******

We arrived in New Orleans shortly before sunset. Giles drove most of the way, saying that it would be wiser if we just stayed low, and kept out of site. I don’t know why, really. We were behaving ourselves. Although, I guess after what happened at the truck stop, he didn’t want to take anymore chances.

All the way into the bustling city, that Harmonica chattered on about how she couldn’t wait to go to a jazz place. I guess she was hoping to find another harmonica to...er...well...you know what I mean. You DO know...right?

“Ooo...” the Harmonica cooed, “Can you hear it? It’s the sounds of Jazz and the Blues...it’s Cajun and Creole. And it’s great!”

“Mmm...yeah,” I sighed, “Trombones, Saxophones, Pianos...”

“The Base,” The Tuba added, “don’t forget the Base.”

The Bassoon sighed, “I always wanted to be a Piccolo,” she said sadly, “They’re so dainty, and small, and...”

“And they sound like mice,” the Tuba said, “Look, base is beautiful. Accept it.”

“‘Oooo, look at me,’” the Harmonica mocked in her highest key, “ ‘I’m so cute and sweet, and squeak! Please allow me to break some glass...’.”

“Or ear drums,” the Tuba laughed. “WE HAVE A TYMPANIC EMERGENCY! Bring in the tri-toms!”

Giles just look at them.

“Music joke,” the Harmonica explained, trying to suppress her giggles.

“I see,” he said dryly.

I was so glad that he didn’t see the humor in it. I happen to like Piccolos. I’ve never dated one...but hey, anything could happen.

“Look,” Giles said, pulling up to a parking meter, “I need a drink, something to eat, and I have to...um...stretch my legs."

“Yeah,” the Tuba said, “me too.”

“You don’t eat,” I snorted, “And you have no legs.”

“It’s a figure of speech...sheesh!”

We found a parking space, and got out. Ah, Bourbon Street, New Orleans...the center for Jazz and Blues. It was dark and sultry and...Giles was heading for one of the Jazz clubs!

“Hey,” I called after him, “Wait up!”

We followed him into the place and were struck by it’s raw intensity. It had a smell of gin, and feel of passion. Smoke hung in the air, like a cloud, permeating everything it touched. This place had the booze. It had the smoke. It had the lovers. The only thing it didn’t have...was the music. This was supposed to be a Jazz club. I mean, after all, it did said... “The Jazz Club” on it.

Giles walked up to the bar and ordered a drink. I was going to tag along, but he looked liked he needed time alone. So, the Tuba, Harmonica and I cased out the place, trying to casually “mingle” with the patrons. For the most part, we were ignored. In other cases, people gave us strange looks. My standard answer to that, was, “What? You never seen Possessed Instruments before?”. That usually got a quick response...running away.

While the Bassoon quickly became a wallflower, the Harmonica made her way to the Piano. “Hi,” she greeted, “I’m new around here, and...well...I was wondering...where’s the tunes?”

The Piano sat there in silence, ignoring the little instrument. “Dey on strike, ma petite,” a deep voice came from behind, “Dey don’ wanna play, no more.”

Harmonica turned around and saw a handsome, black man, smiling down at her. His hair was graying at the temples, and he had slight stoop. I was trying to have a conversation with a jukebox, since the other instruments in the band were just as silent. I looked over at the Harmonica and the stranger, and wondered what they were talking about. He was the first non-instrument that wasn’t afraid to acknowledge our existence...other than Giles.

“How come they’re on strike?” The Harmonica asked.

The older man sighed at sat at the Piano’s bench, “Dat’s a long story...”

The Harmonica gave a quick glance around and said, hopping up on his lap, “I’ve got the time.”

*******

Giles sat at the bar for quite a while, nursing his drink and munching on a sandwich. Man, I wish I had a body...I would have given anything to be able to down what he was just sipping. But, then again, nobody likes a drunken Kazoo. I was about to go see if he need some company (I wasn’t getting anywhere with the jukebox---she had a limited vocabulary), but I stopped when an old woman hobbled up to him.

“You new here, boy?” she asked.

Giles stopped eating and looked at the old woman, “I’m just passing through.”

“Momma Babin thought so,” she smiled, sitting down next to him. “You searchin’ for somethin’, non? But you ain’t travelin’ alone.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Dey wit you?” she asked, pointing to us.

Giles looked surprised, “H-how did you know?”

“Well,” she said with a sly grin, “who else in here would be travelin’ wit possessed instruments?”

She motioned for him to follow her, leading him to a booth. There they sat down and began to talk. I made my way closer so I could hear what they were talking about. The old woman had a pleasant face. It wasn’t really wrinkled or creased like you would think of some one of her age. And there was something about her eyes that made me want to adopt her as my grandmother.

“So,” she continued, “You wan’ t’tell me what’s troublin’ you?”

Giles hesitated, then answered, “I’m not sure you can help.”

“Oh, now...why don’ you let me be d’judge of dat.”

With that, Giles smiled and began to explain the past several days...

*****

Meanwhile, Harmonica listened intently to the musician as he told his sad tale, “You see,” he explained, “Wit’out dem...we can’ make no music.”

“So, let me get this straight,” Harmonica repeated, “The instruments are on strike because they feel like they are being treated unfairly? How?”

“We don’ get the recognition we deserve,” the Trombone was the first to speak.

“Hush now, chil’,” the Piano hissed, “I tol’ you to keep quiet!”

“But, I wanna help,” the Harmonica offered, “See, I kinda know how you feel...”

“You?” the Piano sneered, “Not likely. We play our hearts out...and who always gets the recognition...the musicians! Never... ‘Wow, the Piano really sounded great.’ Or, ‘the Trombone and Sax kept the rhythm together.’. No, it’s always, how great the musicians played us! Ha! Note how they can’t play now!”

“Well, yeah...I kinda noticed that.”

“So, how do you understand that?”

“Well,” the Harmonica started, “whenever we play songs to get the writers to post another story...all the credit for the songs goes to the humans that own us....Mary M., Kimberly, Donna, and Tamara. And Donna even replaced poor Bassoon with a bagpipe...”

“Oh man, “The Saxophone piped in, “I’m so sorry ‘bout that.”

“But,” the Piano continued, “we stand firm on this. Until we get some praise for our part in the making of music...we ain’t playin’!”

The musician sighed and shook his head, “See what I mean? I tol’ dem dat we appreciate all dey do for us...but it ain’t enough. I don’ know what else to do.”

The Harmonica thought...and thought...and thought some more. I swear, I heard whistling coming through her teeth, “Well, there’s only one thing you can do...”

“What’s that?” both human and instruments asked.

“Bring me to the mic.”

The old man did what she asked, and Harmonica cleared her...er...throat? “Um...hi, everyone. I know this seems weird, but please bare with me. The reason there hasn’t been any music tonight is because the instruments are upset that they don’t get the recognition they deserve.”

The entire room was silent as she spoke. Even Giles and Momma Babin listened to the tiny instrument continue, “Anyway...every time you hear a note played...every time you listen to your favorite song...you hear the hard work of not only the musician, but the instrument as well. We were created with great care and love, to be able to bring songs to life. All we want is a little respect. And maybe a “good job” every now and then. So, what do you say? Let’s show these wonderful instruments how much they mean to us?”

The silence was overwhelming.

“Hey, come on people!” the Tuba stepped in, Get with the program! You think humans are the only ones who can make beautiful music? Hellooo! Is this mic on?”

“Don’t bother,” The Bassoon sighed, “it won’t do you any good. People aren’t ready to accept that we’re people too...”

Just then, a single sound of clapping broke the silence. Then some more...until the entire room was filled with applause. The audience were cheering...and not for the musicians, who hadn’t played a note all night, but for the instruments! The Piano, Sax, Trombone, Base, and even the Drums looked out at the crowd with amazement.

They were loved!

******

Off in the corner, Giles smiled at the sight. I couldn’t believe it! Through out the entire trip, he almost never cracked a smile, blaming it on his preoccupation with his Slayer. But now, he had a big ole grin on his face!

I looked at the old woman, and she was smiling too. “See,” she said, “Things can work demselves out. Now, to your troubles. You doin’ all dis traveling, an’ gettin’ nowhere...non? Why’s dis?”

“Because,” Giles guessed, “the people who created us live in the real world. We don’t. But how do we contact them? We can’t leave, can we?”

“No, you can’t,” she agreed, “But dat don’ mean you can’t talk wit dem.”

“But how...”

“Ah,” she smiled secretly, “Wit a little magic. Gather up you friends and follow me. I’ll show you what I mean.”

This was my cue... “So,” I said, hopping out of my hiding place, “You think a little magic is gonna get us to the real world?”

“No, mon petite,” she said, picking me up in her knarled, but gentle hands, “you ain’t goin’ t’the real world. Dey is commin’ to you.”

“But how?” I asked.

“You’ll see. Have patience.”

That was one problem with possessed instruments...we have little patience.

Giles went over to gather up the instruments. The harmonica was wailing with the band, the Tuba had been talking to the Trombone (or was it flirting?) until it was time for him to play...and then she sat and watched...or should I say drool? Giles looked around for the Bassoon, and couldn’t find her. She was standing up against the wall, last time he checked, but now she was nowhere to be seen.

“Hey,” I asked, looking around from him jacket pocket, “Where’d she go?”

“I’m not sure,” Giles answered with a touch of concern in his voice, “But we have to find her before we do anything.”

We covered every inch of the club...searching for the lost instrument, until we finally found her outside standing next to a Piccolo. “There you are!” I began, until I spied the brass of my affections, “Heeello! And what’s your name, sweet lady?”

“Piccolo,” she tweeted, “What else would it be?”

“Piccolo and I were talking about our problems,” Bassoon explained.

“Problems?” I asked the tiny instrument, “What kind of problems would a sweet thing like you have?”

The Piccolo only turned to Bassoon and sighed, “See what I mean? Everyone thinks that just because I’m light and airy, that I have no brain.” She turned angrily to me and snapped, “Well I have a brain! A really good one too! I’m not just a pretty sound!”

This took me totally by surprise, “Well...I-I....didn’t mean...to...ah...ah...”

“You didn’t?!” she continued her miniature rampage, “You’re all the same....see a dainty instrument and you want some brass. Yeah, well...not here mister!” she turned back to the Bassoon and said, “Don’t ever change who you are. Bassoons are wonderful instruments, that have great respect among us in the symphony. I wish I could be more like you.”

“You do?”

“Yes,” she nodded, hopping back to her case, “you have so much soul, and feelings in every note you play. You’re wonderful.”

The Bassoon smiled, “Wow...thanks.”

Giles looked at us and sighed, “I hate to break this up...but we really must be going. Momma Babin has a way we can contact those in the real world...and we don’t have much time.”

I just nodded. I was still reeling from the glaring rejection the Piccolo threw at me. At least Mary’s Keyboard had a little more respect for me...

Keyboard...you know...I was beginning to miss her. I wonder if she was thinking of me?

We followed the old woman to a back room in the club. We didn’t know it at the time, but she actually owned the place, and this room was like an office of some kind. She went over to a desk and opened the lower drawer. There she took out all sorts of magic potions, and herbs and various other smelly, nasty things. Giles looked like he was right at home...

Man, what do these people write about him?

After she got what she needed together, she finally spoke, “Now,” she paused, mixing some of the ingredients together in a ceramic bowl, “d’first ‘ting you must remember is dat, our world an’ d’real one, ain’t much different. D’line between dem both, is thin an’ flexible. So, it’s only a matter of bendin’ d’line enough for dem to cross over to our world.”

“How do we do that?” Giles asked.

“Ah,” she smiled secretly, “Dat’s for only Momma Babin to know. If all fiction knew how easy it was to cross over...den we wouldn’t have any’ting of our world left.”

She finished the concoction, and walked over to the computer. She smiled and began to sprinkle it onto the keyboard, chanting the spell in a strange mixture of Cajun and French. We all watched in awe as the computer lit up and began to glow. Words flew across the screen in a dizzying pace, until it all became a blur.

“Now,” she said, heading for the door that led back out to the club, “we wait.”