By Jesse Ratner

It wasn’t unlike any other day in a lifetime. A Friday, the last day before a week long vacation, one last work-a-day walk before a slight reprieve from the drone of life.

I am an unusually optimistic person most of the time. Good times are always around the corner, I say. I make the most of my opportunities and wonder what else I can do. This makes me prone to disappointment, what with the high expectations that come with rose-colored glasses.

This particular Friday that I am speaking of was rather warm, a little muggy, and sparkling down by the boardwalk in Santa Monica. I am an aspiring jazz trumpeter and spend a few days a week down on said boardwalk practicing music. Jazz is my particular preference, and I usually play through standards like ‘Au Privave’, ‘Green Dolphin Street’, and ‘Joy Spring’, among others. I have been doing this for many months now, and I am amazed by the number of people who stop and ask me about this or that. Usually, it is another musician who is looking to collaborate. I must have given my number out a dozen times; rhythm and blues singers, salsa pianists, new age composers, repentant pop aspirants, and the other assorted denizens of los angeles’ music realm. I even had two drunks sit and bang a pail and a trash can to the tune of ‘The Sunny Side of the Street’. You get all types down at the edge of the world.

The boardwalk is a beautiful place to play music, or do most anything for that matter. The sea breeze makes a pacifist out of the most convinced pugilist; a lazy breeze seemingly from the mouth of Venus Aphrodite herself perennially blows away the most concerted Southern Californian angst. This is my lunchtime refuge; a spot that transforms stressful mornings into placid afternoons like warm bread melting honey butter. Sometimes it’s hard to go back.

This Friday was, like I said, not unlike any other day except that I would leave for vacation at the end of it. This had me a little more relaxed than usual and perhaps the loosening tension shot sparks in the wheel of my lucky destiny. Maybe, or perhaps it wasn’t fate at all, but a stronger force: Los Angeles itself.

I got to the boardwalk around 12:30 and got out my instrument, a silved plated Getzen Eterna Trumpet. "I warmed up with a little exploratory improvisation before settling on the classic Horace Silver melody, 'Song For My Father.' I was playing the melody before venturing off into improvisation on the theme when suddenly I felt the presence of someone sitting next to me. I looked over, and looked again to make sure I saw what I did. I was astonished by the appearance in shorts and inline skates of one, former Taxi Driver, former Who’s The Boss headliner, Tony Danza. Mr. New York, himself – in the flesh.

I tried to act unimpressed and returned to the song for a few choruses before Tony interrupted me to talk.

‘That’s nice. You know I just started playing the trumpet myself. I carry it around with me all the time.’

‘Wow’, I offered, a little unsure of how to react.

‘Yeah. I’m doing this cabaret thing, and use the horn in the act. I play a little song like ‘The Very Thought of You’. The first time I did it the bass player just looked at me like ‘I’m not saying anything’, you know. Ha, ha, ha.’

When he grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkled up like Marcel Marceau or Charlie Chaplin. He had this smile that brimmed with joy and, at the same time, teetered just beyond some inconsolable pain.

‘So, are you taking lessons.’ I was completely lost by the statement about the bass player.

‘Yeah. Can I see your horn?’

‘Sure.’

‘Wow, that’s nice, a Getzen.’

He gave me one of those great, big smiles again.

‘Do you use the thrusting chest method?’, he asked.

‘No, but I do exercise and keep in shape. You gotta do that.’

‘Oh, I’m in great shape, look at me.’

And, he was there, shirtless, in terrific physical condition for a guy that must be in his fifties.

‘Well, anyway. Let me introduce myself, I’m Tony Danza.’ Like I didn’t know.

‘Hi, I’m Jesse Ratner.’

‘Nice to meet you Jesse. Yeah, I’m stayin’ up in Malibu for the summer. It sure is nice out today.’

‘Yeah, it’s always pleasant down here.’

We gave each other a friendly handshake.

‘Well, I’ll see you, then’, he said and stood up to skate off.

‘Bye.’

Off he went, skating north up the boardwalk while I kicked myself for not giving him a card.

This kind of thing certainly isn’t unheard of in Los Angeles, where celebrities are as common as the cold. But, this kind of casual, friendly interaction was totally unexpected. He tapped me on the knee to emphasize points, he smiled, he revealed himself.

I thought how surreal this all is. But, it got weirder.

About fifteen minutes later, a black Camaro pulled up just on the other side of the bike path in the parking lot, Tony Danza popped out and waved. He was reaching for something in the back seat, pulled out a brass colored trumpet, and walked over.

‘Hey, Jesse. I got my horn here. See, I do carry it with me everywhere like I said. Ha, ha.’

‘Yeah, lemme see that. Oh, a Cometo. Nice.’ It had a worn, played look with big ivory caps on the valves, and a gold rim around the light gold colored bell.

He took his horn back, brought it to his lips, and issued a crackly, quivering middle G.

‘Watch this, Jes.’ He tapped my knee again like we were old friends and proceeded to play a labored, faltering version of ‘The Very Thought Of You’. It was a decent, but obviously novice effort. I had to resist the temptation to join in, I didn’t want to crowd his efforts.

After he finished, I complimented him and asked about what he practiced. As we continued talking, a young girl of about three or four approached him walking on the benches. When she reached him, she looked down at his head and with the temerity and bluntness that is the trademark of a toddler, blurted out, ‘Move!.’

‘Hey, what do you want from me?,’ Tony exclaimed, throwing his hands up exasperated.

The girl’s father grabbed her hand and helped her down off the benches and around us. The father looked like he had just seen a ghost, while the little girl hid her head in her father’s shoulders.

‘Sheesh, kids.’

The little interruption having passed, I gave Tony a little lesson about the virtues of long tones, chromatic scales, and the Claude Gordon Method. Then, I told him about practicing improvisation with tunes like ‘Mac The Knife’, and ‘The Saints Go Marching In’. He listened politely, said ‘Great’ a bunch of times and finally stood up to leave.

‘Maybe, I’ll see you down here again.’

‘Yeah, maybe. Alright, Jesse, nice talkin’ to ya. Bye’

‘Bye.’

He walked to his car and drove off. About two minutes later, a woman drove up in a white Geo, leaned out and, exasperated, asked, ‘Was that Tony Danza? Are you a friend of his or something?’

‘No, just giving him a trumpet lesson.’

‘Oh, wow.’ She paused, unsure of what to say. Overwhelmed by the nearness of a celebrity. ‘You sound good. If you want a skating lesson, come see me, down the beach.’

‘Ok.’

She drove off, maybe to chase down Tony, maybe to go home and dream of making love to a movie star.

Damn, I forgot to give him a card, again!