The Sour Times of Terence Felder, vol. I.

 

     Terence Felder was the son of one Arthur Felder, a rotund restauranteur from Oklahoma City, and was known in social circles as Terry.  As a rule, he never liked to be called Terry, but some seminal event which is not worth noting here stuck him forever with this hated appellation.  Growing up, Terence had a fondness for trees and spent much time at the library and in the parks learning their taxonomic and common names.  The elm was his particular favorite and he could usually be found under their sheltering branches, reading about trees after school if the weather was nice enough.  As he grew older, time showed more of the world to him in glimpses and close calls and eventually he completely abandoned the cloister of nature for the stirring charm of Blacksploitation films from the early 70’s.  Had the transformation been a sudden one, or had it developed over time?  He couldn’t remember and, at this point, who really cares.

     Dolemite figured prominently in the construction of Terence’s inner voice and if one listened closely with the right ears, on a good day, one could hear theme music of the pimp variety playing in his head as he walked down the street.  Not so on a bad day.  On these days you would hear no music, only the rusty rattle of his own worries and insecurities.

Looking not unlike a white version of J. J. Walker from Good Times did not much to endear him to the fairer sex in his quiet formative years.  He was not a jock.  He was not an honor student.  And he was most certainly not a poet.  These deficits he tried to compensate for with various enticements, not the least successful of which was a determined effort at playing the saxophone.  After years hidden away in his room with Dave Brubeck albums and several black turtleneck sweaters, he emerged one fine Fall day as a rather decent sax player.  This gradually earned him a gradual social standing at school among the nerdy types and this gave him the confidence to pursue 1) a career as a jazz musician and 2) beatnik chicks.  The latter case proved to be a harder nut to crack, shall we say, than the pursuit of artistic integrity.  Much rebuked groping and hasty petting with dowdy schoolmates led finally, three weeks after graduation, to a fruitful triste with an ever-so-slightly overweight intended English major with long dark hair.  This put an awkward spin on the relationship almost immediately, which had been purely a friendship sort of arrangement, and after a couple of weeks the girl told Terence to stop calling her.

Wracked by the rejection, the loss of female companionship, and unsure about the future, Terence gave up and went back to playing saxophone.  Each of us is trapped in the present and no amount of planning or ruminating over past losses, or wins for that matter, lends any comfort when you stop and face the inevitable fact that we are in the moment.  And this can be a crushing weight upon anyone with the open wound of a life not yet written, and we could certainly not blame Terence at that point in his life for deciding to retreat.  Because in the meantime he got good at blowing that sax.  I mean real good.  Perhaps not I’m-launching-a-solo-tour-with-record-company-backing good, but local bands that payed homage to a style of music in the autumn of its life liked what he had to say with his instrument and he soon became a sought-after musician.