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Ivory Keys: An Excerpt (to be used as base Treatment for Feature Screenplay) by Ara Bear

Evening. Smoke clouds fill an exposed brick, jazz club on the lower east side. The year is 1972. Patrons come and go as they please, musicians bump along behind the laughter, tobacco, and too loud talk. Though no one pays attention to the music around them, everyone moves to its rhythm. Music cuts, people move, to get away from whatever conversation they no longer want to have; or the music treads on, urging you to find your pace – talk too slow, too fast, just right.

When people enter, they notice the chunks missing from cracked brick and cement walls, and then the bar. Maybe the tune, but never who is playing the tune, who is controlling the rhythm.

William Shepard noticed the cracked brick, but it wasn’t the bar he saw second; it was Nick – and some could even argue that it was Nick he saw first.

William with his golden pompadour waves and early acceptance to Stanford Medical School, was not meant for the lower east side, but he needed a break to breathe. And breathe he did.

William was with his friends and girlfriend Jenny. They all spoke at once about the dingy place, the fog, the jazz; they were squeamish, but interested in the city’s underbelly. Will could not even speak to the beauty they all missed among the grime – Nick.

Nick’s jawline was covered in five o’clock shadow, with a single piece of chocolate, almost black hair, falling in front of his forehead, long enough to reach his right eye. His head hung down as he clamored away at ivory keys. William saw all of this.

Jenny, his friends, the room, and Nick all grappled for William’s attention. Nick won. But, Jenny tugged at William and lead the friends to a table closest to the bar, farthest from Nick. Will sat easily, snapping back into reality.

The night carried on as any other. They drank, laughed, smoked, talked, smoked, laughed, drank. They – including Will – fell into the rhythm played by Nick and his ivory keys, all the while forgetting he was even there.

Music cut out and it was time to make a choice: move on or wait for the next tune. Will and his friends chose the former; it was Thursday and it was getting late. Jenny and their friends went outside and left Will with the check. He was used to it. He sat at the bar, until the waiter would lock eyes with him long enough for him to mime “Check

please.” A new song had not rung over the room yet in a couple minutes. Nick had left his post and a new artist set up shop.

Sauntering off stage in tight blue flares and a – supposed to be white – dingy t-shirt, Nick made his way to the bar, to sit, in the seat next to Will. Turning to get the waiter’s eye Will caught Nick just as he sat down.

Nick commanded the bar; he had the waiter tending to him almost before he settled in his seat; he’d noticed Will having trouble and made a motion toward him, asking for two bourbons: two fingers, dry.

“Oh, no. I just need the check,” Will spoke up. “Not a fan of bourbon?” said Nick. “No. Yes,” Will fumbled. “What I meant was, I don’t mind Bourbon, I’m just picking up the bill, then

meeting my friends outside.” “So, just not a fan of me?” Nick chuckled. “What? No. You were great. Really,” said Will. “Name a song from tonight,” said Nick. Will was flustered. He had noticed Nick, but now he saw him there, so close. It was clear Nick was only

teasing. Even so, Will hadn’t an answer. “All of it. Great. Really,” said Will. The waiter came back with two bourbons. “Have a drink and I’ll consider it square,” said Nick. Tempted, Will sat silently for a second. He noticed the veins that outlined Nick’s hands as he reached for his

own glass. “I’ll pay for mine, but I can’t,” said Will. Nick swiftly knocked back the drink he was holding and reached out for the second glass. “Don’t sweat it,” said Nick. And just as Will was on his way, Nick crossed one leg over the other, accidentally brushing his foot against

Will’s . Will looked down, then back to Nick. “Don’t sweat it,” said Will.

Will went back to his dorm on the upper West side and dropped Jenny to her room.

“Comin in?,” she said. “Not tonight, I’m just exhausted. Been a long day,” said Will. The two-kissed goodnight and Will went back to his room. On the opposite side of the city, Nick wandered through the desolate streets of Brooklyn, making sharp turns

at every corner and running through every light. He moved like every muscle was controlled by a melody; taking two quick steps then a slow followed by a flourish of the arm or the occasional spin. He did not care who saw him, who judged him.

Nick made his way into a tenement building somewhere between the ritzy Park Slope and the colorless Bay Ridge. 40th street; a tan cinder block building, but you wouldn’t notice that amidst the illegible graffiti that painted its every inch. The sidewalks steamed from subway grates where Nick could feel the D train rumble under him. The corners smelled of piss and sweat – and home, for Nick.

Nick continued his melodic steps up to his apartment. Opening the door Nick saw his father in the kitchen. “You up?” said Nick. “Got off tomorrow, can finally sleep in. Thought I’d make the most of it,” said Nick’s dad. “Long as you’re not waitin’ for me,” replied Nick.

“Stay up with the old man?”

The two settled into their modest living room with two single chairs and a T.V. Nick’s dad grabbed a beer from the fridge and tossed one to Nick who fiddled with the TV antennae, trying to get a signal, or steal the neighbors – whichever worked first. Catching a signal, the two sat down to an episode of “The Odd Couple.”

“Always thought those two were a couple of fags,” said Nick’s dad.

Nick sat silently, sipping his beer then putting it down. Nick’s dad looked to him for a response. Nick grabbed his beer and continued to drink, though he was almost finished he drank like it was half full.

“Fags on T.V. and I’m barely makin’ rent working construction. Man’s work. Don’t pay like it used to.”

Nick finished his beer and fished in his seat for the remote. He flipped the channel and passed the remote to his father.

“Early day tomorrow, think I’m gonna call it a night,” said Nick.

Two weeks had gone by since that night. Nick had been playing in various clubs in the city and the city streets. Will, however, had spent the past two weekends back at that same club, hoping for another chance to see Nick, for another chance at bourbon, two fingers dry.

It was Saturday night and Will is tired of waiting.

Making his way back home, Will thought about Jenny. She had bought him a gold cuff link, pressed with Stanford’s crest to congratulate him on his acceptance. Will, then, gingerly rubbed his thumb over the cuff link. He hadn’t seen much of Jenny lately and as he approached campus, thought of stopping in to see her.

Five city-blocks out from the dorms, Will could hear soft jazz playing. He stopped rubbing the cuff link and closed his eyes. Will back tracked his steps and leaned against the open doorway of the club. There wasn’t the same underground vibe and people actually listened to the music around them and took it in as a substitute for conversation. Red light beamed over top shelf whiskey air.

Engrossed, Will walked in and took a moment to peer around the room.

“Alright, alright, alright bad cats, we have one more for ya tonight. Welcome this far-out fox all the way from Brooklyn...Nick Holt, on the sweet ivory keys,” said the club announcer.

Will saw red. Not because of the light in the room or a sudden surge of anger, but from his longing and excitement. Now he knew his name – Nick.

Will posted himself up at the bar, never facing inward, only out toward the stage, toward Nick. He never even ordered a drink. Just sat and watched. Just sat and smiled, and bumped on, to Nick’s rhythm.

After his set, Nick did as before. Sauntered off, sat at the bar. Next to Will. “You dig Jazz I gather?” said Nick. “Something like that,” said Will. Before Nick had the chance to retort, Will ordered two bourbons.

“Figured I owed you,” said Will. “For last time? Said, don’t stress it,” said Nick “For your ‘sweet keys’,” said Will. And the two laughed Nick, had seen Will walk in. Keys first and everything else second was Nick’s way of focusing on his goals.

But even still, that night he played on, hard and strong making sure not to lose a single person in the room.

“Yea, that guy is somethin’ else,” said Nick. The waiter came back with the bourbons. “You forgot to tell ‘em dry.” Will had not managed to come off as cool as he had wanted. “So jazz, why?,” Will said trying to recover.

“Why not? But really man, we’re losing the greats, Armstrong?,” said Nick. Will wanted to listen to Nick, but he could not focus beyond his lips to hear what he was actually saying. “And not to come off as you know..., but I think I could be that great,” finished Nick. Will stared blankly and filled the musky wood smelling air with “I have some records back at my place.” “Maybe I should come by sometime,” said Nick. “How ‘bout now?” Will said, shocking himself in his reply. Nick was puzzled, but smirked as he lifted his drink and looked straight down the glass. Nick knocked back

his drink. “Easy when it’s mostly ice,” teased Nick. “Come to think of it, I might have some better stuff, and I don’t have an ice machine,” said Will. The two left the bar at a hesitant pace, almost waiting for one of them to turn around, make an excuse to why

tonight wasn’t a good night. But, neither did, so they walked on. Will’s place was so close, there was no time wasted between them being at a crowded bar and them alone in Will’s room. It was quick enough that they could not think, which was terrifying, but also a relief.

“You have got two records man,” said Nick. “And neither are good; I mean Bread? Bowie? Psychs and depressants, where’s the groove?”

Will walked over to where Nick was in his room. The record player was set up on the desk by his bed. Will liked to put on music as he slept. “Excuse you, but I have at least five: Hendrix, Morrison, Bowie, Bread, and Zeppelin.”

“Listen to what they tell you to. Who are you, what do you want to hear?” said Nick.

“Maybe I like what these artists have to say,” Although, Will knew he knew not a thing about music and it was showing.

“Yea. Thought you brought me back here to listen to jazz?”

Will took the Bowie record from Nick’s hand, touching it slightly. “I said I had records, you assumed jazz. I just didn’t correct you.”

Nick moved in closer to Will. He reached for the record. “Maybe I’d like to hear this,” he said, as he grabbed it with a flourish. He spun it once in his hand then slid the record from its casing and placed it on the turn table. Leaning over Nick, Will placed the needle on his favorite spot. Will, just over Nick’s shoulder could take in his subtle scent of liquor and sweat. It was sweeter than one might think. Nick couldn’t help but notice their proximity and turned his face, away from the spinning record, to meet Will’s face by his shoulder.

“Did you also lie about that drink?” said Nick.

Will, abruptly, removed himself from behind Nick. He went off to his closet and rummaged for a minute. He knew exactly where his liquor was, but needed time to think, assess. He went through the logic like the med student he was sure to be, weighing possible outcomes, situations, what could go right, what could go wrong. Finally, he reemerged, bottle of whiskey in hand.

Nick walked over to Will. “Well?” said Nick. Will pointed to a glass on his desk and began to step away. “No need,” said Nick. And Nick took the bottle from Will, twisted off the cap and began to drink straight

from the bottle. He took his pull then passed it to Will; Will did the same. When it was Nick’s turn to take the bottle, he did but, he held it to his side.

“Name’s Nick,” he said. “I know, the club guy said it before you went on. Nick Holt,” it was burned into Will’s memory. Nick looked away and smirked; when he came back into the moment Will reached up and placed back

Nick’s straggling hair that never wanted to be anywhere but, in front of his eyes. Nick, with his free hand met Will’s wrist by his forehead, and pinned it against the closet door behind him, snapping it shut. Will was breathless. Nick pressed his lips to Will’s, both of them tasting of whiskey. Will jerked, but only for a moment before allowing Nick to do as he pleased.

With the bottle still in his hand, Nick continued to kiss Will and removed his other hand from Will’s wrist to begin to explore Will’s body. There was no thinking now as Will pushed away from the closet urging the two to stumble back to Will’s bed. They stopped long enough for Nick to take another swig from the bottle, set it down on Will’s desk, and now with free hands undo his fly.

As he had done that first night at the bar, Nick took complete control. He started stripping Will, pressing him down chest first on the bed as he climbed on top. Will muffled his breath and screeching moans into a pillow, in part to not let anyone else know what was happening and in part to not let Nick know his inexperience.

Done, Nick slipped on to one side of the bed. Will propped himself up with his head in his hands and his elbow digging into the now needed to be washed sheets.

“Name’s Will,” he said, looking up at Nick.

Still somewhat breathy Nick replied, “Nice to meet you.” The two laughed to themselves, then with each other.

“I have a girlfriend,” said Will. “We all do.” “What?” Nick had put together Will’s inexperience early in the night, but did not care. And this is how it went for three months. Will met Nick at gigs; Nick stood outside of Will’s dorm hall. Nick

introduced Will to the underground gay clubs of the east side, of Brooklyn and Queens. They danced, hard and sensual against the streaky nightlife lights and sweaty bodies, who were just like theirs. Nick spent nights teaching Will about music, sound, soul and rhythm; Will told Nick of his hopes and dreams of becoming a trauma surgeon overseas; if he could not stop the war in Vietnam, he would aide its victims. A pressure had been released on both of them: for Will, he cared about something beyond himself and his success and now Nick only played the ivory keys on weekends; his weeknights were too filled with Will.

The two created an oblivion between them where they saw, felt, and touched nothing else in the world, but each other, with only brief moments pulling them out. They found it hard to hide themselves in in public.

One day, making their way from the upper west side to Brooklyn the two had no choice, but to ride the subway. They caught the 1 train downtown; both stood against the train door. When they spoke, they did so in such proximity one could either think they were lovers or both hard of hearing.

“Take me to your place,” said Will.

Nick leaned in, so close he spoke into Will’s lips and nose. “Think I’m rollin’ with someone else? But, dear you are water turned to wine, I could want nothing more,” said Nick.

Will playfully pushed his hand against Nick’s chest; Nick moved his hand to meet Will’s in a loose holding of hands. Looking away from Nick to see what stop they were at, Will noticed eyes burning holes into him and Nick, each faced looked utterly disgusted with the two. At the following stop, a man pushed through Nick and Will, rougher that necessary followed by a mumble under his breath. They joined together again once the door closed, but this time when Nick came closer to Will, Will moved and pointed to two seats at the far back of the train.

Five months now. Will was set to graduate in a few weeks, Nick was still lapping up gigs where he could. They were in Will’s bed when they spoke of their lives to come; Miles Davis echoing off the turntable.

“I want to...to be with you after you finish” said Nick. “I’ll be in California. You want to be in California, middle of nowhere with no license?” “You are worth a license and nowhere with you is better than I ever thought I’d get,” Nick moved his bare

body on to Will’s. Nick was serious and would not let the subject lie. He got frustrated by Will’s deflections each time he

brought it up. “Prove it!,” shouted Nick in the middle of Washington Square park. “Tell me you love me, or I’m out.” “Would you stop. I don’t work for my money. My dad will cut me off, if I tell I lose everything,” said Will. “Nothing every distracts me from my music and I let you.” Nicked stormed off, basically ran back to Brooklyn. He was upset, red cheeked and puffy. Meanwhile, Will

had went back up to Columbia. He didn’t want to lose Nick, but he couldn’t see their future the way Nick could. He found a way to buy himself some time, while still showing his commitment, for Nick. He walked passed the jazz club, passed his dorm and vigorously began knocking on a door.

Nick was now home, his dad in the chair, beer in one hand remote in the other. “Dad! Dad?”

Nick’s father turned to look at him. “Son. Someone jump ya?” he said watching his tear, streaked son’s face. “No. I got something to tell you.” Back on the west side, the door behind Will’s fist opened. It was Jenny. He had seen her less in the past few

months, but she chalked it up to pre-med stress which was an understatement. Jenny went in for a kiss, but Will pulled back.

“I’m going to the other side of the country Jen. I think it’s time.” He left Jenny sobbing on her bed. One person off his chest. Nick was now hurriedly packing a backpack, shoving in as much as he could. “No lip wrist musicians in my house. This ain’t even our house Nicky! The landlord sure to put us out there.

Send us both on our asses. You like that? Being on your ass? No. Not here. When you want to be a man, you knock on my door.”

Nick pushed passed his dad practically leaping over the tenement steps, floating to Will’s dorm. “I broke up with Jenny. See? I told you, it’s just you,” Will said as Nick moved passed him to his bed. Will was so excited to give his news to Nick he failed to take notice of his bags, both in hand and under

watery eyes. “I’m did it. I’m out” said Nick.

“You told your dad?” “Yea. And I’m out. Pest control; don’t like fags. I mean, I knew but hoped but couldn’t keep hoping.” Will stood without words, just like the first time he had seen Nick. “No Jenny, guess there is no reason you can’t stay here,” said Will. In the summer months Will and Nick carried on as they had before that day. They made plans of their new

life in California. Will told Nick he’d come out to his dad and everything was moving along fine; rhythmic almost in their pattern. But, like any rhythm one note has to break pattern, to get to the next part of a song going; to change it, to move it along.

“I don’t think I have enough summer wear for a year. I’m gonna start lookin for clubs out there. Somethin’ to do when you’re being smart,” said Nick.

Two weeks before Stanford and Will knew he couldn’t keep up the lie any longer. “He doesn’t know,” said Will. They were on the subway, on their way back from one of their best nights out. Neither knew it would be their

last. “Huh?”

“You can’t come to California. I’m going to the other side of the country.” And so Will went on to gave the same trodden talk he’d given Jenny months before.

“I think it’s time we—“ and just as Will was about to put an end to it all the train came to its next stop. Nick got up and walked off. Will did not chase him. He had too much to lose. It was time.

Mid-day. Fifteen years passed. Will now lived upstate; he was a general surgeon, had a wife and a son with another on the way. He went on like Nick had never happened, though he always knew he did. He never did anything or anyone with as much love as he had done Nick. Fifteen years since he had been with a man.

One night after work, Will went into the city. He went back to one of the underground clubs that Nick had brought him to, only to find it no longer existed. Defeated, Will made his way back to his car, prepared to drive home. He didn’t know what it was he was looking for. Then a tune caught his ear. Two blocks south. “My Funny Valentine.”Willcouldn’tbelievejazzlastedthislong,itwas1987. Hefollowedthetuneandstoppedin.Afterafew scans of the room, Will came up blank.

“You lookin for someone baby?” said a man by the bar. He was dressed in mostly neon and glitter stroked his eyelids. “No. Thank You.” “Oh, I know your type. Shy?” Who was this man and how did he know? Was it always that present on Will’s face? The unknown man

scribbled a number on a napkin. Just as Will got up to leave he brushed him with his foot. “Not your type? Fine. Call this number, sure we got one for you,” and Will was on his way. Will went home. He left the napkin in his car glove box. He looked to the glove box every day; on his way to

work, on his way home. One day during lunch, Will went out and made a call. “Yes? Hello? Yes, Hi. I was told to call this number if I want—“

“I know what you want baby,” said the voice on the other line. “Just tell me when and how you want it.” “I don’t—this was a mistake.” “Hold on, hold on. What’s your type? I have a fit fella; 6ft blonde. 23.” “Too young.”

“Ok. How about mid-thirties, dark hair with a little salt sprinkled in?” “Yes, yes. That’s fine.” “Where am I sending, him honey?” “East side motel, 8’oclock,” and Will hung up the phone.

The whole drive over to the city, Will’s chest felt heavy and his mind cloudy. He had made it to the hotel, 15 minutes early. Enough time to pour himself a drink. He needed to breathe.

A knock came at the door. The man’s back was turned at Will’s opening of the door; “You ready for me?” replied the man. He turned on his heels to face Will.

“William goddamn Shepard.” It was Nick.

As Will drove off back to security he could not yet bring himself home. He stopped at a local bar and decided to stay for the day. He grabbed a seat. “Bourbon,” he said and held up two fingers. “Make it dry.”

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