Somber as a Saxophone

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• March 12, 2024

Years ago, I went out with a jazz drummer. He was quite talented, and being the music lover I am, I fancied musicians more easily than I’d like. Though older, like me, he also looked young for his age, and he was attractive, somewhat resembling Robert Downey Jr (one time when we were out, a drunk lady pointed at him and yelled, “Iron Man”). It was a relatively short lived romance, as most romances are, but I wasn’t too keen on being seriously involved with him, despite his talents, because he was a pretty serious alcoholic and I didn’t want to deal with it.

He wasn’t an angry alcoholic or anything. He was super soft spoken and to be honest, I couldn’t even imagine him being mean or nasty, but his love for the bottle was apparent. Not that I judge. I, too, have loved substances more than I should but this man desperately needed a 12 step program (out of respect for him, I won’t disclose just exactly why).

Anyway. I’ve always had a lot of musician friends and I especially liked jazz musicians mostly because their lives parallel comedians. We simply understand each other on a level most people could never emphasize truly, even if they wanted to (the movie, ‘The Fabulous Baker Boys,’ is not only a great movie but one that is more relatable to comedians than most movies about comedy). One night, we were out drinking, as two New York City artists do. We chatted about all things art. Our respective careers (I was much earlier in my career than he was). The highs and lows. The hopes and heavy expectations. Neither of us hid the darkness that surrounds the performing world, or shadows within ourselves. I liked this about him. He said, I remember still, “my life turned out pretty much exactly how I predicted it would.” This wasn’t a happy statement. Not at all. He was pessimistic about the gig world, getting into real estate. This was a forlorn statement. Like a somber saxophone solo, so sad, so sorry about how things turned out.

But still.

He went for it anyway. He went into being a jazz musician despite believing it would end anti-climatically, penniless, nameless, clinging to a bottle instead of a woman. This conversation haunts me. And genuinely, I wish him well. I hope he got his drinking under control and found more success and happiness in life. I’ve no idea where he is now. Perhaps though, what makes this conversation stuck in my head like a catchy melody is because I simply didn’t have to ask why. I understood. I understood completely.

That was years ago. My career and life had ups and downs since then. Also, this was before the pandemic severely fucked up and derailed artists lives and careers, something we’re still grappling with.

Look. It’s not like I had grand delusions of what being a writer is. Most of my heroes were broke their whole lives, and also were addicted to at least one thing. Though I can’t remember who said it, I remember reading something a philosopher said that people with a sense of purpose are actually less happy than those without. That those who had a calling were cursed with chasing fulfillment, and the purposeless were free from any such weight, therefore allowing them to enjoy their lives more. At the time, when I read it, I mostly disagreed. But the statement stayed with me enough that maybe he is right. Gifted people are frequently the most lonely. And all too often, those few artists to ‘make it’ to the top admit the ride up was a better time than the peak.

Pretty much everyone I talk to has the same pep talk. “You’ll find something.” “That job was low paying and only a step stone job anyway, something better will come.” “You’re far too talented not to get another writing job.” “You’ve always landed on your feet in the past.”

I’m unsure I’ve always landed on my feet. I’ve landed. But not without scraping my knees or breaking (metaphorical) bones. I just managed to walk away limping. Maybe that’s what people mean when they “land on your feet.” Maybe they mean, “pick yourself up again no matter how damaged.”

My friends are great and treat me to meals and are down to party. Those closest in my circle have a similar “fuck off” attitude towards most people, the government, the world, and general bullshit. What’s always been good (well, maybe more fun than good?) is when my me and my friends rally, we fucking rally. When I show up to party, I mean, I show the fuck up to party. My family is this way too (you should see us all dance at a wedding, in fact, one of the main reasons I’d even want to get married is to have a dance party with my folks, siblings, cousins and aunts and uncles).

So, I’m in the middle of a bender weekend. Look, if I’m going to be an unemployed loser, I’m going to be the best at it and I’m going to do it in style. I say to my friends husband who used to be in the military, “I applied for the Coast Guard.”

“What? But you do drugs all the time.”

“I’m high right now. But does the military even care about weed anymore?”

“Yes. They do. Not like they used to, but they do. Why the Coast Guard?”

“I like the water. Plus. You can work part time for them and still get benefits and stuff.”

I’m eligible to be an Officer. Because of my college degree and high scoring grades. In the coast guard test, I got a 25% in the math part and 100% on the reading part. None of this was surprising to me.

“The benefits are good, that’s true, but I dunno. You’re a writer. And a damn good one. I don’t think you should settle. I think you need to clear your head and slow your spiral. You’ll land on your feet.”

“That’s what everyone keeps saying. But comedy isn’t what it used to be. This city isn’t what it used to be. I just… don’t see how things will work out.”

“They will. Eventually.”

There’s no point arguing with him. His wife is my good friend and really, the most successful writer I know and my only friend who is truly killing it. Pretty much everyone else I know is struggling. This sorrowful saxophone that is my tone does not stop me from having a good time with my friends. I get by with a little help from my friends. Oh, I get high with a little help from my friends.

Hawaii seems further than 5000 miles away from me now, even though just a couple weeks ago I was surfing there, a full time writer. I don’t think a day has passed since I got back home that I don’t cry at some point. I keep my (prescribed) valiums close at hand. God, I hate getting a panic attack and crying in public. I pick up some odd jobs in the week; catering, babysitting, background work. The catering makes me half suicidal. I used to cater back when I was a teenager and wanted to kill myself back then. The background work is fine, easy, but a long day. It’s a been a while since I’ve done background work and while I don’t mind being an extra on set (I especially like the craft food services), it still feels like a step backward.

I love babysitting my dear friend, Michael’s, toddler. She such a cutie and a pleasure. She loves books, music, making rap music videos with me and Elmo. Michael is a comedian too, and while he also laments stand-up isn’t what it used to be, he’s more successful than myself. He’s a clean comic, which is a smarter career route.

Michael and I have a similar view of most things. We both grew up in hard working Catholic families, and we joke about much we always worshipped a good work ethic, but maybe we got it all wrong. He lives in a high rise in the city with his wife and kid. I like to look into other people’s apartments (I’m a real creep like this). There’s a woman in a building across from his who doesn’t seem to ever work. She just walks around her apartment topless and cooks and watches “Game of Thrones.”

“I used to always want to work really hard and be a professional writer, happily working 60 hour work weeks for a TV show, but now I think I just wanna be her. I just wanna cook, and watch TV and be mostly naked. How do I get her life.”

“Probably you need a trust fund.”

“Someone offered me money for videos of my feet. I think I’m going to do it. I figure if I actually do become successful and pictures of my feet are leaked, who gives a fuck. Plus, my feet are the ugliest part of my body by a country mile. I’ll show them to you and you don’t even have to pay to see my feet.”

“I’m good.”

When babysitting his kid, who is just starting to speak, I like to ask her impossible questions. “Should I sell pictures of my feet?” She smiles, points to her toes and says, “feet.” This kid gets it.

When the bad thoughts come, I close my eyes and I picture the smiling eyes of my sister and brother’s kids. I think, if not for them, I’d be running far away from here right now. Fly away. I think this country is sinking anyway. I think this country is at the point in the Titanic where it’s about to snap in half. Everything is sinkable, after all, ships, countries, jobs, people.

I found out from one of the people who still work at the radio job that they fired all the voice over people with AI. The plan is, likely, to replace the writers with AI too. This does not bode well for the future of my industry. Is this the writing on the wall. Or should I say, “code?” All these 1’s and 0’s. I feel like such a 0 right now. Even though I know none of this is my fault. Imposter syndrome doesn’t allow you to feel like yourself, rather an extra character in someone else’s movie.

You’d think that with all this extra time on my hand, I’d be cranking out my movie ideas. Though I’ve learned long ago that when I’ve been out of work, I’ve been my least productive. Most people I know who’ve been in a similar position say they’ve experienced the same thing.

I already started writing my next movie, and am getting my last one ready for pitching. What a dream it is, to sell a screenplay. I used to be able to picture it, fantasize about it. It’s harder these days. “Don’t worry baby,” The Beach Boys sang in the concert I went to in Honolulu. “Don’t worry baby (don’t worry baby) Everything will turn out alright (don’t worry baby).”

How much I prefer it to the warning sounds of a saxophone.