So What

My father, after repairing triple-load washers for twelve hours

on a Saturday, would put on Miles Davis' Kind of Blue and call

me into the garage. "Hear this, slugger? One four five. That's

all there is. Sons o' bitches. . ." I never understood how any

man could be on his back for twelve hours and come home to

listen to Miles Davis for another three. We split Budweisers.

"So What" always on. I remember it that way. He sang the 

words that Miles didn't need. I was ten, eleven. The sun still

out. Coltrane fading in after Miles' solo, then Miles gone.

Gone for most of the song. He's not allowed to come back

until the end. Those are the rules. That's the thing: my father

taught me this. The rhythm section the whole time keeping

time like running water. Brush stroke, snare off, over and 

again. Coltrane catches the wind of the last phrase, echoes,

and goes off wherever it was he went off to: Paradise, fishing with

a cooler full, the driveway spotted with oil, the gear grease on

his glasses and collar, the grease in his hair glinting blue at his

wake, "So What" instead of a sermon.

:: Alexander Long, Light Here, Light There (2009)