"Jazz Blood"

Vignette about a cool jazz bar and a certain type of woman.

"Jazz Blood"

A trio plays jazz into hazy air and hazy minds. Notes roll, snap, and reverberate from the bass, the drums, the keys and into a thin crowd of boozed up cats sitting cool, letting the room's lips smoke their cigarettes. Ribbons twirl in slow motion from cherry tips. . .

The men on stage work their fingers to cipher a language that sings of death and sorrow, joy and happiness, passion and sex. The music-men wordlessly speak these things as their eyes stare through the haze, refocus, then shoot glances to one another for the timing. The instruments pump and shudder, purr and hum while the room fills with blue smoke diffusing against ruby stage lights.

Out in that thin crowd a man slouches in his chair with one arm draped over the back. He's making love to his drink. The table in the corner has a lone woman for company. Her drink tells the saddest story. She cradles over her personal pool of booze, her face turns sideways toward the sound for solace. The trio decides it's time for the song to stop, no set ending, just a feel for when it's right. . .

Jazz is in my blood. I forgot for awhile, in my youth. But, I got old and tired and listened to that sanguine song rushing through my ears with swinging susurrations. My cells blowing on trumpets and saxes, pulling along uprights, and snares banging out soft, angry rhythms. I'm back at my birth place. My blood's everywhere, a mist in the air, diluted with blue smoke, so I'll stop the thought. . .

The bass picks up, banging on them strings, something dirty-quick, a bit of funk for aftertaste. Heads nod, legs joggle. The drummer's feeling it, he's got the beat, off the rim, back onto the skin, making the hi-hat sizzle, a crash on the ride, then off the center to give it that bell tone, it's cool. The man at the ivory with his mottled and pocked skin, starts to sing and scat a melody, then lets his right hand echo the absurd spat. They've all got the rhythm, they're a pulsing cell.

I'm not thinking, and now, she's there, at the bar. The music's playing for her. Everything becomes her theme. Strings are wrapped around my eyeballs and she's tugging on the lines. I prop my drink half way up to my mouth and slowly look over my shoulder. My eyes find her crossed legs, her foot disaffectedly twitches to the time. I leave the legs and travel up that lissome figure where she's on her elbow, cigarette in hand, and staring into the bar's mirror. She's beautiful, as always, her eyes staring through herself and out past these dirty brick walls. Short auburn hair reveals a slender neck supporting a delicate chin and icy, supple eyes. She smokes a pack a day with those long, cold fingers and perfect nails -- glossy and trimmed.

The look on her face is that perfect forgetfulness she carries -- she's forgotten why she's come, why she's here, why anything in this world should exist, and why I should mean anything. I'm destroyed and disgusted when I remember and she has perfectly forgotten.

I close my eyes to shut her image off and turn back toward the stage. The back of my head burns from her presence. Here I'm making a pilgrimage to my birth place, and here she is desecrating the grounds.

She can't let the men speak their tune -- the music thrown at her. Everything is given to her. She treats it all with that same mutinous twitch in her foot -- everything thrown at her feet -- and still more is pushed in front of her. All the world's possessions shoveled onto her plate. All the world's skin and bones, and still, she won't eat the mountain of food heaped in front of her.

I have to talk to her, who else will free the music? I don't, I'll leave. But, she won't let me. My muscles are shackled and racked until I submit myself at the mountain of rotting food. I'm convinced she's taken all my blood from the air, bottled up the notes, and holding them in ignorant ransom.

First, I gotta let this song stop, for the inspiration. I gotta tip back the rest of this drink, for the courage. I gotta suck this smoke down to the butt, for the nerves.

I throw the drink back, shake off the taste, crush out my cig, then turn and. . .The men let the song die; she's gone.

Reviews

[KillerWithWords]

What a story.

The character in this story faces a choice that almost ever man does. We can only hope to be on time. The character's nervousness is wonderfully portrayed as he desperately urges himself to move forward and speak to the woman.
"She can't let the men speak their tune -- the music thrown at her." This is, of course, from the character's perspective. She is ruining his environment.
I especially like that part.
I enjoyed your writing and the emotions portrayed in it.
I would encourage you to write more, as you have only 1 story posted.

[V. Smith]

Thank you for the review and glad you enjoyed the reading. I am working on a few more things for others to read. I have several stories stashed away, unpolished, and in the drawer.

I'll be sure to find my way over to your writing and give a review. I did read your "Symphony Of The Downcast" but wanted to give it a bit to sink in so I could give a constructive review.

[KillerWithWords]

I revised it, so you can now reread it without frowning at my poor grammar.