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Harley didn't know how
he knew all this stuff
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of TheColumnists.com |
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The Bronx, New York, October,
1982 No one who knows Harley would consider him an ordinary guy. Anything but. I’m Steve Fisher, his best friend. I should know. I never believed in the unbelievable until I met Harley. We were juniors in Evander Childs High School when I learned there was something special about him. Like one time for instance, we were at my house watching a quiz show on TV when the emcee’s question was, “Who was the president of the National League Champion New York Giants in 1904?” The contestant had no idea. But Harl blurted “John T. Brush” which was the right answer. We weren’t even baseball fans! Harley is five foot eight. He looks like Woody Allen. His game is ping pong. I’ve got three inches on him. My game is basketball. Watching, not playing. My folks think I look like Harry Truman. I asked my friend, “How did you know that?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know. The economy was lousy those days. Harley’s parents, like the parents of most of the guys we hung with, were having a hard time making ends meet. Harley and I resolved that hard times or not, we were going to college. We’d save every dollar we made mowing lawns, shoveling snow, and making deliveries, until Harl had enough for a sax and I had enough for a trumpet. We would then form a combo; get a bunch of gigs, and start saving for college. The plan worked like a fiddle fashioned by Pedrazini. In little over a year we had enough for a used Conn trumpet for me and a second-hand Selmer sax for Harley. But possessing a musical instrument is one thing. Learning to play it is another matter entirely. We signed up for instruction at Wurlitzers. I can tell you from ball-busting experience that learning to blow a trumpet so it doesn’t sound like a foghorn is no piece of cake. I still wince, recalling the early sounds I belched out of that horn Harley didn’t have that problem. He signed up for lessons with Porter Gumm, a curly headed guy in his twenties. I watched his impressed eyes check out Harley’s tenor. “Couldn’t have done better myself,” he said. “You got yourself a good horn.” He twisted the mouthpiece onto the neck, inserted a reed, and passed the horn back to Harley. He showed him how to stick on the neck strap, and finger the keys. “Let’s hear what you sound like.” Harl blew a few notes and fingered them, too. I can’t guarantee it was part of a song, but it sounded that way to me. Gumm gave him a look. “Blow something else.” This time Harl soul-kissed the mouthpiece for five minutes. Darned if it didn’t sound like part of "One O’clock Jump." Smooth and melodic. Not choppy at all. Gumm looked madder than a dog whose bone had been snatched. “You telling me you never took lessons?” I had the same question in mind. Harley said, “Honest. I never owned a sax before.” “So, where’d you learn to blow like that? Your embouchure’s perfect, and your tone is better than some pros I know. Probably myself included.” Harley shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know.” Porter Gumm’s an honest guy. He gave Harley one lesson and called it quits. “Unless you’re shitting me,” he said, “you remind me of Mozart.” “What do you mean?” “Back in 1761, Mozart’s dad gave him a scherzo by Wagenseil. A serious piece of music. No 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.' It took Wolfgang 30 minutes to learn. It was three days before his fifth birthday. His fifth birthday! Maybe you’re the same kind of wiz kid. I can’t help you, kid. You need advanced lessons. Or maybe you should be giving them.” I witnessed all this first hand. There was nothing not to believe. Within a few months we formed a combo of which Harley was the leader. So far as college tuition was concerned, I barely managed to scrape through. Not Harley. The bread from the gigs was the least of his earnings. He started getting calls from all over the place. He got gigs from top bands in The Bronx. The cash kept rolling in. Not only enough for college; he was able to help out at home as well. My friend was in the chips. We registered at NYU. Harley’s folks moved into a larger apartment. His mom still took in sewing, but now she could afford a sewing machine. We were going over some charts in Harley’s room the evening his dad brought home the second-hand Singer machine. After an hour or so his mom waddled into the room looking like her string of pearls had just broke. “What’s the matter, Mom?” Harley’s mom is a nice looking woman, a bit on the plump side. Her cheeks were flushed red as her lipstick. “Your father brought home a machine that don’t work.” “I’ll take a look at it,” Harley said. It was set up on a wooden table in a corner of the living room. Harley’s dad, a skinny, tired looking man, was stretched out on the sofa looking more upset than his wife. Harley sat down at the machine. His mom had inserted a piece of material under the needle. Harley removed the material and reinserted it. Then he started sewing stitches like he was the senior seamstress for a dress manufacturer. His mom gaped in amazement. “Where did you learn to sew like that?” Harley shrugged. “I don’t know, Mom, I just know.” I shook my head. “It’s like with the sax. He knew how to play it without taking any lessons. Your son’s a genius, Mrs. Sanders. Like Mozart.” “The composer?” Mrs. Sanders said. “Yeah. At least that’s what his saxophone teacher said.” His dad’s face was beaming. “It’s inherited. You know from who.” Mrs. Sanders gave him a sarcastic look. “That’s right, Morris; I know from who.” Back in his room, Harley said, “Don’t blab this all over town. I don’t want people thinking I’m some kind of kook.” “Okay,” if that’s what you want.” “That’s what I want.” I shrugged. “No problem.” One free afternoon we headed for the schoolyard to play handball. Harley had a funny look on his face. I asked him how things were going. He hesitated. “If you breathe a word of this I’ll cut off your nuts and make matzoh balls out of them.” I gave him a disgusted look. “For God’s sake, we’re best friends.” “Okay, don’t get your balls in an uproar. You know Mr. Feldman?” “The psych prof, sure.” “Well, he was explaining a case in class, a pretty complex situation. He went over it step by step, and at the end said something I thought was wrong. So I stuck up my hand. He looked annoyed at my interrupting him. ‘Yes, Sanders, what is it?’” “It’s that last statement, sir; I think you’re mistaken.” “You do, huh? Please elucidate.” “So I elucidated. I told him where I thought he was wrong, spelled it out point by point. I citied names, dates, and documents.” Feldman pulled a book from the shelf and thumbed through it. He read and reread what he found. “Then he said, ‘You’re absolutely right. What I said was in error. It should have been …’ He corrected his original statement. ‘Thank you, Sanders, I didn’t know you were so well read.’” “So you caught the prof in a mistake. What’s the big deal?” “The big deal is this. Feldman said he didn’t know I was so well read. The truth is I’m not well read, at least not on that subject. I admitted that to Feldman.” ‘Yeah. So?” “He wants me to stay after class tomorrow.” I hung around until he came out. “What did he say?” “He wants me to talk to Dr Waldenheim. He made an appointment for me.” “Who’s Dr. Waldenheim?” “A shrink. He teaches advanced classes in psychiatry.” The appointment lasted more than an hour. “So what’s going on?” I asked when Harl finally appeared in the cafeteria. He looked like he had just climbed a steep hill backwards. “Waldenheim wormed it all out of me.” “You mean about the sax, and the sewing machine –" “Yeah, and correcting Feldman’s mistake.” “So what does he want you to do?” “He wants me to take a regression.” “What’s a regression?” “You get hypnotized; but you’re not really asleep. Then you’re regressed to past lives and get asked a lot of questions.” “Past lives!” I blew out my cheeks. “You mean reincarnation, stuff like that? In other words – " “In other words,” “Harley said, “if, in a past life I was a sax player, or a psychologist, or a seamstress – " “I get it. It would explain where the savvy came from. Boy, if you believe that – " “I know,” Harley said, “you can believe anything. I’m beginning to feel like a guinea pig.” “When is this recession supposed to take place?” “Regression. In two weeks.” “Are you gonna do it?” ”Yeah, I couldn’t get out of it.” ni It gets weirder and weirder. It so happened that I had booked a 9 AM Delta flight for the following Saturday to visit my grandma who had retired to Fort Lauderdale three years ago. I hadn’t seen her in all that time. Saturday morning at 3:15 AM the telephone rang. My dad took the call. He stomped tightlipped into my room and shoved the portable phone in my face. “It’s your friend Harley,” he grumbled. “Doesn’t he own a clock?” “Cool it, Dad.” He didn’t cool it. He left the room, shaking his head. “Hey, lamebrain, you know what time it is?” “Yeah, I know what time it is. Are you still planning to fly to Fort Lauderdale?” “Sure. Why?” “What airline?” “Delta.” “What flight number?” “Hey, Harl, my dad’s really pissed.” “He’ll live through it. Check the flight number. It’s important.” I put down the phone grumbling and returned two minutes later with the information. “467.” “That’s what I was afraid of. Cancel the flight, or switch to another airline.” “Are you nuts?” “Trust me, Steve, cancel the flight. The plane’s gonna crash.” I said, “How do you know?” “I don’t know. I just know.” I don’t know. I just know. Where had I heard that before? I switched to United scheduled to land a half hour later. Next day I landed in Fort Lauderdale at 12:45. Police cars, ambulances, and emergency vehicles were all over the place. I descended the stairway and asked a maintenance worker what happened. “Delta Flight 467 had a crash landing. It’s a mess.” Harley said he’d called Delta three times to warn them. They thanked him and said they’d take care of it. He told Feldman what had happened, and Feldman relayed his prediction to Dr. Waldenheim. Waldenheim moved up Harley’s regression three days. I waited for him in the gym. He showed up looking – I don’t know -- I guess the word is confused. “For God’s sake, what did Waldenheim say?” “He said I’m psychic.” “You told him about the plane crash?” “Feldman told him.” Harley’s eyes started to tear. “I should have alerted The Herald or Sun-Sentinel; I could have saved all those people.” “Harl, they never would have believed you.” “You believed me.” “I know you. What about the regression?” “He wants me to do more of them.” “What did you learn from this one?” Harley took a long time to answer. “In my most recent life I was a sax player on a cruise ship.” “It figures,” I said. “Cruise ship musicians are the best in the business. Maybe there’s something to all this nutty stuff after all.” May 9, 2010 Things were normal for the next decade or so. I almost forgot my best friend was a psychic. By now our band was flourishing big time. We appeared at the Rainbow Room, and major hotels. We were being called a name band. One night we were driving home in Harley’s BMW after a late wedding gig at the Pierre when Harl said in a tight voice, “Steve, we’re going to New Zealand.” “Good for you. You’re long overdue for a vacation.” “Not a vacation. To live.” I gave him a sour look. “That’s a lousy joke.” “I was never more serious.” Strange thoughts fought for space in my noggin. “Why New Zealand?” “It’s about as far as you can get from New York.” I stood there waiting. It was typical Harl to keep me on the edge of the cliff before pushing me over. “Okay, let’s have it.” Harley pulled in a deep breath. “New York, Chicago, and Washington will be bombed 10 days from today. Remember 9/11?” “Sure, who doesn’t?” “Well, this one’ll make 9/11 look like a ping pong match.” I suddenly found myself shaking. “Uh, how do you know?” “I don’t know. I just know.” I don’t know. I just know. My cheeks puffed up. I blew out breath. Harley and I made 82 phone calls at the time. Some responders were polite; others hung up on us. Harley, me, and our families relocated in New Zealand May 13th. On May 19th, following the greatest disaster in history, the world went crazy. As for the U.S., we don’t even know who we’re at war with. Thanks to Harley, we’re still alive. Right now we’re on our way to the Emporium Ballroom in Wellington where our new band is appearing. What will we gain from the move? A little time, I suppose. How much? Who knows? Who cares? Most people are too depressed by civilization’s prospects to give a damn. Conrad Britner, one of the brightest new stars on the journalistic scene, says he hopes he lives long enough to complete his new book, DUBYA'S LEGACY. |
©2007 by Ray Dreyfack. The illustration is from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA. This story first posted May 21, 2007.
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