Who Stole the Cookie

From the Cookie Jar?

            by Julian Pollack

 

So as usual I came in around ten to five on Thursday evening and put my bag down on the ground next to the piano. I lifted up the lid and played an A. It wasn’t too out of tune. Oscar was outside unloading his drums. He always parked right in front of the Cheese Board so he didn’t have to carry his drums very far and so he could watch his car and make sure he didn’t get a ticket. I got the stool from the corner of the room and put it in front of the bandstand. As always, I put the tip jar, which had a sign saying “tips” with a big red heart on it, along with my business cards on the stool.

            “Dude, it’s hella nice out today,” I said to Oscar.

            “Yeah, you know what that means,” he said.

            “Yup.”

            It always seemed that the sunnier and hotter the day, the more money there would be in the tip jar. More people came to buy pizza, which meant longer lines. We’d have the windows and doors open and it would attract people from all over the street. The sound of jazz and the aroma of pizza were killer. People would drop a dollar or two in the tip jar on their way out. Sometimes they would leave five-dollar bills. On rare even twenty-dollar bills.

            The bass player arrived and we were almost ready to play. I got a Juice Squeeze from the fridge and sat down at the piano.

            “Put in a five, dude,” Oscar said, finishing up screwing the felts on the cymbals. I always put a dollar in the tip jar to get it started. People don’t like to put money in empty tip jars. But Oscar told me to put in a five, which I thought was silly. I thought it would make people think they only should tip a lot of money or none at all. But Oscar told me that I was full of shit and that it’s always good to aim high. And it was a beautiful day. So I put in the five.

            “What tune you guys wanna play?” I said to the trio.

            “Let’s play a blues to get warmed up, get to know each other,” the bass player said.

            “We always play a blues first,” I said.

            “Whatever dude, just do it. Let’s start playing so we can make some money,” Oscar said. We started playing and got lost in the music. After a song, I’d look up and see a fuller tip jar.

            It was after the fifth or sixth song that Oscar told me something strange had happened while we were playing. He told me he that in the middle of the bass solo he looked up and saw some guy take a five dollar bill out of the tip jar.

            “I was about to throw one of my sticks at him,” he said. “He was probably just getting change for putting in something like a ten or a twenty,”         

On occasion people put in big bills, like fives, and they would take out a couple of dollar bills, so they were only tipping us a few dollars. Most of the time we never saw anything happen while we were playing because we closed our eyes in concentration. Also, the piano was against the wall, meaning the tip jar was at my back. However people didn’t get change that often, and if they did they mostly did it while we weren’t playing so they could talk to one of us and tell us what they were doing. It looks incriminating to stick your hand deep in a tip jar. What’s stranger is the idea of someone digging down into the bottom of the tip jar to get a five-dollar bill.

            “I don’t know man, he didn’t look like the kind of guy who would be tipping us a ten or twenty,” Oscar said.

            “Whatever, we’ll just check at the end. If there’s a ten or twenty in there, it’s all good,” I said.

            We took a break, ate some pizza, and then played another set. At the end I counted up the money. Sixty-three dollars. But it was all one-dollar bills.

            “Yo Oscar,” I said, “That five I put in at the beginning isn’t here and there isn’t anything bigger than a one. Maybe that dude did just take the five dollars.”

            “Yeah, man. It just didn’t look like he was getting change, ”

            “That’s hella weird,” I said, “Whatever, though. I’m not trippin’. It’s only five dollars.”

            The next week I put a ten in the tip jar. Oscar thought we should try it; maybe people would tip even more than they did the week before. It wasn’t a nice day. We made about fifty bucks in tips. It was strange, though. It was all ones again and the ten was missing.

            Oscar and I didn’t talk about it too much with the bass player because he was subbing for our regular bassist who was on tour with the Kenny G band. It wasn’t that big of a deal and we didn’t want him to think that the Cheese Board was a sketchy gig.

            Oscar and I thought about what we should do. Was someone really coming and stealing money from the tip jar? What a crummy thing to do, stealing from jazz musicians who are already poor. Over the phone Oscar and I decided that next time he would keep his eyes on the tip jar, just in case the petty theft was a reality.

*          *          *

            I got an exciting call that weekend while I was out in the studio writing some music. My phone vibrated and I took it out to see an unfamiliar caller ID. Being the audacious man that I am, I picked up. It was a man who spoke.

            “Hi my name is Duck Donald and I’m calling you on behalf of Concord Records. The record company is interested in your music,” he said. I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t believe such a prestigious record label was interested in my music.

            “Concord Records has assigned me the job of getting you involved with the label,” he continued. “Essentially, I’m your way in. We should set up an interview slash meeting, and the sooner the better. How does Sunday sound?” This was all happening to fast. I hadn’t even spoken a word. But I guess that’s how they do it in the professional world.

            “Of course we can set something up!” I said. “Where and when on Sunday?” I asked. I was supposed to go to Chicago on Sunday to visit some family, but I had to cancel. I was going to have to fly to LA to meet the Concord guy. This was way too important and I wasn’t about to ask the guy if we could reschedule.

            “Oh I don’t know, how about the French Café?” he said. The French Café? In Berkeley? I asked him and he said, yes, the French Café in Berkeley on Shattuck next to the Cheese Board. It didn’t make sense to me because I knew the Label’s headquarters were in Beverley Hills. Was this guy going to fly up to the Bay Area just to meet me? I asked him and he said no, he was already in Berkeley. So, we decided to meet at the French Café on Sunday at four o’clock.

            On Sunday I got all my materials together: CDs, PR, bio, and resume. I took a shower and put on my finest looking suit. As I drove down Shattuck Avenue, I looked for a place to park and the first open space I saw was the one in front of the Cheese Board, where I usually parked when I played at the Cheese Board. I got out of the car with my bag of promo materials and proceeded to the French Café. I walked by the Cheese Board, which was closed, and by the Bank of America. As I got near the French Café the smell of coffee and chocolate grew stronger. There were several chairs and tables out in front where people sat, talked, and read while they drank coffee and ate croissants. It then occurred to me that I didn’t know what Duck Donald looked like. How were we supposed to meet? I went inside the Café and scanned all the faces. No one was looking up. No one looked like they were waiting for someone to arrive. I decided to wait around. Maybe he hadn’t gotten there yet.

            At 4:30 I walked outside again and looked at the tables. No one was outside. I went back inside and went up to the only man who was by himself.

            “Are you Duck Donald?” I asked him. He looked up from his newspaper and looked at me strangely.

            “Donald Duck?” he asked. Then he laughed and went back to reading his newspaper.

            At five I took out my cell phone and called Duck Donald. I had saved his number when he called. It rang and rang until I got to the voicemail. The voicemail system didn’t even have a personal message. It just said “You have reached the voicemail system of five-one-zero-two-six…” I left him a message and told him I would be at the café until six.

            Duck Donald never showed up. I went back home disappointed and curious. Why weren’t we able to connect? Was this guy just a flake? Duck Donald was also such a weird name. Who would name their kid Duck Donald?

            I called Duck again that night but he didn’t pick up. I decided to call Concord Records and see if they had any alternate numbers for him.

            “Thank you for calling Concord Records this is Sara speaking how may I help you?” the lady said on the other end of the line. I told her I was trying to contact Duck Donald. She asked me if I knew his extension number, and I told her I did not. She looked up his name in the database. “Nothing’s coming up for Duck Donald. Are you sure that’s the correct name?” she asked. I told her yes, Duck Donald. “Well, he doesn’t exist on our database. Is there anything else I can help you with?” she asked. I told her, no. “Well thank you for calling Concord Records and have a nice day.”

            I couldn’t believe it. Who was this Duck Donald guy? Did he even exist? Even if he did exist, what an asshole. He made me rearrange my whole life that weekend for nothing. Whatever, I thought, and I got back on with my life.

*          *          *

            “It’s another beautiful day again, man,” Oscar said to me. We were at the Cheese Board again for our weekly gig on Thursday. He was setting up his drums.

            “How was the tour?” I asked the bass player who had just returned from playing on the East Coast with Kenny G.

            “It was cool but Kenny G sucks man. But I made a lot of money so that’s good,” he said.

            “Well it’s good you’re back. Let’s play some music,” I said.

            We started playing, the line formed outside, and eventually I was completely lost in the music. It sounded so good since our regular bass player was back on the gig. We played a blues, a tune I wrote, a ballad called “Memories of You,” and “Giant Steps.” It was during Giant Steps that Oscar stopped playing in the middle of the song. The bass player and I kept playing until I heard Oscar shout.

            “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted to the man with his wallet out over the tip jar.

            “Me?” the man asked. I stopped playing and turned around to face the man and the tip jar. He had oily black hair and a shaggy beard. “I’m just looking and tipping,” he said. It was then that I recognized his voice.

            “Sir, you’ve been there for a minute now with your wallet out and your hand in the tip jar. Do you think we can’t see?” Oscar said.

            “Well you do normally have your eyes closed,” the man said. He looked so familiar to me.

            “Are you the one who has been taking money out of the tip jar? Have you been taking the big bills thinking that we wouldn’t notice?” Oscar said. By now, everyone in line was looking at us. Then it was I who spoke.

            “Dude, why have you been doing this? Why did you call me and tell me you were from Concord Records? Why did you say your name was ‘Duck Donald?’ I can’t believe I believed you! And now it looks like you’re the one who’s been taking our money. Why are you pulling this on me, Ken?”

            “Because you fucking suck!” he screamed and with that he took the whole tip jar (which was already quite full) and ran out of the Cheese Board. Oscar and I ran after him, tumbling over drums making the cymbals fall to the ground and crash loudly, and running into people in line.

            “Stop that man!” Oscar yelled. A little kid, a boy of about nine years old, put his foot out in front of Ken who then fell to the ground. Oscar got on top of Ken and started punching the dude in the face until I pushed him off and started going dumb on him myself. Then we heard sirens. We all got arrested.

*          *          *

            Oscar and I were released and so was Ken, who had to pay a heavy fine for theft. However, Ken had to go to the hospital since he was quite injured.

            Oscar and I went back to the Cheese Board to pack up his drums. It was late but someone stayed at the pizza parlor to let us in.

            “So how do you know that guy, ‘Ken?’” Oscar asked while he was putting his drums in their cases.

            “Long story man,” I said. “Back in the day when I was still in high school my jazz band went to all these competitions. Ken was from another school—a pianist as well. His band always lost to ours. He would come up to me and say some nasty things after we played. I think he’s a little crazy. I don’t know man. I wish I could talk to him and make everything all good. He’s just messed up. I can’t believe he’s still around—in Berkeley.”

            “Yeah man, what a crazy dude,” Oscar said. “Did he really call you and pull that whole story about Concord Records on you?”

            “Yup.”

            “How did he get your number?”

            I pointed to the tip jar and my business cards. “Anybody can get my number.”