Sam Kates' Aspie Sax Song-part 1

Sam Kates' Aspie Sax Song
         
         Sam Kates was a sax player.
         He was an aspie, which means he was afflicted with the mental disability known as Asperger's Syndrome, a form of high-functioning autism. A lot of people know about it now, but not so many when Sam was growing up. Nobody could put a finger on what was REALLY wrong with Sam; everybody concluded that he was just basically an asshole, because he didn't even try to play touch football, or "save the castle," or baseball, or even hopscotch; and, although he hardly talked at all, when he did open his mouth and respond to teachers, or waitresses, or secretaries, it was always something dumb; it was dumber than dumb, it was so off-the-wall weird it gave you the creeps. His parents thought he was retarded, but not stupid enough to be committed, so, all the way up through 3rd grade, they let him sit in his room on his bunk bed looking at pictures in National Geographic and Dr. Seuss, it didn't matter which. It didn't matter because he couldn't read, and they were pretty sure he didn't get anything he was looking at, so whether it was the cat in the hat, or naked African virgins with great brown-drooping tits, he was safe from moral corruption because in order to be corrupted you first had to have tasted of the fruit of good and evil, of Reason, in other words, to have any moral sensibility one way or another.
         The only other thing Sam ever did that could be remotely called "engaging in an activity" was watching TV. He couldn't actually work the TV, and did not automatically enter its tabernacle merely because it glows and makes noise. In fact, he avoided the run of cowboy shows and cartoons with which his brothers filled up their evenings and Saturday mornings; nobody was sure why, but sometimes, his mother noticed, when he was lured into the room by a catchy theme song or final credit music, he would immediately eject himself at the first appearance of gunshots, or exploding road runners. Sam didn't like noise, that was certain. What he did like no one could quite figure out until, one Saturday, the brothers abandoned the TV's phosphorescent gunplay for real exploding cap guns outside with screaming neighborhood children--and left the TV on. After some time, Lawrence Welk a-wonna anna toowahed his way into the box, playing 5:00 dinner music for old people, and Sam drifted into the room; he sat transfixed for an hour without moving a muscle. Sam's mother took note, and, next Saturday, remembered, just in time, to experimentally switch on the polka master's anachronistic broadcast and wait, Polonius-like, behind a curtained bedroom door to see if Sam would come. He did. Thereafter, whenever the rowdy brothers were not sopping up westerns, Sam got to watch Lawrence Welk; then Singalong With Mitch; then Roger Miller followed by Jimmy Dean. She even tried some PBS symphony orchestra broadcasts, and observed the same result. Sam came. Sam watched. Sam went away; but the dull cast that normally veiled the light in his eyes was brighter by milli-amps for minutes after the shows ended, and Mrs. Kates' sense of matriarchal duty felt somewhat, ever so slightly, fulfilled. It was the least she could do to tear her idiot son away from the National Geographics.
         Sam's parents couldn't decide if he were going to Hell or not; they asked their minister, and he said it was too soon to tell--the age of responsibility was 13. They breathed a sigh of relief about that; 5 more years to wait and see. Maybe Sam would awaken like Lazarus. Maybe he would get run over by a truck and relieve them of THEIR moral responsibility to this subhuman entity whom they had living with them, sharing a room with their two other quite normal sons, Josh and Abner, who misbehaved like real kids, and repented like incipient Christians. Maybe, maybe. . . But, bottom line, they basically didn't like Sam. Nobody did.
         Then one day, when he was nine, his family went to visit friends from the church. Sunday dinner was a weekly festival that perambulated criss-crossways through the subdivision from one house to another on a regular bi-monthly schedule, and here, today the Lord hath made, they were. Obligatory admiring comments were made about the new glass light fixtures illuminating the still-unfinished-dry-walled entryway: [It was the "entryway", or, as the boys called it, "the shoe room," because that was where they left most of their mud (not all of it). No self-respecting working man of middle America would stoop to call it some fancy-pants name like "foyer", although Mrs. Friend-from-church considered it (only once) before the thought was psychically guffawed out of her brain by Mr. Friend-from-church.] After coats and scarves were neatly hung on hooks, and Mr. Friend-from-church briefly outlined his plans for finishing the entryway, Sam's parents dumped him off in the boys' room, so the grown-ups could enjoy each others' company and cokes in peace.
         Josh and Abner were already buddies with Jeremy (short for Jeremiah) and Abe (short for Abraham), so they quite naturally paired off (the J's with the J's and the A's with the A's) in enthusiastic examination of lego castles and air rifles, respectively. Jeremy (short for Jeremiah) was the oldest of the four, just having entered junior high that September; everybody had to take music or shop, and he was (tragically) allergic to sawdust, so there he was in band learning (or not learning) arpeggios, and embouchre, and all that other French stuff, when he would much rather be hammering nails at the top of his lungs.
         He had casually cast his new alto saxophone into the corner. It was out of the case, so he could pretend he was going to practice it soon, but it was partially covered up by a pair of muddy denim blue jeans and a tee-shirt, so it was easier to forget--out of sight out of mind. The tiny corner of brass glinting in the efficiently fluorescent-lit room caught Sam's attention, and he sat dumb, but not immobile, for half an hour, gradually inching his way along the hardwood floor toward it, minute by slow minute (like a cat creeping up on a canary) until he was facing directly into the corner, his face a breath away from the golden glint.
         At this point, Jeremy noticed Sam's dangerous proximity to his new toy, and, although he cared not two shits in hell about it when they were alone together, the possibility that Sam might touch something that was HIS, filled him with righteous indignation, and he cried, "Hey you, boogerhead, get away from my saxophone."
         Sam flinched violently at the attack, and tipped over on his side in a pathetic defensive fetal position. Jeremy (short for Jeremiah) snatched up the horn and slung the neck strap over his head. "Hey guys, looka ME!" And he gave a great blast into the mouthpiece, screeching horrifically, then threw his head back in an equally horrific ejaculation of hilarity. There must be something in the long history of the world that was at least as funny as that splintery honk, but, lacking documented proof, Jeremy would never believe. He tried again to seduce humor out of the horn, this time by sucking on the mouthpiece, and the results were less satisfying, and certainly less loud. The bedroom was awash with giggles, and Jeremy had just leaped up onto his bed and begun executing more explicitly lascivious moves with his mouth and his hips, when dinner time was announced, and Jeremy narrowly escaped being caught by his father doing "Elvis Presley's Cunnilingus Cracks His New $2 Reed." Daddy looked in to repeat his announcement, and the saxophone was thrown roughly back into its corner, and the merry band of brothers swarmed out of the room in a tumble--all except Sam.
          Gathered solemnly around the long table, (the youngest, Abe (short for Abraham), Josh, and 4-year-old Sarah, smirking under the adjoining card table), all heads were bowed in humble thanks to Jesus for this good food amen, and nobody noticed that the fourth place at the card table was empty. Nobody noticed the absence of Sam, since his absence was typically hard to notice, until a sound came sweetly issuing around the corner from the "boys'" room. A saxophone was playing "Some Enchanted Evening."
         "Jeremy, I think you left your radio on," observed Mr. Friend-from-church, never a one to waste electricity.
         "I dint leave no radio on!" Jeremy (short for Jeremiah) eloquently exclaimed.
         "Jeremiah, you get up this instant and go turn off that-"
         "Wait," interrupted Mrs. Kates. All eyes instantly turned toward her, and just as instantly turned inward as all began to suspect what she had begun to suspect. The room was silently attentive, as "Some Enchanted Evening" purred against every table leg at once. In a single fluid movement they rose together and surged toward the bedroom, Mrs. Kates holding Jeremy back with a commanding though wordless reprimand. Nine pairs of eyes crept around the corner and peeked through the half-open door. There sat Sam, on the edge of the bed, his back to his audience, coaxing languid, clinging notes out of that cheap beginner saxophone with the almost-cracked reed. It was not that he did not miss a note here and there, (fingers that had never touched a saxophone before took a moment to penetrate the mystery of accidental sharps and flats), but even then, as his mind saw through the logic of the keys, his heart laced together strings of grace notes that disguised the mistakes like the most accomplished jazz musicians do as they make expressive virtue out of error. His tone was wonderful, warm and vibrant, and filled with the sort of harmonic density, a confidence that usually comes with maturity, but came on the instant for Sam; it sounded as though Sam had been playing the saxophone throughout Eternity.
         "He's got MY God-damned saxophone!" hissed Jeremiah (long for Jeremy), and all eyes snapped away from Sam, as the accidental swear words dripped like a dark pool of puppy piss onto the floor. Daddy's eyes narrowed. Punishment for THAT would come later; for now his and everybody else's attention was drawn away from the puppy piss and back into the room where Parsifal winded his golden horn. There was a whispering among the children. The parents said nothing with their mouths, but raised eyebrows from Mr. Friend-from-church were answered by shrugs of "Beats me," from Mr. Kates.
         "Has he ever--?" pointing with his eyes.
         "No." Head shake, slowly.
         "How does he--?" eyebrows again.
         "Beats me," shrug again.
         Once again heads turn, the wonder of the music turning to suspicion of Satan's work in our midst.
         "Sam, honey," crooned Mrs. Kates, deflating the burgeoning moment, "it's time for dinner now."
         The beautiful, radiant high note Sam was just then leaning on, shattered in a pool of piss, as he became aware of the crowd behind him. Jeremy glared daggers and Sam blushed with shame, returning the saxophone to the corner from whence it came. "Okay, Mama," he mumbled, and ever-so-gently placed the saxophone on its couch of denim. He slunk to the edge of the dispersing crowd, ducking Jeremy's hateful glance, and his mother touched his shoulder. Sam joined the group and ate in silence--more silent than ever, because, moments before, the unexpected eloquence of his reedy voice raised to Bali-Hai, had left a depression in the air that even the chattering Mrs. Friend-from-church could not elevate. Dinner conversation progressed in a subdued, falsely pleasant tonality, but nobody commented on the miracle they had just witnessed, as though, if they ignored it, it would go away; but, after the dessert was finished, the dishes stacked, and the Kates clan had taken their leave, Jeremiah Friend-from-church did not escape getting his mouth washed out with soap.
         On the way home, the silence of the dinner table persisted, hovered above the hum of the 1956 Studebaker's tires on the asphalt street. It was a short drive, but the pressure of the miracle weighed oppressively on the family, each of whom could think of nothing but getting out of that car as fast as they could. Law-abiding Mr. Kates was even speeding a little. Sam knew he had done something really wrong, and sat forlornly in the front seat, between Mama and Papa, worrying and waiting for something really bad to happen.
         As the Studebaker turned into the last block before home, Mrs. Kates leaned over and whispered in Sam's ear, "Sam, honey. . . how could you--how did you know how to play that music--in Jeremiah's room--the saxophone?"
         "I seen it," was Sam's whispered reply.
         "You saw it?"
         "On TV. I seen em play."
         "You mean Lawrence Welk? You saw them play saxophones on Lawrence Welk?"
         "I seen em. 'And now, a medley of your favorite tunes from South Pacific. Anna wonna anna twowa. . .'"
         At that moment the car pulled into the driveway and Sam scrambled over his mother's lap and out the door in a combination of moves so sudden that the sight of him blurred with speed and disbelief together. He was running hysterically toward the house and the safety of his bunk bed, when something stopped him in his tracks and he lurched to a stop and slowly slowly turned back toward the car as Josh and Abner raced past him. That graceful measured turn was like a ballet, the slow-motion of which was accentuated by the rush of brothers brushing up against, but not defracting the aurora of that rarefied suspended moment. His mother was extracting the fullness of her Sunday petticoats out of the crowded embrace of the Studebaker as Sam cautiously, cat-like, approached her. She looked down at him, over the car door, as his mouth moved.
         "What?" she whispered again, leaning down.
         He placed his lips against her ear. "Want one."
         "What, honey?"
         "Want one. Wanna sassapone."
         "You want a saxophone?"
         "Anna wonna anna twowa. . ."


         It was now 1985 and Sam was thirty-something. It may be of interest, when the movie comes out, how he grew up, but, for the purposes of this narrative, only a few details of back story are required:
         1.) The introduction of the saxophone into Sam's life constituted the Lazarus-like awakening that his parents had so looked forward to, and so dreaded. To make a long story short, he became a trained monkey who periodically performed Abide With Me at funerals, and O Holy Night at Christmas services. He never learned to read music worth a damn, but he could play anything he had heard once, in any key. He did eventually learn to read street signs and bus route maps, and he could recognize his name on the business cards his mother had printed up for him, before she was taken by breast cancer when he was twenty.
         2.) It was thought that he might become a dazzling prodigy after he performed the Ibert Concierto da Camera, with a music-minus-one recording of the orchestral back-up, at the State Solo and Ensemble Competition in Springfield. He played the 3rd movement of that difficult piece effortlessly and flawlessly, turning many heads of important members of the state-wide cultural community. After that brilliant premiere, several distinguished music professors from the university had tried to take him in hand and develop his talent into something like that of a professional soloist, but all in vain. Sam was a phenomenon, to be sure, but he was unteachable. What he could do, he either already knew from hearing a piece, or would never know. He was like a human tape recorder who could hear something once, then play it back with every nuance and refinement recreated just as he had heard it. He could not read, he could not count, (in anything like the normal sense of the word), and could not follow the hand motions of a conductor to save his life. Everything was by ear with him, and although his ear was infallible, it seemed disconnected from his eye, from his brain. When he played, he entered a dream world that hovered just near enough to the material plane that he could play with other people, but not so near that he could adjust to anything new or unexpected. The recordings in his head could not be modified on the fly, and he performed every piece in his repertoire with perfect, but indelible precision, every time exactly the same. The so-called "human" element remained hopelessly unaccounted for. Nevertheless, Sam's performances were such perfect representations of the original, that one wonders if the human energy of the music's source were not truly made manifest, after all; perhaps Sam's personal humanity consisted of merging his with somebody else's.

         When he was only twenty, directly after his mother's interment, he got on a bus to Chicago; his father stuffed three hundred bucks into his pocket, and a detailed sheet of instructions on how to get to Aunt Maxine's house on the north side. He paid the bus driver an extra $20 to see that Sam got on the El at the right spot, which the guy cheerfully pocketed and forgot about when they arrived at the Greyhound Station at 5:00 in the afternoon. Sam wandered out of the station and across the street to the giant Picasso smiling complexly at the poor lost boy. He sat beneath the sculpture for awhile, then took out his saxophone and played Someone to Watch Over Me over and over for about an hour, until a cop came up to him and ordered him to stop busking (even though Sam's case was closed and had received no quarters)--"No street musicians in downtown Chicago, this isn't fucking San Francisco for Chrissakes, whassa matta wit choo anyway?" Eventually, the cop got the idea when Sam stood mute before the confronting tirade of hostile authority, and took out the instructions to Aunt Maxine's, offering it to the cop with the pathos of a Josquin miserere.
         Sam made it to Aunt Maxine's place on the predominantly Jewish north side, and then to the restaurant, where he was consigned to a small corner to play unaccompanied broadway standards and an occasional hora, three hours a night. They tacked up carpeting at right angles in the corner to keep Sam's sound from vibrating too much with the customers' spaghetti and meat loaf; it lent a comfortable, unobtrusive background quality to Sam's sound, that mysteriously made the spaghetti more exotic, and the meat loaf warmer. And there he sat every night for over ten years, until Benny Goldstein, Yiddish theatrical agent and music contractor accidentally discovered him and moved him over to the Hyatt downtown, to front Morty Friedkin's "Mellow Four." Sam was really a find for the ailing trio of middle-aged burn-outs, who had just lost their lead player to a touring band on the Winnebago circuit, and were glumly facing the imminent prospect of finding day jobs. Sam's note-perfect readings of Charlie Parker alto solos, in addition to the more nightclub-friendly Coleman Hawkins and Lester Young tenor solos, (transposed to the proper key, of course), gave the band a vast repertoire of standards to choose from, and the Hyatt management was pleased to see a large and faithful following develop almost immediately. Every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night, the liquor would flow in the ever-more-crowded hotel barroom, and quite often extra chairs had to be set up as Sam's eager fans spilled over into the adjoining restaurant; good music meant good business, and the "Mellow Four" kept their gig.
         Every once in awhile a music student or another pro player, on his night off, would come to check out the rumor that there was a jazz genius playing for peanuts at the Hyatt; sometimes they would notice that Sam's playing sounded just like something they had heard before, and sometimes they could even name the album; but Red Taylor, the piano player, always minimized the implied absence of originality by extolling Sam's respect for tradition and his penchant for "occasionally" playing an homage to whatever jazz great he happened to be copying. And Sam's repertoire was so extensive, that they could sometimes go weeks without repeating a tune; that was long enough so that nobody noticed, sometimes not even the band members, that, when that same tune came around again, Sam played exactly the same notes he had played weeks before. If Red got a request from one of the regulars for a favorite tune that Sam had recently played, it was not a problem to whisper in Sam's ear to play an alternate version, somebody else's else's version.


         So here was aspie saxophonist Sam, gigging three nights a week and living alone at the St. George, not far from where Aunt Maxine had first put him up (one long bus ride from Lake Shore Drive--no transfers, which, experience had shown, might land Sam in the Projects not at the Hyatt Twin Towers). And here was Morty Friedkin, bass player, Red Taylor, piano player, and Joe "Sticks" Jones, drummer, playing for the past two and a half years at the Hyatt Moonrise Room to a growing audience. So what would you do if your career as a musician had just about peaked out, and was suddenly revitalized by an idiot saxophonist who could play like fucking Charlie Parker? No, who WAS Charlie Parker, AND Lester Young, AND fucking Kenny G if you wanted him to be? You would get greedy.
         Morty started looking around for other venues for the band, specialty venues, concert venues. There was one slightly more upscale nightclub than the Hyatt a few blocks away on Michigan Avenue called "Al's Place" (don't ask, but one of the items on the menu was "Capone's Capon."). Rudy, the manager, (not Al) was interested in trying out the group on their dinner theater stage, and he was even willing to book them for a Wednesday, (so as not to endanger the group's Thursday through Saturday commitment), but he felt that the purely instrumental constitution of the band would not hold a paying audience for a whole evening's entertainment without a featured vocalist.
         "Work a singer into your act, and we'll talk again," he told Morty, over the phone.
         "But listen, man, our saxophonist is a motherfucker, man," objected Mr. Let's-exploit-the-idiot-for-all-he's-worth. "Our guys plays all the--"
         "Yeah, I get it. I've heard your demo, and he really wails, but my people need the words to keep them interested. Also tits. You can feature the sax player all you want, but you need a singer, to play here. Whynchoo call up Goldstein? He's got a list."
         Morty hated that asshole Benny Goldstein, even though Benny was directly responsible for prolonging the professional life of the "Mellow Four" by bringing them Sam. The paltry 10% he was still taking out of Sam's cut every week, (after two and a half years, as per the contract Sam had signed in his child-like scrawl), was no skin off Morty's nose, since he wasn't paying anything, but the idea of beholding to that Jew bastard was a piss-off, and getting into him with another obligation offended his stingy scruples. After a half-hour of conflicted indecision, he called up Benny, anyway, not because he was the best or most connected union contractor in town, but because Morty preferred to bear the afflictions he already had than fly to others he knew not of; anyway, he had Benny's phone number in his book. Also, Benny's understanding of the "Sam Situation" would probably color his suggestions. "Okay, okay," he bitches at himself, "call up god-damned, motherfuckin' Benny god-damn Goldstein."
         They held auditions at the Moonrise Room in the afternoon, in half-hour slots, before the bar opened. Benny sent over a selection of middle-aged broads, figuring the older generation would relate better to the middle-aged rhythm section and the predominantly 30's and 40's repertoire. The women he knew were mostly not regular nightclub singers, they were more like wedding/bat mitzva singers, occasional performers with day gigs, and teen-age children. There was a black lady who showed promise, with a sultry version of Stormy Weather, but it turned out she only knew a few songs, she couldn't read any better than Sam could, and, anyway, everything she sang sounded like the blues. She also made the mistake of trying to give Sam some direction: she suggested he put in some fills during a few of her long notes in the chorus before taking his solo. Sam was not used to any kind of personal interaction with the people he made music with, and her comments not only didn't compute, they freaked him out. He got that frozen look on his face, just like the first time Jeremy (short for Jeremiah) shouted, "Hey you, boogerhead, get away from my saxophone." He stood stock still for minutes, with his eyes wide. Red made some hasty excuse to the consternated singer, and ushered her out before Sam started drooling.
         Benny had taken a chance sending over a young girl, fresh out of the Roosevelt University Music School. She had soloed with the college jazz band, and had worked with the opera group for a few semesters; since graduation she had been doing some church cantata soloing, Messiah, and so on, but mostly she was keeping it together with a waitressing gig, and a few private students. Benny didn't hold out much hope for her as a fifth wheel with the "Mellow Four," but he liked her voice, and would be pleased if he could manage to help her break into the business. Her name was Susan Wright. Suzy Wright. Miss Wright.

         Red led her to the bandstand and shoved a pile lead sheets onto the music stand in front of her. He asked her if she wanted to do something prepared, or could they just jump right into the band's material? Sure, fine. Okay, how about Lover Man? Great. D minor? Whatever.
         The night before, Red had given Sam several recordings to listen to, including the Rosemary Clooney Lover Man. "Learn the guitar part," he had said, which was good, because the guitar part included not only a nice solo in the middle, but a rhythm accompaniment part, which would give Sam something to do while the girl was singing. They launched into the intro, Red tickling the ivories in much the same manner as the truncated opening of the Clooney version. "What was the name of that guitar player? Joe Pass? Was it Joe Pass?"
         "Ya got me. Was it one o' them Spics?"
         "Joe Pass, I think."
         "I doe no wwhyyy, but I'm feelin' so sad. . ." she was singing now.
         And she got their attention in a hurry. The voice, young still, to be sure, was leaning into the lonely, resonant, siren sound of Rosemary Clooney with a depth of expression you don't usually get at 4:00 in the afternoon on Lakeshore Drive. She was captivating from the first note, and followed through with uninterrupted fascination to the very end. She kind of reminded them of Sam, in the way she disappeared into the music and became the music; the difference was that she kept one toenail of consciousness on the ground, and you could see that grounded spark of intelligence willing the intuitive detritus to flow into defined channels. In Sam's eyes you could see nothing until the tune was over and he returned to us here on Earth.
         But that's not the cool part: when Sam went into his solo--and that was already pretty cool, because guitar licks don't always lie well on the saxophone, but Sam made it work--when he started reciting his Joe Pass catechism for the night, Suzy kept on going: she gave him just enough space to dominate the stage, but also took back the spotlight momentarily, here and there, filling between phrases, and joining into some of the passage work with her own improvised counterpoints. She was a real talented improviser for sure, and she added a complexity and substance to the saxophone (guitar) solo that not only didn't interfere with it, but, rather brightened its effect. And when she took back the head, there was not only discernible a tenderness of character (the theatrical part), but an authority (the art part)--a confidence, again, not unlike the confidence that came on the instant for Sam in that boys' bedroom long ago; she sounded like she had been singing Lover Man throughout Eternity.
         But that's still not the coolest, coolest part: when Sam noticed Suzy's background fills, his first reaction was to repeat the same attack of panic he had just experienced with the black lady, ("Oh no," scream Red, Morty, and Sticks together, in their heads.); but after only a moment, Sam's frowning eyebrows turned up into a beaming grin, and the usual dreamland quality washed off his face; he actually seemed mentally alert in a way, and to a degree they had never seen in him before. He was playing like a motherfucker, and he and Suzy were sounding GREAT together, not only in the way their lines crisscrossed in ravishing duet, but in how the SOUNDS went together. She was doing something to her voice to make it go with Sam's saxophone, and they couldn't tell what, but it was GREAT!
         But that's still not the coolest, coolest, coolest part. At a certain point in the duet, as it was winding its way to the climax, Sam did something he had never done before: he changed a note. The counterpoint Suzy was making up was working really well, but as the peak of the phrase approached, she was into a line which, if taken to its natural conclusion, would have clashed with the Joe Pass guitar solo. Only Sam knew this because only Sam knew where the Joe Pass solo was going, and, by some miracle of psychic divination, only Sam knew where Suzy's counterpoint was going.
         So he changed a note. In fact, he changed a whole phrase to fit with Suzy's line, and THAT was the miracle. He had never done that before. Red noticed right away, because he had reviewed that recording himself last night, and had the guitar solo fresh in his memory. It was not an insignificant change, it was noticeable. The other guys were oblivious, of course, but Red raised a, "Listen to that," eyebrow, and they all then rallied around the music with renewed creative attention. Now, Suzy didn't get this either, because she was just having fun with music like she always did with jazz; she didn't know she had opened a door in Sam that the "Mellow Four" had been hoping would open for two and a half years. The sonorities were wonderful, she could hear that, but she didn't know, yet, that Sam was a tape recorder that never faltered and never ever varied--until there was her. She didn't know that, for the first time in his life, Sam had fallen deeply in love.