1963-06-21 - Free Jazz
Summary: After a tiring week, Sam Wilson drops into a jazz club, discusses the philosophy of evolution with Armando Munoz, and then tipsily rants to Steve Rogers about civil rights. This seems to give Cap an idea…
Related: none
Theme Song: None
sam steve darwin 


Minton's is one of the last, great Jazz clubs in Harlem- the Cotton Club, Savoy's, and countless others have closed since Jazz gave way to rock and roll and tastes changed. Its a shade of its former glory- but Minton's still has a bit of a life left in it.

This evening the venerable jazz club is smokey, filled with mostly black clientele- a few white faces seen among the crowd. A single grey-skinned face sits at an empty table, dressed in a nice enough suit to fit in with the crowd. A glass of cola sits on the table, and he seems happy to listen to the music as it plays- some local musicians playing some Duke Ellington and John Coltrane- something new from the pair of well known musicians. ( https://youtu.be/mszSoTNqH3Y )

*

Sam Wilson has had a long day. A long couple of weeks, really. Between helping a frozen super soldier catch up to the 60s and helping a crackpot inventor reel his ideas back to the 60s, he's starting to feel like a man out of time himself. The numerous explosions, crashes, and other aircraft failures he has just barely survived certainly haven't helped his state of mind, either.

So, after another exhausting day of not quite dying, he has dragged himself to Minton's in the hopes that good music and company he can let his guard down around will help him feel a little more alive. He sidles up to the bar and orders a neat bourbon, smoothing the tie on his best suit: something new, something whose price tag he could just barely afford to carve out of his first SHIELD paycheck. When his drink arrives, he wanders over to the first free table he sees. Whether because the strange has become commonplace, or because he's just not paying much attention to the people around him, Sam ends up sitting just next to the gray-faced man — a man some of the other clientele are giving a wide berth.

*

Luckily, Armando is a quiet sort. He was wearing a nice enough suit- he just happened to look weird. Not so weird that he was considered a monster- but weird enough that the tables near to him were largely empty. When Sam comes to sit near him, he gives a quiet smile and lifts his drink in quiet salute to the man as he sits. "Its a nice, smoky piece." he offers, "Not quite so chaotic as some Coltrane or Ellington have put out. Makes me wonder if they're slowing down." the young man states, as he takes a sip of his drink.

*

Sam sets his glass down and nods, but then the gesture hitches, and his head tilts to the side. "I don't know," he answers, voice quiet. He raises his tumbler again, gesturing in a circle with it, indicating their surroundings. "Maybe it's not them. Maybe all this is slowing down around them. Maybe it's not about the cool or the culture anymore. Maybe now it's about something other than jazz." Blasphemy in the church that is Minton's, of course, but there it is.

After making his pronouncement, he glances over at Armando, leaning back suddenly as he sees the other's obvious physical differences. After a second to process, he shrugs and relaxes again, even returning the gesture of the lifted glass. "You listen to anything other than jazz?"

*

"Oh, plenty." Armando offers, "Lots of new music to go with the old. I try to keep an open mind about all of it- its all art and has its value." he says, as the band changes- still playing more of the 'modern' Jazz of the early 60's. ( https://youtu.be/PkxUko3FaBU ) "Always wished I could play an instrument, or sing- but, really its not my thing." he admits, still smiling. "I'm Armando- nice to meet you." he offers a hand over to the dark skinned Sam. "What about yourself? Is Jazz your thing, or do you prefer something else?"

*

"Air— er, Sam Wilson," Sam introduces himself, stopping short before offering a rank he no longer holds. He returns the handshake. "Depends on my mood. Right now, I need jazz. Rhythm and blues would just make me jumpy. I'd take in some of the folk they're playing at the coffe shops, but between you and me? I really can't deal with any more white people right now." That's either a really risky conversational gambit, or Sam intuited past the gray skin that he might be speaking to a sympathetic audience on this particular count. He offers the other man a rueful smile and leans back in his seat for another sip of bourbon.

*

"Eh, they're not all bad. Just a lot of arrogance among them, that's all." Armando offers. He's half-black, and half Hispanic- that, along with the obvious mutation.. he gets it. "But, I do understand needing to get out of that kind of environment. To get somewhere comfortable where you can just relax without worrying about being judged, or having to fight for the same chances and respect someone who's differences from your own only go skin deep." Its those eyes- white eyes, pale, without iris or pupil that are the oddest thing with Armando. Its like he's staring at someone- through them. It makes him difficult to read- but his voice carries all the proper inflections. "I guess I'm lucky that I get to keep people guessing." he offers with a bit of a self-deprecating grin.

*

Sam nods quickly. "Oh, definitely not all bad. Hell, I've been lucky lately, as far as that goes. But like you said, even with the good ones, it's… it's just a lot to maintain." He frowns, then glances sidelong at Armando's impassive eyes. "Yeah, I guess people don't really know what to assume about you. That's something," he says, tilting his glass so that the base draws circles on the tabletop. "You're a mutant, right? Don't think I've met any mutants." It's said cautiously: he doesn't mean to offend, but he is obviously curious. "I figure you guys get it just as bad in a lot of ways. Worse, in some, too."

*

"I am, yeah. I'm a half-black, half-hispanic mutant who can't really hide what he is." Armando says, still smiling- he's clearly not bothered by what he is. "Most people seem willing to give me the benefit of the doubt- but I'm pretty lucky myself. Nice clothes, well spoken, and even though I'm obviously something different its not *so* different that it sends people screaming for the hills." he says, before taking another quiet sip from his cup.

"Our struggles are very much of the same type- a simple genetic difference has us kept apart from society. Those of us who can blend in, often do- and don't speak much about their differences. Those of us who can't, do our best to fit in- typically. There are always some in any particular group who want to make trouble, either because they're angry, or have an ideology, or are just plain troublemakers."

*

Sam sags slightly. "It's just so much work," he says. "Making yourself not threatening. Not too quiet, not too loud. Not too black, not too white. And no matter how hard you work at it, it doesn't always protect you. There's always someone who will take it too far." He sits back and swipes at his brow with one hand, reflecting, then suddenly shakes his head and exhales sharply. "See what I mean? This is why I needed jazz." He flashes a smile at Armando. "And here I am bringing my shit to the club."

*

Armando nods quietly, listening as Sam speaks- still smiling that friendly smile. "We live in interesting times, but have to think of the future. The world we want to see for our kids, or grand-kids." he says, "So we must swallow our pride, always, and ensure we don't allow it to make our future more difficult. We can change it, Sam- its all based on how we act and if we can show people that we're all equal in soul, despite those physical differences. The same things make a white man, or a black man, or an Asian man human. The same things make me human." Armando smiles as another classic Jazz tune comes up- although most of the offering is newer, and not the Jazz of the 40s.

"Hey, that's always going to be with you. Anyways, I'm happy to be a sympathetic ear." Armando offers with a smile in return.

*

"Thanks. Maybe I just needed to let off a little steam," Sam says with a slow shake of his head. "I spend most of my time representing myself well, I think. But it does get the better of me, sometimes. I mean, to be fair, they are actively doing just about everything they can to get me killed." He tosses the mutant a rueful half-smile. "But hey, it's a living." He lifts the rocks glass to his lips and takes another sip. "I guess maybe I'm not as patient as you are. Maybe that's your power."

*

"Patience is something I've learned- but its possible its part of my ability. I evolve." Armando says. "It does make the whole non-violent thing easier when you evolve a method to survive any external influence. If there was a fire, I'd evolve a method to survive in a fire. If I got dropped into the ocean, I'd evolve gills and the ability to survive great pressures and the cold. If you attack me physically, I evolve a method to protect myself." Armando offers with an easy smile- his power wasn't that frightening, really. It was easy to talk about since it wasn't something like 'mind stealing' or 'exploding at will'. "So, for me at least, being patient is pretty easy. There's a certain confidence in knowing that regardless of the situation you're likely to survive unharmed."

*

Interest piqued, Sam gives Armando an evaluating look. "Seriously? That's what you do?" he asks. "So, if you were in a … plane crash, or exposed to radiation, your body would find a way to survive?" He stops there, well aware that he can't say much more without compromising SHIELD's security. After several pleasant seconds of uninterrupted music, he sits back and faces forward again. "Okay. I'm officially jealous." And, he makes a point not to say: officially worried about keeping my job.

*

"Yep, that's pretty much it. I don't have active control over it, so it pretty much does what it wants." Armando says, "On the negative, I can't get drunk or truly enjoy a cigarette." he notes, "But, yeah. I evolve and survive." he says, before taking another little sip of his soda. "Its not the flashiest power out there, but at least its not dangerous. Some mutants aren't so lucky- and they can be real dangers to themselves or others."

*

"So I've heard," Sam answers carefully. As he mentioned, he only knows mutants from news reports, so Armando will be able to guess the general tone of that knowledge. Wilson seems to have kept an open mind on the topic, at least. He takes another sip of his drink, then — perhaps bolder for the bourbon — asks, "Have you ever been attacked? I mean, I know some mutants, you can't tell, but you… It can't be easy. You have to have seen the worst in people."

*

"I was at the protest in Mutant Town when things turned bad." Armando offers, "It made the bullying I received when I was younger seem rather petty. I was shot several times- but the bullets didn't penetrate my skin." The young man offers, "It was a massacre, in the end. A bad day for everyone in New York." he admits quietly, "I try not to think about it, honestly. The event cemented in me the ideal that we need to remain peaceful, no matter what. That we can't let our struggle be… co-opted by people like communist extremists. That we must act like Gandhi and Doctor King in our struggle." Armando's smile fades a bit, but he doesn't seem particularly upset. "People are scared, Sam. Fear is making them do things they wouldn't normally do. I- and be extension other mutants- have to approach people knowing that they might do something out of fear and be willing to forgive. However, for me, its easier than it is for most other Mutants. I can sit there all day being beaten by police batons and it won't bother me. They can shoot me, kick me, and try to hurt me all they want- but I'll evolve beyond it. They can't beat me- but.. my friends. They're not able to sit there and make a non-violent stand in the same way I can." he offers, "And we're scared, too. Sometimes by the world, and sometimes by ourselves." Armando takes a moment, another long sip as Jazz music flows around them.

"I was born different. A lot of us just… activate… at some point. They're normal people one second, and in the next second everything has changed. A lot of mutants don't have control over their abilities- and they've hurt people without wanting to. Others look even less human that I do- they look like monsters out of myth, or like animals. They possess frightening abilities like mind control, or the ability to absorb the moisture from anyone they touch- leaving most people injured with a simple brush of their hand. People are right to be afraid, but its only with understanding that we as a unified culture will be able to overcome the evolutionary difficulties that have met the human species over the last sixty years."

*

Sam nods silently, taking a few sips as Armando speaks about tolerance and fear and his philosophy of peaceful resistance. After letting him finish, the pilot remains quiet for a while, just absorbing the music. Then, thoughtfully, he tells the gray-skinned man, "You know, King isn't the only preacher out there. Some aren't so open-minded." He puts one elbow on the tabletop and strokes at his chin with the back of his thumbnail. "There are some saying we should be uniting against you: negroes and whites together, humans against mutants." His lip twists as he continues, "Like maybe that's the way we get our equality, by knocking someone else down."

*

"He's not, and that's true." Armando offers, "There are a lot of people out there who are saying the same thing in a different way. That we, gifted with powers, should have dominion over those who aren't so lucky." He shakes his head at that thought, "But that, too, comes from a place of arrogance. An extension of the concept that we, as humans, are chosen and special- so those of us with seemingly magic powers gifted to us are even more so. Both philosophies ignore an extremely important fact: That we are *all* part of nature. That we are no more special than any other being on this planet. That is the original sin of humanity, though: Pride." Armando says, "We are one of millions of species on the planet of Earth. We are not the center of the universe and the stars don't exist simply to make our night-views nicer from where we stand."

"Evolution is my thing, though. I experience it in ways that no one else does- and I can't really explain how its like to be in a state of evolutionary flux every moment of every day… our Cultural Evolution as a species is up to us, though. We have all the control now, as a people, to make the world improve."

Sam and Armando sit in Minton's- one of the last great Jazz clubs of Harlem- an institution since the late 30's. Although the music has changed, the club continues on with Jazz playing every night. The pair are somewhat isolated- Armando at a small table, with several empty near by. Sam having chosen to sit at the table close by allowing them to speak.

*

The man at the bar is wearing a simple leather coat with a t-shirt underneath, pair of jeans, and some boots. His blonde hair is combed back and to the side in a simple part, while a pair of sunglasses rests upon his shirt. But it's his face that surprises the bartender.

"Hey, I know you," says the man behind the bar with his finger pointed at Steve Rogers, shaking back and forth as he tries to place him.

"Not likely," Steve responds as he takes his beer. He gives the tender a good tip and walks away towards the tables, bringing the bottle to his lips.

It's been an odd couple of days. For the first one, Steve Rogers just listened to the radio. Passively at first, intensely from there on. It's been all too much to take, to be honest, but he's mostly stayed quiet, relying thankfully on Brian's kindness and generosity. Finally he just needed to go out and see how different jazz is these days.

*

"That's a unique perspective," Sam tells Armando, a bitter current underlying his voice, "and I guess the perspective of 'how can we use this to raise ourselves up and beat someone else down' is about as not-unique as a thought can be. Too damn bad for us — and our 'evolution.'" He raises his half-empty glass of bourbon to his lips, turning to look back at the band.

That's when he spots Steve and his whole manner changes. The relaxed man with his sardonic jokes and his dark outlook transforms: his posture straightens and his expression goes neutral. The glass that he has been tilting and rotating returns the tabletop with a perfect foursquare tap. "Ca— Steve," he greets the newcomer, waving him over. "I didn't realize you liked jazz."

Armando is close enough — and familiar enough with the method, perhaps — to easily notice the change. Whether Steve will notice or not depends on just how sharp those blue eyes are.

*

"That was once a method of survival. We just need to remember that we've grown beyond that. Now, what will help humanity most is working together. Once we realize that on the whole, we'll move forward by leaps and bounds." Armando says, eyebrows knitting together a bit as Sam's entire posture changes. He goes quiet, and just watches now with his own quiet curiosity.

*

Steve seems oblivious. His eyes peer up as Sam calls his name however and he smiles slightly, making his way over. Something about the young airman made Steve feel comfortable, and the soldier appreciated the man's kindness. It was nice that he should see him his first night out on the town.

"You know, it sounded a little different back when I was into it," Steve says as he stands just outside of the table, reaching to shake Sam's hand and nod toward Armando. "Who is it playing?" he asks.

*

Sam returns the handshake readily, waving with his left hand to one of the empty seats at his table. "Well, it has evolved a bit in the past… couple of years," he answers Steve, flashing a smile that's either a bit forced or trying to transmit a significant message — or both. "This combo is the best around, though. If you have any favorites among the old standards, I'm sure they'll know them."

He nods to Armando as he resumes his own seat. "Steve, this is Armando. Armando, this is Steve." A tiny part of him prays that Rogers will take the man's appearance in stride.

*

"Nice to meet you, Steve." Armando offers, standing with a hand extended. Armando is so very clearly a mutant- but not one that looks too inhuman. Although, when he stands, its obvious just how tall the young man is- 6'4" tall, and his arms become more apparent longer than the human norm. "Yeah, this is the Big Apple Six, they're local. Don't play a lot of original stuff, but they're in here any day a big name act isn't here." he explains of the band.

Armando gives a little look towards Sam- before he looks again to the white boy in a predominantly black club. He's clearly curious."

*

"Same," Steve says after shaking Armando's hand. He takes a seat behind the pair and leans back with the beer in his hand. "They sound pretty good to me." He notices right away that Armando is a mutant, but he'd been mentally preparing himself for it after listening to the radio. In fact, he'd seen two mutants over near the Mutant Town district on his way over here as he sort of wandered around town. In his view, more people like him could be a really good thing. Especially since there are apparently new bad guys, this time called the Soviets instead of Nazis.

As far as being a white boy in a black club, well Steve is used to being looked at oddly. Either clad in Red White and Blue, or as a scrawny little 96 pound runt who would get laughed at in the New York streets. He's always been that way. Fought and spilled blood with some black men during the war; never bothered him a bit. All men have the same God, anyways.

*

"Steve is a coworker of mine," Sam informs Armando, keeping it casual while also keeping SHIELD's secrets. "He's a little bit new around the office, and he spent some time overseas, so the boss wants me to help him reacclimate to the city. Sort of a native guide to New York." He pauses for a second, then adds, "Come to think of it, maybe I should have invited you along to begin with. Get a feel for how the nightlife has changed." If anything him strikes him as odd about Steve's presence in this club, you'd never know it from his voice or his face. He turns to Steve with an apologetic expression. "Unfortunately, Howard has been working me so hard, it completely slipped my mind. You know how that guy can be."

*

"They're pretty good, yeah." Armando says, as he takes a quick look at his watch. "Well, I've got work in the morning. I'll let you two get to it, then." he offers with a smile, "Been real nice talking to you, Sam." he nods towards Steve, "And nice to meet you. Have a nice night." he offers to both with an easy smile. He puts some cash down on his table for the bill- just a couple of dollars that includes the tip. The tall mutant then heads for the door, with many in the crowd seeming to relax as he leaves despite the fact he was never anything but courteous. He even tipped well.

*

Steve gives Armando a wave, and inwardly hopes that it wasn't his presence that sent the mutant away. He's going to have to get used to that, probably, he fears. No telling the way that people will think of him when the press runs with his return. Better to just take it like a man, he supposes. No use getting ruffled everytime someone stares or says something snide.

"Overseas," Steve shrugs his shoulders. "Underseas. Same difference." He winks at Sam and takes another swig of his bottle.

*

"Likewise, Armando," Sam says with a polite wave. "Glad to meet you, and good night." As soon as the mutant has left, he breathes his own sigh of relief, but for very different reasons than most of those in the club. "Thank you for taking that so well," he says to Steve. "I know there weren't really out mutants around when you last lived here."

Then, with an amused snort: "Underseas? Oh my. You really are from the 40s — that's exactly the kind of joke my dad liked to tell." At the mention of his father, a flicker of tension passes beneath Sam's expression. "He was in the war, too."

*

"Blacks, Mexicans, Italians, Polish, Mutants, Supersoldiers. We're all kind of in the same boats, aren't we? From where I sit, there's not much difference to any of us. We keep picking fights and making enemies, soon we won't have anyone to watch our backs. Some terrible news of what happened back over in Mutant Town the other day. I saw 8 squad cars when I walked by there this evening."

"He was? What did he do?"

*

"He was a pilot in Europe," Sam answers, warm pride seeping into his voice in spite of himself. "332nd fighter group — the Tuskegee Airmen. Never lost a single bomber. Brought himself back in one piece, too." The pride evaporates, replaced by something else for just a brief moment before that stony facade is back in place, and Sam takes another sip of bourbon.

"Yeah, that was one ugly scene," he agrees, his tone neutral. "I hope the police have the situation in hand. Wouldn't mind getting involved ourselves, to be honest."

*

"Europe? 332nd? Was he one of the Red Tails, then?" A warm smile of reminiscence grows on Steve's face as he recalls the Tuskegee Airmen. "Don't recall any Wilson's, but I will say that those guys saved our behinds more than once." Steve quickly goes into story mode: "We'd attempted to rendezvous with the other half of the group behind enemy lines. When we got to the point, we hadn't realized our boys had been captured. Worse, our position had been ratted out, so we were pretty much sitting ducks. Just about to be taken prisoner when the Red Tails and those bombers came. Dogfightin all over the place and in the commotion we were able to get free." Steve finishes his beer and smiles even wider. "Good guys, the 332nd."

"Maybe we should just go down there and hang out with the kids. Getting involved doesn't mean we gotta throw swings. No matter what both sides would like to think."

*

Sam's eyes go wide as the rest of his body freezes in place. "Wait, what? You saw action with the Red Tails?" He stares at Steve as though willing himself to disbelieve, but there's no indication of untruth, and no reason to lie. "Sorry, I just…"

The black man looks away, breathing deeply. His finger start to slide sequentially around the rim of his near-empty glass, spinning it in place. Then he tilts it up onto one edge, just like he was doing before Steve arrived. "Steve, when I was a kid — I mean really little — I used to listen to the radio night after night for news about my dad's squadron. That never came… but I heard a hell of a lot about you. Where you were, who you'd beaten or liberated or sabotaged." He swallows, finally setting the glass down. "I didn't know what Europe was. It might as well have been as big as my playground. So at some point, I just started thinking, 'Dad's in Europe with Captain America. Cap will keep him safe and bring him home."

His hand clenches on the glass for an instant, then he releases it, folding his hands in front of his face. "And after all the years Europe did its best to kill him, he did come home safe." With a smooth motion, he reaches out for his glass and knocks back the rest of his drink. "So that America could finish the job."

*

"I'm really not sure how much the press of what I was doing over there was compared to what we were doing. The government, especially at first, was really interested in using me as a publicity stunt. I started out selling war bonds." The thought itself makes Cap laugh and shake his head.

"I have a strong feeling that the Tails role in things were downplayed. It took them awhile to get into battle, but when they did all the voices of all the white soldiers who had a problem quieted down. They held their own and did a damn good job."

"Your dad, he still around?"

*

"Killed in an Alabama bar by a drunk with a .45," Sam answers, his voice even and blank. "Jury let the man off on a self defense plea. I was nine."

After a pause, he continues, "Dad came back from Europe with a lot of ideas about equality. Shutting down prejudice just by being better, like the Red Tails did. All races living integrated, like the Europeans did." He folds his hands again. "I can't say I share all of those ideas. My attitude toward the land of the free is a little more complicated."

*

Steve lets out a sigh and shakes his head, "That's awful. I'm terribly sorry for what you and your family went through."

Steve nods, "There are a lot of people out there with a lot of ideas on how we should bring this whole country together. I'm not really an educated man, and don't understand politics. I just think we should all start by being nicer to each other. Maybe your thoughts on our country are more complicated, but I don't think it should be that way."

"Easier said than done, always."

*

"'Easier said than done.' Words to live by," Sam says, that raw sardonic edge peeking out again for a second. He turns to face Steve with a pensive frown. "I guess what I'm trying to tell you is that those complicated feelings kind of bleed over onto you." He folds his arms and sits back. "When I saw you in Carter's office, a stupid 9-year-old inside me wanted to yell, 'you were supposed to protect him!' I know that doesn't make any sense — you were frozen, I guess." He shrugs, still sounding dubious of that detail on the timeline, but glides past it. "But America didn't protect him, and some mixed-up part of me wanted to put that on you."

*

"They propped me up like some sort of super-man. They probably didn't go into a great amount of detail about the missions we didn't win. The men we lost. The friend I lost." Steve swallows and shrugs his shoulders, "Everyone there, all of us, we all did the best we could. I'm sorry about your dad, Sam. I'd have liked to been there to have protected him. But Captain America wasn't everywhere. I'm not even sure if I was on the right front in the war. A lot of what was propped up about me was pretty hollow. It's probably good that Captain America went under ice."

*

"I don't know about that, Steve," Sam says with a shake of his head. "Symbolically, if nothing else. This country wasn't ever a great place for a guy like me to live, but during and right after the War, people really thought it could change for the better. Maybe women could work; maybe negroes could integrate." He shrugs, half by raising his shoulders and half by just letting his head sag downward. "I might be pinning more on you than I should again, but having a symbol? An ideal to aspire to? Is it so hard to believe that that helped?"

*

"I don't pretend to know enough about what helped or what didn't, Sam. At the end of the day, I'm a soldier. That's what I'm good at. All of this stuff about politics, sociology, and fixing our broken country, isn't something I know how to fix. And there's no war for me to fight."

*

Sam drums his fingers on the tabletop, then leans forward impatiently. "Steve, you really seem like a good guy, and I don't know what the others at SHIELD have been telling you, but there's more in that paper I gave you than the funny pages. Police dogs and fire hoses in Birmingham? Medgar Evers in Jackson? Who knows how many mutants killed right here on your doorstep?" He sits back and throws his hands wide. "Look around you, Steve. The war's not in Europe anymore. You want a war? It's right here. And maybe you can't fight it with tanks, but you can damn sure fight it with symbols — starting with that flag they draped you in."

*

Steve nods. His pinched lips clench together as he looks up the band and the nod continues. "I think you might be right, Sam. And I think you've just given me the idea on how I can."

"What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?"

*

"I mean, how many crosses have to burn before the smoke—" Sam halts, mid-rant. "Wait. What? You think I'm — oh. Uh." He lifts his glass and peers into it, winking one eye shut. It suddenly occurs to him that he might be a little squiffier than he initially thought. "Well, thanks."

He does a quick bit of mental calculus and answers, "I think I'm free tomorrow. Why? What are you planning…?"

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