1899
Morning
They say the devil once spent a week in Missouri in July, then went back and set up hell to specifications. Only ten in the morning, but the air was already a sopping blanket as Brun worked his way across Ohio Avenue through a steady parade of one- and two-horse wagons, then walked half a block down Fifth, and stopped under a black sign with squared white letters: JOHN STARK AND SON. He took a moment to stare at the window display, then put a swagger into his step and went inside.
Not very different from the Armstrong-Byrd store in Oklahoma City where he’d met Otis Saunders. To his left, racks of music sheets and books ran the length of the store. Two pianos stood toward the rear, flanked by a cabinet organ in a fancy walnut case inscribed with gold designs, and a little pump organ that could be folded up into its own wooden carrying case, like a street preacher might use. The right side of the shop was all instruments. Guitars, mandolins, banjos hung on the wall, brass of every description, a piano-accordion and one with buttons, New Orleans style. All the way in back, behind and to the right of the pianos and organs, a stairway took off and vanished through the ceiling, likely into Mr. Stark’s living quarters. Brun’s attention quickly focused on a beautiful mahogany grand piano, its lid open, standing just inside the doorway so that any tune an employee or a customer might play would carry out to the street.
A man looked up from behind the counter, greeted Brun with a polite hello, and asked how might he be of help. “I’m looking for Mr. Stark,” Brun said.
“You’re looking
at
Mr. Stark,” said the man.
Brun figured him to be pretty old, about sixty, with the appearance of a successful businessman of that day, neatly groomed hair going gray, and a full, bushy beard that took off southward from the edges of an equally bushy mustache. He wore a dark vest and proper dark bow tie. Deep lines at the corners of his eyes, but those light-blue eyes fixed so intensely on Brun that the boy had the uncomfortable feeling Stark might be able to see inside of him, maybe even right through him, like with those X-rays some German doctor had discovered a few years before.
“What can I do for you, young man?” Stark asked.
Brun thought Stark’s voice, a full, deep baritone, was most agreeable. “My name is Brun Campbell, sir,” the boy said, smartly as he could. “I’m newly arrived in town, and I met Mr. Boutell last evening. He recommended me to you for a job.”
“Oh, he did?” Stark looked amused, ran fingers over the thick hair at the corners of his mouth. “Where do you come from…Brun, is it?”
“Yes, sir. Short for my middle name, Brunson, it’s a family name. Brun is what everyone’s always called me. Pop once told me I got Sanford for a first name because Ma thought Sanford Brunson Campbell sounded like a justice of the Supreme Court. But truth, I don’t think that’s ever going to happen.”
Stark stifled a grin. Fresh kid, but he had a way. “Well, you never know, Brun. Life’s a funny proposition, and you’ve got plenty of time. How old are you?”
“Sixteen, sir.”
“And you are from?”
“Arkansas City.”
Brun’s heart whacked against his ribs. Those eyes… Quickly, the boy added, “Actually, my family has lived in a lot of places, mostly in Kansas and Oklahoma. We were even in St. Joe for a while, Missouri.”
“That’s all right, Brun. It really isn’t my business, is it? What makes you think you’re suited to work in a music store?”
“Music’s what I’ve always liked the most, sir. I play a pretty mean piano, and one day I hope to play piano for my living. And I do get on with people pretty well.”
Which clearly tickled Stark. “Yes, I’ll own you do. And I’ll bet you do play a pretty mean piano. What kind of music can you play?”
“Anything you like.”
“That a fact?”
“Yes, sir.”
Stark laughed, then pointed toward the piano
Morning
They say the devil once spent a week in Missouri in July, then went back and set up hell to specifications. Only ten in the morning, but the air was already a sopping blanket as Brun worked his way across Ohio Avenue through a steady parade of one- and two-horse wagons, then walked half a block down Fifth, and stopped under a black sign with squared white letters: JOHN STARK AND SON. He took a moment to stare at the window display, then put a swagger into his step and went inside.
Not very different from the Armstrong-Byrd store in Oklahoma City where he’d met Otis Saunders. To his left, racks of music sheets and books ran the length of the store. Two pianos stood toward the rear, flanked by a cabinet organ in a fancy walnut case inscribed with gold designs, and a little pump organ that could be folded up into its own wooden carrying case, like a street preacher might use. The right side of the shop was all instruments. Guitars, mandolins, banjos hung on the wall, brass of every description, a piano-accordion and one with buttons, New Orleans style. All the way in back, behind and to the right of the pianos and organs, a stairway took off and vanished through the ceiling, likely into Mr. Stark’s living quarters. Brun’s attention quickly focused on a beautiful mahogany grand piano, its lid open, standing just inside the doorway so that any tune an employee or a customer might play would carry out to the street.
A man looked up from behind the counter, greeted Brun with a polite hello, and asked how might he be of help. “I’m looking for Mr. Stark,” Brun said.
“You’re looking
at
Mr. Stark,” said the man.
Brun figured him to be pretty old, about sixty, with the appearance of a successful businessman of that day, neatly groomed hair going gray, and a full, bushy beard that took off southward from the edges of an equally bushy mustache. He wore a dark vest and proper dark bow tie. Deep lines at the corners of his eyes, but those light-blue eyes fixed so intensely on Brun that the boy had the uncomfortable feeling Stark might be able to see inside of him, maybe even right through him, like with those X-rays some German doctor had discovered a few years before.
“What can I do for you, young man?” Stark asked.
Brun thought Stark’s voice, a full, deep baritone, was most agreeable. “My name is Brun Campbell, sir,” the boy said, smartly as he could. “I’m newly arrived in town, and I met Mr. Boutell last evening. He recommended me to you for a job.”
“Oh, he did?” Stark looked amused, ran fingers over the thick hair at the corners of his mouth. “Where do you come from…Brun, is it?”
“Yes, sir. Short for my middle name, Brunson, it’s a family name. Brun is what everyone’s always called me. Pop once told me I got Sanford for a first name because Ma thought Sanford Brunson Campbell sounded like a justice of the Supreme Court. But truth, I don’t think that’s ever going to happen.”
Stark stifled a grin. Fresh kid, but he had a way. “Well, you never know, Brun. Life’s a funny proposition, and you’ve got plenty of time. How old are you?”
“Sixteen, sir.”
“And you are from?”
“Arkansas City.”
Brun’s heart whacked against his ribs. Those eyes… Quickly, the boy added, “Actually, my family has lived in a lot of places, mostly in Kansas and Oklahoma. We were even in St. Joe for a while, Missouri.”
“That’s all right, Brun. It really isn’t my business, is it? What makes you think you’re suited to work in a music store?”
“Music’s what I’ve always liked the most, sir. I play a pretty mean piano, and one day I hope to play piano for my living. And I do get on with people pretty well.”
Which clearly tickled Stark. “Yes, I’ll own you do. And I’ll bet you do play a pretty mean piano. What kind of music can you play?”
“Anything you like.”
“That a fact?”
“Yes, sir.”
Stark laughed, then pointed toward the piano
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