Paris in May. D. Grey
families and young people who worked or aspired to work in the arts. Musicians, craftspeople, performance artists, painters, and visual artists of all types trolled the streets, eating establishments, and bars. Creative people were everywhere, and Ken inhaled the atmosphere and wallowed in the possibilities for artistic collaboration. For Ken and other young talented people, the atmosphere on the Lower East Side and every other place in Manhattan crackled with opportunities and hopes for a future in their chosen art. But most of all, the Lower East Side was affordable, and struggling youths could follow their inclinations.
A few days after settling into his new digs, Ken found a restaurant and a bar close to his apartment that would soon become his hangout and practice venue. The place had a small stage and an acceptable piano. If no one was scheduled to play at the bar, Fat John, the owner, would let Ken play. John was the grandson of Ukrainian immigrants who came to the neighborhood and never left. Over the course of three generations, they bought property and opened businesses, legal or otherwise.
“John!” Ken would say. “You’ve got eight tables and a thirteen-stool bar. I see five people. One sleeping and the other four have been nursing a beer for the past hour. You should let me liven the place up.”
“You can play kid, but don’t expect to be paid. I’m not making any money tonight. At this rate, I’ll start losing weight.”
Ken walked to the piano and began experimenting with musical styles that would work in Fat John’s dull, undecorated, stale-beer-smelling joint. After a few minutes, two people came through the door.
“John,” said Ken, “do you mind if I place a tip glass on the piano?”
“If you can get tips, you can keep them,” said Fat John.
Ken walked into the small kitchen and took a large pickle jar from under the counter.
“If you want your money to smell like pickles, sure, you can use it,” John joked.
Ken settled down and began to play a wide range of jazz-inflected songs. In the next half hour, four more people wandered in. But unlike the usual customers, they came because they heard the music.
“I do take requests,” announced Ken. “But it has to be music played in America.”
The few people in the bar began to make requests, and when a piece finished, a dollar or two was placed in the pickle jar. Wisely, Ken continued to take requests, and as more people entered the bar, more bills appeared in the jar. People were sitting at the bar, and the waitress was serving Fat John’s limited finger food and drinks at the tables. Conversations at the bar and at the tables were animated, and the usually laid-back, advice-dispensing bartender was working at close to full capacity. The place was abuzz, and much of the conversation, which was not often heard in the bar, was about music or popular piano players and their styles. Ken and Fat John listened carefully to conversations and noted the tunes being played. Looking around the room, it was clear the patrons were as young as the piano player, and what they liked, he played. Ken had been in the city less than a month and found an audience he could play to.
As a tune ended, an attractive lady approached the piano and asked if she might sing a song.
“I would love it,” answered Ken. “But you have to get permission from the boss.” Ken waved John over and communicated the lady’s request.
“Can she sing?” queried John.
“I don’t know,” answered Ken. “Give the girl a chance. Tonight you can be generous. Both of us are having a good night.” He glanced at the pickle jar as proof that the night had been a good one.
Fat John smiled and said, “Let her rip.”
After a brief break to answer the biological imperative, Ken returned to the piano and motioned to the hopeful singer to sit with him on the bench. As she moved toward him, he could see she was a lady having a slightly understated sense of style with a graceful flow that suggested an updated Katharine Hepburn. When she sat down, he was introduced to her face, which was stunning. With shoulder-length hair partially covering one eye, it was clear that she was channeling Veronica Lake. She looked Asian with an exquisitely beautiful face and a body to be noticed.
“What’s your name, and what would you like to sing?” asked Ken.
“My name is Wen Lee, and just for the record, I do not fancy myself a chanteuse. I’m not really a singer. I like to sing, but my instrument is the harp. I’ve been playing my entire life. Jazz has invaded my ears, and my body and mind are learning to embrace it. I think singing will help me.”
“I happen to agree, Wen Lee. So you, like me, are a musician. Good! What would you like to sing? I might be able to play it.”
“Do you know Lil Armstrong’s ‘Just for a Thrill’?”
“I’m impressed,” said Ken.
“Why?”
“One, because few people know who she is, and two, because of the people who have heard of her, even fewer know she wrote that song.”
After they chose the key and the tempo, Ken played a simple intro before Wen Lee hit an Armstrong-inspired “Just for a Thrill” with a blues inflection that stopped all conversation and gave Ken great phrasing to improvise behind. It was a stunning surprise, a moment that would transform Fat John’s corner dive into a legitimate jazz spot and establish a relationship between Wen Lee and Ken that would last a lifetime.
Because of that night, Fat John gave the place a fresh coat of paint, hung pictures of jazz greats on the walls, stopped watering down drinks, and had an open mic for singers on Wednesdays and Sundays. With some prodding, he hired Ken as the house piano player on open mic nights. On other nights, he booked young instrumentalists and gave groups a chance to play for modest pay. Fat John’s became the place to hear up and coming talent. On Wednesday nights, it was always crowded because that was the night when Ken Carle and Wen Lee would put their musical love affair on display for all to see. In an obtuse reference to Charley Chan, Fat John always referred to Wen Lee and Ken Carle as number one daughter and number one son.
When Ken was not playing at Fat John’s, two evenings a week were spent eight blocks away playing at an upscale Italian restaurant called Fiori Di Campo. The restaurant was a family-owned and operated business for thirty years, but time had tired the first generation, and the children were now running it. The food continued to be old-world excellent; however, the children wanted to update the atmosphere and décor. Along with the decorative changes, a piano was added.
Shortly after Ken moved to New York from Hartford, his mother visited from Maryland. She made reservations at Fiori Di Campo on the recommendation of a friend, and there they greeted each other. She told him of the plans to sell the farm and move. Yes, it was a difficult decision, but she and Ken’s father had passed the time in their lives when the farm was neither an important asset or a joy. William, Ken’s brother, had started his career as a lawyer on the West Coast, and he, Ken, was now in New York pursuing a career in music. Life had changed, as it most often does, and it was now time for them to prepare for that change. The details would unfold in time. As for Ken’s current state of affairs?
“No, Mother, I don’t need any money. So far, I’m doing okay.”
“Are you sure, sweetheart?” She reached into her purse.
“Mother, stop. I appreciate how you feel and I love you for it, but at the moment, I need no help. If I ever do, you and Father will be the first to know.”
“Kenneth? Have you found a lady friend?”
“I may not be ready for a girlfriend, Mother. But I have found someone I’m quite fond of.”
“What’s her name?”
“Her name is Lee, and she is a harp player of extraordinary ability.”
The next hour was filled with more mother-son chatter, and eventually it became clear that the loving guidance and care that had been the center of their relationship had come to an end. What Ken’s mother knew