Suder by Percival Everett

needle down on the record.
    â€œThat’s great,” David says and walks away.
    I don’t call him back because echoes of the song in the bathroom have got me sorta hypnotized. I ain’t never heard anything like it, the way it’s bouncing off the tiles, and I turn up the volume and sit on the toilet. Pete Turner walks by and looks at the record player and then at me. “You heard this?” I ask.
    He doesn’t say anything, just walks out.
    â€œGive it a chance,” I says.
    So, the game’s about to start and I walk out and tonight I head for the bleachers out in left field and I’ve got my phonograph and record in my lap. I watch the game, but I ain’t really paying attention. Everybody around me is jumping up and screaming and carrying on, but I’m just sitting. Butch Backman steps up to the plate and drives an off-speed pitch high and left. I follow the ball up and then my eye catches this bird that somehow has got into the Dome. I follow the bird all over and up into the rafters and around the beams and then I notice the game is over.
    I wait for David and the two of us head out for some drinks. We go to this little bar not far from the Dome and sit down at a table. There’s a band playing some music and people are dancing and it’s pretty crowded. David’s looking closely at the behinds of women on the dance floor.
    â€œI love this place,” David says.
    The waitress stops and pulls out her pad and scratches her head. “What’ll it be?”
    â€œBeer,” David says without taking his eyes off the dance floor. His hand is tapping the table in beat with the music.
    The waitress looks at me.
    â€œBeer.”
    â€œDavid, did you like that song I played for you in the locker room?”
    â€œYeah, yeah.” He’s smiling and watching the women dancing.
    â€œThat song does something to me. I mean, that saxophone solo … Well, here, I’ll let you hear it.” I get up and start looking for an outlet.
    David looks at me. “What are you doing?”
    I don’t say anything. I spot a jukebox across the room against the wall, between the rest rooms. “Over there,” I says and take off.
    â€œCraig.” David follows me. “What are you doing?”
    I’m looking behind the jukebox. “They have to plug these things in, don’t they?”
    â€œYou can’t-”
    â€œThere it is.” I unplug the jukebox and plug in the phonograph.
    â€œThere’s a band playing,” David says. “You can’t come in here and play a record.”
    â€œIt’s not a long song.” I put the record on the turntable and drop the needle and I turn the volume all the way up.
    â€œCraig, turn that off.” David reaches for the record player.
    â€œJust listen,” I says, blocking him out.
    The band stops playing and the people stop dancing and people stop talking and David takes a few steps away from me. The manager of the place comes over and says something, but I can’t hear him, so I lift the needle off the record.
    â€œWhat do you think you’re doing?” the manager asks.
    â€œI was just playing a song for my buddy.”
    â€œWe’ve already got music here.”
    â€œYeah, and they sound swell,” I tell him, “but it ain’t Charlie Parker. This here is Charlie Parker.” I point at the record.
    â€œOkay, Charlie,” he says and he’s getting mad, “get out.”
    David steps in and tries to calm this fella down and he tells me to pack up. He’s looking at me with disbelief. Everybody is watching us as we walk out and the band strikes up as we pass through the door.
    In the car, David keeps looking over at me. “Have you been drinking?”
    â€œNo.”
    He looks at the road. “How’ve you been feeling lately?”
    â€œAll right. Why?”
    â€œYou sure?”
    â€œYeah. Why?”
    David looks at me.