell me how her father would liberally mix fiction in when he told one of his stories of his life. It doesn’t matter, because I still enjoyed listening to his smooth, calm voice as he told one of his stories. No one argued with him about his time in the 92cd Infantry in Italy. It was a colored unit supporting the Fifth Army as they fought their way up the peninsula. His uniform was hung proudly in his closet in his room that he occupied after grandma passed away from a heart condition. “Yeah, that was one heck of a fight back then. Hitler threw everything he had at us as we came up from Sicily. Lost some close friends.” He would say, his eyes glistening with tears. “Dad, please don’t tell him any of the stories you told me when I was a kid.” She would warn him. “I know...I know.” His voice was thick. “How is Mr. Bryce?” I asked Dr. Bolden later when I saw him at the station filling out paperwork. “He is a hard one, Landry.” He chuckled. “He told me he once played at the Cotton Club in Harlem.” “No kidding, my grandpa told me he used to work there before the war.” I shook my head. “I must say his story was pretty fantastic, but then I question some of his memories.” He sighed. “How come?” I asked. “He has evidence of advanced Altizimers.” He shrugged. “He said his stage name was Count Massey. Go figure.” Like when I listened to my grandpa, I wanted his stories to be real and while I did not know Mr. Bryce very well, I felt he deserved to have someone listen and believe in what he had to say. “Was he discharged?” I asked. “Naw, not yet.” Dr. Bolden shook his head, “And if we discharge him, he doesn’t have anywhere to go. We’re kinda stuck on this one.” I saw the dilemma. “I am not running a boarding house.” My mama told me as she stood at the bottom of the stairs with her car keys in her hand, ready to run off to work at the store in the mall. I had just asked her about George Bryce staying in the spare room until Section Eight could find him another place to live. “He’s an eighty three year old man. He needs to be in a nursing home where I should have put my own father when he got bad.” “He’s just like grandpa. He used to work at the Cotton Club.” I added hoping to improve my case. “Your grandpa never worked there, Landry.” She put her hands on her hips which meant I was not going to win this argument. “He lived in Harlem before he went off to war, but that was it.” “His stage name was Count Massey.” I shrugged. She gave me a look like she could not believe she was listening to my nonsense. “I am going to be late for work. Watch your brother until Mrs. Smith comes over to watch him.” She shook her head as she walked out the door. In a minute she was on her way to work leaving me to feel defeated. “Gangsters used to come in. I mean like Lucky Luciano.” Grandpa would tell me as he sat in his chair after watching The Price is Right . “Dad, don’t fill his head with all that nonsense.” Mama would call him from the kitchen. “Bah.” He would wave his hand, “She, she is always telling me not to do this or not to do that.” “So what did your mom say?” Slim asked on our break in the staff room as we sipped on our sodas. “No.” I pouted. “You didn’t really expect her to say yes, did you?” He laughed. “We had grandpa living there before he died and her sister with ALS until she died.” I explained. “Maybe she’s tired of hospice care.” Slim shook his head. “Yeah, funny.” “C’mon Lan, she has never met Mr. Bryce. He could be a serial killer for all she knows.” Slim said before slurping the last of his soda, “C’mon we gotta get back.” Later there were three gunshot victims and one fentanyl overdose. In between emergencies, I managed to check on Mr. Bryce. He was sleeping soundly, so I let him be. “Count Basie, Ella Fitzgerald, Fats Waller, Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie, Nat King Cole, Billie Holiday, and Ethel Waters. And Cab Calloway leading the orchestra. That Landry was the Golden Age of Jazz.” Grandpa would close his eyes as he recalled the magic of this place. “Bah-bah-bah-bah followed by four more beats then a quick change on the third measure Be-bah. Be-bah. Be-bah. Be-bah. It was magic. The arrangement made you want to move your feet. Wonderful. Wonderful. Your grandma and me would spend hours dancing to them tunes. I’ll never forget the way she’d look up at me while we was dancin.’ It was pure magic. Pure magic.” “He’s asking for you.” Dr. Bolden came into the breakroom as we were getting ready to leave. “Me?” I was confused. “Yeah. He woke up for some reason.” Dr. Bolden crossed his arms over his scrubs, “I still have no idea what they are going to do with him.” “I asked my mom and she gave me a flat no.” I shook my head. “Pull up a chair.” Mr. Bryce waved to the empty chair next to his bed. “You wanted to see me?” “I did.” His voice was clear, “I’ve been told you had a grandpa who worked at the Cotton Club.” “Yes sir.” “What did he tell you about the place?” He asked with his eyes open wide. “About the entertainers mostly.” “I was once one of them, you know.” He smiled and sat back in the bed. “I played the piano for Billie Holiday. She was so sweet, I tell ya.” He sniffed, “It was a great time to be alive. I sat and chatted with Langston Hughes one night when the music was on fire.” I sat on the edge of my chair as he nodded like these folks were right there in the room with us. “I met Groucho Marx.” He laughed, “He sat there and cracked me up with all of his one liners. He’s the one who called me a count, likes I was royalty or sumpton. Count Massey. That’s me.” He closed his eyes as tears rolled down his face, “Of course, it was a place where black folks could go and not have to worry about what they could and could not say. Back then they’d lock ya up if’n ya disrespected a white person, but in dat place, anything went. We got to be ourselves. We got to say what was on our mind. We danced the way we was meant to dance. I was the Great and Honorable Count Massey. That name came from my father. Massey. He was the man took my daddy away wearing a white hood. Next time I seen him, he be hanging from a tree.” He paused for a moment to recompose himself. I could see how troubled he was carrying that memory. “I lay in the bushes when he come riding in his buckboard. I raised up where he could see me as I pulled the trigger of the shotgun my daddy owned. I heard him cry out as he fell from his wagon. I know’d I’d have to be leaving Mississippi right then. Never even got to say goodbye to my mama. Just caught a box car to St. Louis and then hitched on a train to New York. When I needed money, I played piano for it. Things was diff’rent back then.” His voice was just a harsh rasp. He closed his eyes again and I left the room knowing he needed to rest. I had goosebumps when I walked out his room. “What did the old man say?” Dr. Bolden asked, standing behind the nurse’s station counter. “What it was like to play piano at the Cotton Club.” I answered. “Do you believe him?” He asked. “Why wouldn’t I believe him?” “Because he’s not reliable.” Dr. Bolden said. “How do you know?” I was a bit irritated. “No reason. He was just delusional earlier in the day. Well, he was talking to God when I walked into the room.” Dr. Bolden shrugged. “Prayer-” “Landry, he wasn’t praying, he was arguing with God. He was telling God a thing or two.” Dr. Bolden tilted his head, “He has been here before. He comes in for pain medication. Apparently he knows someone who will give him a handful of medication. Happens all the time. I wish I could stop it, but I know I can’t.” “Dad!” Mama cried when he was trying to get out the front door. “I needs to go home.” His voice was heavy with emotion, “Your mama needs me.” “Dad, mama’s been gone for eight years.” She told him, taking his hand. “Can’t be true, honey, can’t be.” He shook his head. “It is dad. It is.” She led him back to his chair. “I jus’ wan’s to go home, honey.” His voice was pleading. “Dad, this is your home.” She shook her head as he sat down. “No honey, I gots a home down the road. It has silk curtains and nice tapestry on the floors.” He insisted. “Take your medication.” She held the pills in her hand. “No, I won.’ Dem pills be makin’ me sicker.” He shook his head and kept his mouth closed so she could not shove them in his mouth. “Landry, if you want to keep in your program, I suggest you report to Mr. Walton, pronto.” Head Nurse Wanda Pallor snapped when she saw me sitting in a chair in the waiting room wiping up my tears. “Yes ma’am.” I stood up. “Where’s ya been, Lan?” Slim asked as he swung a mop across the floor. “I was told to find you if I wanted to keep in the program.” I was steamed. “Ah, you must’ve run into Nurse Pallor.” He smiled. “How did you know?” “She be the only one say stuff like that.” He waved his finger at me. “Hey, it’s been pretty slow tonight after all that fuss earlier. Why doncha take an early walk home?” “Won’t Nurse Pallor get mad?” “She’s already mad. Mad as a hatter.” He laughed. “So how was old Mr. Bryce?” “He told me stories about the Cotton Club.” “Yeah, we gots place along the shore that are just as famous. We got ribs and the blues. Ribs and blues. I’ll take out to one of them places.” Slim rinsed his mop in the bucket. “Alright, it’s a date...well not like that.” I laughed. “Keep it light, dude.” He winked as I turned to leave. When I got to Advocate the next day, Slim caught me in the hall. “Gotsome bad news.” His head hung low. “Wha’ up?” “Mr. Bryce managed to get on the roof. One of the security guards said he was having an argument with somebody up there.” He pointed to the ceiling, “And then he stepped off the ledge.” “Oh no.” I felt as if someone had punched me right in the gut. “Are you gonna be okay?” He asked as I collapsed into a chair. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” I sucked in some air. “Bah-bah-bah-bah followed by four more beats then a quick change on the third measure Be-bah. Be-bah. Be-bah. Be-bah and start all over again Bah-bah-bah-bah.” “What?” Slim’s face twisted into a question mark. “It’s the blues.” “The blues?” Slim shrugged. “Yeah...” I could hear the blue notes as they fell from the stars above.