Straight Life - Art Pepper [279]
I went back into the examining room where Art was lying, eyes closed, grimacing in agony. I whispered in his ear, "They're going to give you something for the pain." Art was conscious enough to say his last words. He said, "It's about time."
Back at the original hospital he was put in intensive care. I called his regular doctor, who would now be the one to care for him, and explained that Art absolutely had to have his daily methadone. She understood. It was nighttime. I went home to bed.
The next morning I arrived to find Art still unconscious but dripping with sweat and writhing in pain. I asked the nurse in charge if Art had had his methadone. She said, "Methadone! That's the last thing he needs!" Out of Art's earshot, I told her he was dying and he wasn't going to do it painfully. He was an addict and he needed his methadone. I'd used a word she couldn't tolerate, and it wasn't "addict" and it wasn't "methadone." She threw a fit. She screamed at me. "Dying! Who told you he was dying!" I yelled back at her. I was angry, then, but I can see, now, that she'd been driven crazy by her job. I called our doctor who had Art moved to a regular room away from that peculiar environment. Art got his methadone. I sat by his bed and watched him relax. I stroked his hair. I sang to him, and when I finished, I saw a tear roll down his cheek. That's when it finally hit me. I was going to lose him. I cried and cried and cried.
I sat by his bedside for six days. I wept and talked to him and sang to him and joked to him and wept and kissed and touched him. The hospital issued a no visitors edict, but we let a few friends come. The band came all at once. George gave him a kiss goodbye. Journalists were calling the hospital. People were calling the house. I got our answering service to refer calls to a good friend of mine, a compassionate and convivial woman who was willing to deal with everyone. Our doctor and all the regular Kaiser nurses and technicians were absolutely wonderful. On the morning of June 15th I watched Art die.
My mother helped me with the funeral arrangements, and my friend, Joy, handled the newspapers and callers. I asked Ed Michel to put together a tape from the duo sessions to play for the crowd. I asked Ed to leave in the in-between-take talk. I wanted to hear Art's voice. I said we'd call the album "Goin' Home." "Goin' home" is also a bandstand phrase. It was what Art said to the band when he'd finished improvising and wanted to return to the original melody and end the song.
The funeral played to a packed house. It looked like the funeral of a celebrity, and it was. Art's friends talked about him with affection and respect and humor. The biggest and most beautiful wreath-gardenias and white orchids-was sent by our coke connection. The best was sent by the band. Art always complained, "I tell them when they play well, but they never tell me when I play well." The banner on the wreath said, "To the Greatest Saxophone Player in the World."
Art and I had talked about his death hundreds of times. He told me he was afraid to be buried in the ground; he was afraid of the worms. But he was terrified of fire. So I had him interred in a crypt at the Hollywood Cemetery, like Rudolph Valentino. He would have enjoyed the location, the company, and that creepy word, crypt.
He's come to me many times in dreams. Sometimes I'm overwhelmed with joy to see him. Sometimes the dreams are nightmares which are simply realistic recreations of the worst times we had, and I'm glad, and feel guilty to be glad, to wake up.
But I remember the best times, too. When Art was having fun, the world was a miracle. I wish I could explain it. Art's joy was like some heavenly gift he somehow shared with you, and when you had a good time in company with Art, it was the best good time you could possibly have.
I remember a day. The band was working at a pleasant club called Parnell's in Seattle. A local friend, a man who'd been in San Quentin with Art and was now rehabilitated and successful, rented a seaplane and flew us to an island off the coast,