Ready To Fly

Chapter One
The day I met Hardy Cole was the most thrilling and ironic day of my life. Thrilling because I shook hands with one of the most powerful and inspirational musicians of all time. Ironic because I had no idea who he was.

From that day on, I was the envy of my friends. A lot of them had found a new reason to admire me, while just as many despised the whole notion. Meeting someone famous with no idea who it was. If one asked my opinion, I'd say that's exactly what he wanted.

Since then I've been fully informed as to who Mr. Cole is. He lived a life much different than one would expect. Some may view him as singing his way to the top and showing the world what he was made of, fighting off fans and girls and money left and right. That was what everyone believed. The night I met him, I heard a much different story.

While it probably could be discarded as false, which it often is, if that man was Hardy Cole, then he lived a life no one could ever imagine. It still surprises me that a man like him could've gone through so much and still end up like he did.

The man I met lived no where near the life others claimed. His, in fact, was worse than mine. I lived each day struggling to make it to the next. It was hard to do, but I tried anyway. Some days I went without food just to pay the bills. I made some bad mistakes growing up, some I may never recover from. Being almost seventy, I guess that will be the case.

The man was born into a home riddled with debt. The family struggled much worse than me, seeing as I had all the debts and just myself and they had all that and two kids. Growing up was hard. He rarely got anything worth having, let alone finding things to eat. School came into his life and he had no idea what to do. From that moment on, his journey towards the stars began.

Chapter Two
His first day of school was something he said he'd never forget. The bus, ratty with age and needing a paint job, made a screeching stop in front of their house. It was a nasty place, one would never admit to living in. But there he stood, proud to be leaving home and heading into the vast world to "earn his fortune" as he told his mother.

His parents were drug addicts. They sold every piece of furniture they owned to get the next high, he said. Sometimes, they stole from others when they felt it was necessary. He remembered sitting on a bare mattress wrapped in a towel, praying his life would get better.

After missing school three days straight, someone began to get curious. A young boy just doesn't show up for two days of class and disappear. They'd heard nothing of a missing child. They later learned the boy's older sister had also disappeared. The school elected to take action.

They found the children's home just after a deal had been done. The parents were scrambling to figure out what was going on. They were yelling, tripping, falling, throwing things. The man said at one point his mother grabbed a knife and threatened to end her life.

They were subdued and taken away. The man said he had no idea what happened to them or the house, but at the moment he left one life and entered another, a movement destined to become a pattern in his life.

He and his sister were split up. She went to their grandparents in Orlando, Florida and he went to his aunt and uncle in Rosetta Falls, Alabama. He said it was years before they met again, and the reunion was quite a shocker.

His aunt and uncle were nice enough. They treated him much better than his parents had. So much so he became confused about who his parents really were. But that eventually changed, he said, and he moved on.

Chapter Three
In junior high he discovered two things: music and girls. Hip-Hop was the big thing, but he tried to avoid it. He enjoyed music in which there was actual singing. His popularity began to shrink with that. He received many a beating because of that.

He also received many beatings over girls. He wasn't popular, wasn't a jock, wasn't even noticed during class sometimes. When he tried to date girls, guys would come running to their sides. He said many times the girls were single, but the boys refused to see him happy. Day in and day out, he was tortured. He wanted out so bad, but his determination was stronger than his pride.

He said he tried to learn piano. The only time he could practice was after school. His aunt always worried. While she hated watching him come home with bruises and scars, his uncle wanted him to toughen up.

"The Lord don't take kindly to cowards," he was told over and over. It began to stick with time, and he said he refused to cry.

High school was much like junior high. More beatings, more pain, more rejections. For every girl he liked he had a bruise for, he told me, sometimes two. His piano skills picked up as well. His playing had improved, so much so he joined the jazz band and went all the way to state finals. They lost to a school outside of Mobile who played a blues-jazz combo. He said he'd never heard anything like it and fell in love with instrumental pieces.

He missed his high school prom, graduated without scholarships, and found himself broke and in desperate need of a job. After a heated argument concerning his laziness, his uncle gave him an ultimatum. He had two weeks and he had to be out of the house. His aunt cried all night, he said.

He searched and searched. He finally landed a job as a dishwasher at a local restaurant. His first day on the job was his last.

Chapter Four
My life was very much the same as his. I was born into poverty, living on a street corner during the day and a cardboard box at night.

I changed jobs thirty or forty times over the years. No one wanted to hire a young black man, then no one wanted to hire a middle-aged black man. I finally was able to land a job as a janitor at a local church working every day but Saturday. Being a Seventh Day Adventist, I refused to work on the Sabbath. I had no issue working the rest of the work, which I usually did.

Even with all that work, I still live in a shabby two room apartment. Like I said, I've made my share of bad choices and now I pay for them. Nothing illegal or anything like that. Just poor decisions.

It was actually on a Sunday night that I met the supposed Hardy Cole. He introduced himself as Bradley and left it at that. I was mopping the floor of the fellowship hall where I worked. There'd been some sort of event that took place. It had been upstairs actually, but it would be a while before I could get there. Until everyone cleared out, I decided to mop the fellowship hall.

I hadn't really cleaned much when he arrived. He seemed lost and confused, but a look of comfort came over him when he saw. I haven't a clue why, but I'm not one to ponder such things. Whatever happens happens. He said he liked what I was doing and it was a fine job. I thanked him and walked to a chair. I sat down, exhausted from what little work I'd done.

I asked him what he was doing here, which he sort of answered. I couldn't really figure what he said, but I don't care. I told him some of my story, mostly to just pass some time.

"Funny," he said. "Sounds a lot like mine."

Chapter Five
After the restaurant job, he worked ten other jobs. He did everything from driving a garbage truck to feeding tube at a local plant to working at the library. He couldn't find a thing that worked for him. He said he landed a job at a church just like I had. He wasn't a Christian or Lutheran or anything like that. He didn't know what to believe, he said. He just tried to do what was good.

Now, in most cases like that I stop the person talking and start questioning them as to why they were like that, but this man had something and I was curious. I couldn't really figure out what it was, but it had me by the gut and I couldn't just ignore it.

He worked five days a week cleaning out trash cans, mopping floors, vacuuming classrooms. He found a sense of pleasure in it for some reason and looked forward to doing it. It was crazy, he admitted to me, but it was the truth. He enjoyed cleaning.

Music still held a place inside him. He enjoyed his work, but tried to sneak in some practice time as well. Sometimes, when it was only him, he would sneak into the sanctuary and play a little on the grand. He said it always brought him the strength for another day.

Some days, when he was sure it was just him, he'd play a long beautiful piece he'd written years ago and fill the sanctuary with a still, peaceful tune.

One day, he said, after a short song, the music director came to him and all the other janitors and asked if they'd seen anyone in the sanctuary. He immediately denied it and didn't play again for several weeks. But the music inside of him was too strong, he said, and he found himself back in front of the piano.

Three days went by and no one ever mentioned the music. He began to feel a little easier when he played. Then it all changed.

He played a song by Michael W. Smith. He had no idea who it was, he told me, but he liked the song. When he finished he heard clapping coming from the balcony and nearly fell off the bench. He scrambled to see who it was, apologizing left and right. Down walked the music director with a sly look on his face. He was petrified, he said, with no idea what was about to happen.

The music director was impressed with the playing. He'd had some suspicions as to who it was, but this caught him offguard. He told me the director wanted him to perform at a small charity concert at the end of the month. After a few minutes of discussion, he agreed.

Chapter Six
He tried to describe to me the feeling that playing brought him. At first, I was at a loss. He was comparing it to things I didn't understand or relate to. Then it all made sense.

He asked me what it was that made me feel whole. Again, I was confused. I didn't know what he meant by "whole." I hadn't really felt anything like that, I told him. He pondered on that for a moment, then asked me to think of a moment in which I felt important. A time where it was me and me alone, no one else there to ruin how I felt. I gave a thoughtful frown and wondered.

"This" I said and motioned around me. "I don't know why, and probably couldn't explain it to you either, but there is something about mopping. I'm down here, no one else around or telling me what to do, and I just mop. Back and forth, back and forth, like the wind blowing a small leaf." He gave a pleased smile.

"Well there ya go."

Chapter Seven
The sanctuary was full. They weren't there for him, he said. He was the opening act, so to speak. They were there for the Huntsville Symphony Orchestra and the Community Chorus as they some famous opera arranged for a choir.

He was nervous. Everything inside of him ached. He didn't like any of this. He wanted to be back at the church cleaning. He swore from then on he'd never play the piano again. It had caused way too much trouble in his life.

The announcer greeted the audience and told some jokes to loosen them up. One was good, the other crashed. A few chuckles here and there but nothing else. He had to come after that.

His name was called and he walked out on stage. There was the complimentary applause and enthusiasm, which gave him a boost. He said he almost burped when he sat down, but it subsided before anything else happened. I laughed. It was good knowing some people are still human.

He began to play the song he'd played for the music director. He felt a passion rise within him. He had his eyes closed the whole time, worried that if he opened them he wouldn't go on.

There were no other instruments. Nothing but the sound of his playing and his voice. When he finished, he let a note hang in the air as he sang the last line. The audience was quiet for a moment, he said, then erupted with applause. It wasn't the kind that kept going and going, just enough to boost his spirits and make him feel better.

The rest of the performers came and went the orchestra and choir got standing ovations, which was no surprise he said. They all went out and took a bow and it was over.

After the show, he said he was offered another performance playing somewhere else. He was rather reluctant about it but did so anyway.

The request kept coming and he kept playing. He enjoyed the playing but it started to interfere with his job. When he was picked up by a record label, all that changed.

He was faced with the choice of the label or his job. He wanted the chance, he said, more than anything, but there was something about his job that he just loved. Its simplicity. It wasn't a hard job but it made him happy. He wrestled with the choice for days.

Finally, he chose the label.

Chapter Eight
The water for the mop bucket had taken forever to heat up. We'd had trouble with the plumbing for I don't know how long. Sometimes the water was scalding hot as soon as you turned it on; other times it was cold as ice and refused to heat up. Twice it didn't even turn on the whole day.

That night it took a little longer than usual, but certainly not an unreasonable time. I had the water running and waited on it to heat up. I had a worn out version of Tom Sawyer in the room. It was weathered, tattered and almost torn to pieces but it kept me company when I needed company.

When the water finally heated up and was added to the cleaner, I turned it off and wheeled it to the fellowship hall. One of the wheels was messed up and didn't turn like the others did. It faced at a slight left angle, so you had to push it slowly and carefully.
I started moving chairs around, making room for me to mop. I got the floor emptied and started mopping. About that time, the man showed up.

Chapter Nine
Music is a dirty business, he told me. You had certain places you could go and certain ones you couldn't. He was picked up by a mainstream label, which told him he could not play at churches or church related events. Whether that's true or not I couldn't say. The man seemed trust worthy and believable, so anything's possible.

He started off with great enthusiasm. He was going to travel the world, play in all the great stadiums, concert halls and anywhere else that would have him. He said he almost sang at the Super Bowl halftime but a stitch of the flu caught him, leaving his voice gone.

Sometimes there was more trouble going on than he realized, something he said he later regretted. There were ups to the whole business, he said in its defense. He wasn't trying to say it was all dark and gloomy, but it wasn't always upbeat and perky. One example, he said, was Camilla.

Camilla was his assigned agent. From the start they hated each other. He said once he wanted to have a nice, quiet concert at a park, she invited Bon Jovi to close.

Twice she threatened to quit, which excited him, he said. But she didn't and their war continued. He tried to get a new agent and she tried to get a new client. No one budged and they were stuck together.

Katrina came through New Orleans and he found himself stuck in a hotel room with her in Northern Mississippi. They'd been advised to stay where they were and let the storm come and go.

They fought the whole night. He would say something and she would give a retort. He hung a sheet between them and went to sleep. The storm nicked where they were, but he said it avoided them for the most part. He gladly packed his stuff.

Three days later, he got an email with a link to the New York Times. There, as one of the top five, was an article about him. He read in horrific detail as he was described as a woman hater, a scoundrel, and possessed a crude sense of humor.

Though the paper listed that their information came from an anonymous source, he knew who it'd been. He searched high and low for her, but she had disappeared. Morning shows and talk shows and radio broadcasters all wanted to talk to him. He said as many people that had loved him now hated him. He still had fans, but not as many.

All because of a woman...

Chapter Ten
His singles went to the top ten, one actually peaking at number 1. He enjoyed the success while it lasted. Then it all went downhill. His third album, the crucial one he'd been told, sank in sales. He went from two platinum albums to one that barely went gold. I started to ask what he meant and the names of the albums, but decided not to. I wasn't going to hear from him again.

The record company came to him with a proposition. Either he turn this around and get a big hit by the end of his next tour, or they'll pack him up and send him back home. He went on a massive tour, playing a new song at every stop. None of it was working. He ended the tour with a fourth album that never went anywhere. He began a farewell tour. All the concerts were sold out everywhere he went. A glorious outing.

It never occurred to me that was what he was doing here. I knew the concert upstairs was the last one of the performers, but since he'd said he couldn't play at churches it never crossed my mind. He finished with a smile.

"And here I am." I nodded.

"Well I must say you've had quite the life now, haven't ya?"

"Not really to be honest with you." He looked around. "Hey, you got an extra bucket and mop."

"Sure."

"How 'bout we get this floor finished up. I've held you over so it's the least I can do." I argued with him, then gave up in futility. I fetched another bucket and mop and returned to the hall.

We started together at the far right corner, making our way around the fellowship hall. He stayed through the night, and we greeted the sun together.

The End.