Here by Mistake by David Ciferri Read Free Book Online Page B

promptly blew a blast on a trumpet.
    Stephen jumped and barely caught his backpack before it tumbled off his lap. He looked up at the trumpeter, who was a black man maybe sixty years old, tall and thin. He wore a black suit and top hat, a stiff white collar, and a narrow black tie. Across his chest hung a shiny red sash with the words “Preservation Hall.” He held an open umbrella in one hand and the trumpet in the other.
    “Y’all don’t look like y’from ’round here,” the man boomed, addressing Brandon and Sarah as well as Stephen.
    Brandon couldn’t make out the reason for an open umbrella on a sunny day.
    “The little lady looks t’need some cheerin’ up,” the man said, with a nod to Sarah. “Thaddeus Monroe at y’service, ma’am.” He tucked his trumpet under his arm, doffed his hat, and made a formal bow. His close-cropped silvery hair glistened in the sun.
    Sarah clutched Brandon’s arm, but she was no longer crying.
    “Y’request is my pleasure t’perform,” Thaddeus Monroe said.
    Brandon and Sarah looked at each other. Stephen spoke up: “How about ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’?”
    “Exxxcellent choice, young man. T’you, little lady, and the great Irving Berlin.” Thaddeus Monroe blew a few practice notes and launched into the song. After every few bars he paused the trumpet and sang the lyrics. His singing voice was deeper and more gravelly than his speaking voice. He danced and waved his umbrella in time with the music. When he was finished, Stephen, Sarah, and Brandon broke into applause.
    “I thank y’all. Thank y’all ever so much,” said Thaddeus Monroe with another formal bow.
    Stephen straightened up. “Do we tip you?” he asked.
    “Folks have been known t’do it, but nooo, thank y’kindly.”
    Brandon saw that Sarah was feeling better, and that was worth plenty to him. “We’d be glad to, mister.”
    “Much obliged, but nooo. Y’all have the look of folks who need t’be seein’ t’themselves just now. Y’all lose somethin,’ or someone?”
    “We’re just tired,” Brandon said. “We’re looking for 751 Decatur, but we’re still stuck in the 600s.”
    Thaddeus Monroe closed his umbrella with a flourish and pointed it east. “Four blocks that way, and y’all are there,” he said cheerfully. “Look for three red buildin’s in a row. It’s the middle of the three.”
    Brandon saw Sarah light up. “Thanks, mister,” he exclaimed.
    “Thank you, sir,” Sarah murmured.
    Thaddeus Monroe tucked his trumpet under his arm and tipped his hat to them. He turned on his heel and strolled up the square.
    Brandon asked Sarah, “Feel like starting out?”
    She nodded. The three got up and walked east out of the square. Immediately they came to a red, white, and blue billboard that announced: The One and Only, World-Famous, Never-to-Be-Imitated French Market of the Grand Old City of New Orleans. Ten steps past the billboard they were in a maze of grocery stands, food stalls, and snack shops.
    Brandon stopped in his tracks and gagged. “What’s that stink?”
    Stephen pointed to a fruit and vegetable stand with at least fifty loops of garlic hanging off a canopy. A fan was blowing the smell all over the street.
    “Hmmm.” Stephen smiled. “Too bad we already ate.”
    “Yeah, right,” Brandon said, walking quickly on.
    Ten minutes later they reached the fourth block from Jackson Square.
    “Look, the three red buildings,” Sarah cried. “Just like he said.”
    The two-story red stucco building in the middle stood out for its wrought-iron balconies and window trim. “751” was etched in the glass above the front door. Despite the elegant touches, however, 751 Decatur was far from beautiful. The windows were filthy, the stucco was mossy and cracked all over, and a rough stain about three feet high ran all along the outside of the building.
    They walked up to the front door. Brandon pressed the button marked APT 3. At once the speaker above the button