December 25, 1945

After three days of being cooped up in a cramped sleeper car on the train from The Big Apple to L.A., Bird flew the coop during a Christmas morning water stop in the Arizona desert. All he took with him was his sax and a full bottle of tequila. It wasn’t alone time he needed; Bird needed the needle. The tequila on its own would have to boost him until he found the oasis he knew deep in his marrow was out there. With no dealers to see him all the way to his destination, the trip itself was killing him, so why not take his chances in the sand? He’d guzzle a swig from the bottle, blow everything he had into his horn, and then let the Devil’s wind smelt his drunken, discordant notes into song. This went on for God knows how long. Swig—blow—wind—song. Swig—blow—wind—song. But there was no oasis. No needles. Only mirages. Like the imaginary tar pit that turned his bebop jaunt into a slog. And the swarm of bees that punctured him with empty stingers. Even the music came to life in the form of a fanged-beak, blood-red buzzard that circled overhead. Nothing could stop him, though. Not even the worm at the bottom of the bottle could convince him to turn around. Bird swallowed it down and blew the sweetest notes he had ever blown. So sweet that even the Devil paused to listen. And when the last echo of his horn had flown beyond hearing, Bird lurched on ahead, for he was a devout disciple of the needle who believed in every corpuscle of his being that his Savior walked the desert just like Jesus had all those years ago on the long road to salvation.