Rhythm and Hotcakes

The metro grinded against the rails, playing a distinct rhythm as it moved. Finally, the rhythm slowed and pierced the air as it stopped. The loudspeaker squaked, letting passengers know that the train had arrived at its downtown station.

Doors on my right, the loudspeaker blared. Puertas a mi derecha.

The doors didn’t stay open for long; Jordan elbowed his way around a stationary passenger and flattened himself to squeeze by another until he finally captured fresh air. The doors closed, nearly catching Jordan’s trailing left foot.

As the metro sped away, Jordan strolled through the plaza and turned on Sixth Avenue. He looked up at the skyscrapers that somehow glowed beneath a moonless night. Streetlights, maybe. The sidewalk swarmed with people. On a Friday night, most of these people were out for fun, not for business. Jordan assumed they were all going to the opera, or something ritzy.

That’s what brought Jordan to this part of town. Not an opera, exactly, but something ritzy. When the invitation for the Urban Musician’s Academy holiday party arrived, he cast it aside, not wanting to commit to an event that felt...out of his league. He didn’t want to show up as an “up-and-coming drummer” to a gala event with hundreds of the city’s best musicians.

But he had to go. If the best musicians were going to be there, he had to be in the room. If there were musicians, there were probably managers, agents, and studio heads. And, if he ever wanted to break out of the underground club scene, Jordan needed to shake some hands.

Jordan rarely visited this part of town; it was too expensive, too self-aggrandizing compared to his neighborhood. Still, he took his time wandering along its broad streets. He paused at store windows of major brands that he had only heard about in rap songs. He admired the finely tailored suits of the older gentlemen that passed him, the way they wore uncomfortable clothes with such confidence. His tie still felt like it constricted his windpipe. At least he decided to wear sneakers, the one resemblance of normalcy in his wardrobe.

As Jordan turned the corner, the gallery’s grand entrance opened up before him. The all-glass exterior reflected the city’s festive lights. Green and red illuminated the cascading fountain that lined the stone path toward the front door. Jordan’s stroll transformed into a robotic forward movement as he approached the velvet ropes.

Jordan saw one of his favorite singers, T.J. Washington, standing at the door; he was cracking jokes with the bouncer.

Man, that guy has, like, seven Grammys, Jordan thought. What am I doing here?

Clamoring to casually jump into conversation with the singer, Jordan quickened his pace, stopping to find himself a bit too close. Washington turned and raised an eyebrow at Jordan before walking through the door. Reflected light dashed across Jordan’s face briefly. Stunned by the encounter, he missed the bouncer’s nonverbal signal to move forward.

“Who do we have here?” the suited bouncers asked.

Jordan shook himself free from the sentiment of unbelonging.

“Jordan Cole,” he replied.

The bouncer scanned the list, flipped a page, and scanned again. He furrowed his brow as he returned to the first page.

Jordan’s heart thumped in his stomach. Unbelonging crept in again.

I’m not on the list, he thought. I’m going to look ridiculous if I’m not on the list.

“Mr. Cole,” the bouncer said. “Here you are. Enjoy the party.”

An usher led Jordan through a portal of reflective glass. Beams of white light bounced between mirrors, dazzling the entryway. Eloquent notes from violins and flutes floated through the hall; Jordan felt the absence of a distinct rhythm.

Finally, the mirrored hallway opened up into the ballroom. Crystal chandeliers hung above the elegant, black-and-white decor. Musicians from all around the city buzzed between conversations.

“Enjoy the party, sir,” the usher said.

Jordan nodded, mystified.

A server approached him with a food tray and stood silently. Eyeing the server with suspicion, Jordan slowly reached for the food item on the silver tray.

“Uh, thanks,” Jordan said, inspecting the meat-filled lettuce. “What is it?”

“A South Asian lettuce wrap with organic braised duck in a raspberry reduction,” the server said before moving quickly to the next guest.

Jordan raised an eyebrow and decided to dive into the snack.

Crunchy, he thought.

Wiping his mouth with his hand, Jordan walked nervously into the party. As he walked, he noticed so many of his favorite musicians, his idols. To the left he saw Marcus DeVonn, a jazz drummer who had won plenty of awards. His attention drifted as he passed James O’Shea, a tenor who had performed on Broadway for decades. DJ Ringtone stood by the bar; he had created some of the most iconic hip-hop beats in the last 15 years. These were some seriously heavy hitters.

And then, as Jordan made his way through the crowd, he spotted him: Fizzy Lopez, the legendary drummer from the iconic funk band, Storm.

I have to talk to him, Jordan thought.

He walked directly up to Fizzy, who stood talking with a few notable musicians at a raised table. Jordan found an opening at the table as the conversation lulled.

“Mr. Lopez,” Jordan said.

Fizzy turned slowly toward him.

“I’m Jordan Cole. I’m a huge fan.”

Looking at his tablemates, Fizzy rolled his eyes, which induced laughter from the group.

“Jordan,” Fizzy said, “of course you are. What brings you to this party?”

“I’m still wondering that myself, actually,” Jordan said. “I’m a drummer from around here. I guess someone thought I was good enough to warrant an invitation.”

Shaking his head, Fizzy sipped his drink.

“They really are letting anyone into this parties these days,” he said.

As Fizzy shifted his attention away from Jordan, the other musicians at the table did the same. Clearly, the conversation was over.

I need a drink, Jordan thought.

As he made his way to the bar, he recognized another musician, a singer that he had performed with a few years ago. She had actually garnered a record deal and her first album had gained some notoriety.

“Samantha?” Jordan said as he passed.

The singer turned and looked at Jordan. A false excitement plastered her face.

“Jordan, hello!” Samantha said. “I’m surprised to see you hear.”

“I was just honored to get invited,” Jordan said, dismissing her comment with a laugh. “Your new album is incredible.”

Samantha shrugged her shoulders, feigning modesty.

“It’s the type of art I’ve always known I could create,” she said. “Have you created anything lately?”

Jordan nodded, maybe a bit too vigorously.

“I have, actually,” he said. “I released a few mixtapes with Knowledge over the last two years. We’ve stuck to underground venues, mostly.”

“Knowledge?” Samantha asked. “Is that a rapper, or something?”

“He is,” Jordan said. “His lyrical skill and socially conscious themes really push us forward. I love creating drum sequences that allow his voice to shine through.”

Samantha nodded slowly, sipping her drink to fill the conversational void. Then, she looked over Jordan’s shoulder and waved to an acquaintance.

“It was great to see you, Jordan,” Samanatha said before disappearing into the crowd.

Jordan walked directly to the bar and sank into a barstool. He ordered a beer. Swiveling in the stool, Jordan leaned against the bar and watched the party unfold.

After a while, he noticed the woman sitting next to him. She scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad as she sipped her cocktail.

“You writing a song?” Jordan asked.

The woman looked up from her notes. Her fierce green eyed knocked Jordan back. Her wavy black hair and simple attire impressed him.

“No, I’m not writing a song,” she said. “I’m actually not a musician at all.”

“What brings you here then?” Jordan asked.

“I’m a journalist for a music magazine,” she said. “I cover this party every holiday season.”

Jordan nodded, moving a little closer to see her notes.

“What’s your angle?” he asked, sipping his beer.

“On the story about the party?” she said. “It’s the same every year. Pretentious musicians get drunk and talk about how revolutionary their art is.”

Jordan covered his mouth, nearly spouting beer across the bar from laughter. The woman returned the laughter with equal force.

“I’m glad that plotline struck a chord,” she said. “I’m Laila.”

“Jordan,” he said, shaking her hand.

“What brings you here, Jordan?” Laila asked.

Looking around at the musicians in fine tuxedos and ball gowns, forging smiles, making small talk about their latest accomplishments, Jordan had to laugh.

“I’m a drummer from the city,” he said. “Some Academy member thought I warranted an invitation, but it’s my first time here. But, to tell you the truth, I don’t know what I’m still doing here. This party is rough.”

Laila collected her notepad, pen, and audio recorder and placed them neatly in her briefcase. She stood abruptly, ready to leave. She glared playfully at Jordan.

“You comin’ with me?” she asked.

“Where?” Jordan asked.

“To a real party,” Laila said.

He had just arrived at the party, it seemed. But something there was something about Laila that pulled him away.

Setting his pint glass down on the bar, Jordan stood and followed Laila through the crowd. She weaved efficiently through the congested middle section of the ball room; Jordan elbowed his way through to keep up. After walking through the hall of mirrors and through the doorway, they entered the cold night air.

“Where are we going?” Jordan asked.

“Trust me,” Laila said.

Snow began to fall softly from the sky; each flake flickered underneath the streetlights. Laila and Jordan walked for a few blocks. They discussed Jordan’s drive for music, his love for rhythm, his ambition to use music as a vehicle for social change. Laila wanted to use journalism as a vehicle for the same purpose.

“Same destination, different route,” she said.

Stories about music parties paid the bills and got her a seat at the table, where she could pitch more moving pieces. And that’s what Jordan wanted; a seat at the table, a chance.

As they turned down an alleyway, Laila pointed to a neon sign that blinked above a rusted red door.

“The 24-Hour Hotcake House?” Jordan asked. “You’re taking me to an event at the Hotcake House?”

“Trust me,” Laila said. “This party will be a significant improvement on the one we just left.”

The door groaned open. Jordan held it and let Laila walk through first. He followed her down a narrow hallway that opened up into a dimly lit diner. Standing on her toes, Laila scanned the crowded booths. She waved to someone in the back of the diner.

“Come on, Jordan,” she said.

Laila slid into the red booth and sat across from an older man with a gray-and-black afro and wire-rimmed glasses. Unsure whether to sit or stand, Jordan followed Laila’s lead. He sat.

“Jordan, this is my Uncle Tony,” Laila said. “He’s a hip-hop and jazz producer at the studio across the street.”

Uncle Tony reached across the table and shook Jordan’s hand.

“Jordan Cole?” Uncle Tony asked.

Eyeing Laila, Jordan nodded inquisitively.

“That’s me,” Jordan said. “How’d you know?”

“His niece is a music journalist,” Laila said sarcastically.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Cole,” Uncle Tony said. “I hear you’re making big moves in the underground hip-hop circuit.”

Jordan smiled sheepishly.

“I just enjoy the music,” Jordan said.

Uncle Tony nodded at Laila.

“That’s exactly what we need,” Uncle Tony said. “Someone who’s in it for the music, not the fame.”

Jordan nodded, somehow captivated by Uncle Tony’s perspective.

“Say, Jordan, “ Uncle Tony continued, “how would you like to come by my studio tomorrow and lay down some tracks for a new album we’re working on?”

Jordan froze. He looked at Laila for assurance; she gave it. He returned his attention to Uncle Tony and nodded slowly.

“That would be incredible, sir,” Jordan said.

Uncle Tony clapped his hands together and smiled.

“That’s great to hear, Jordan,” Uncle Tony said. “Now, let’s order a round of hotcakes.”

Jordan’s mind wandered. He felt his heart flutter. He needed some hotcakes to calm this sense of euphoria. Thankfully, Laila’s voice cut through the cloud.

“Did you get invited to the Urban Musician’s party this year?” Laila asked Uncle Tony.

“You know it,” Uncle Tony said. “Every year they invite me, and every year I decline. But they keep sending that invitation.”

He paused and sipped his coffee. He looked at Laila with intent; enthusiasm lit up his eyes.

“Was it as snobby as always?” Uncle Tony asked.

Laila and Jordan looked at each other, erupting with laughter.