That turns my walk into a march. The wind tilts the night.
Street crowds scrounge for heat: guys huddle and murmur on what they'd do to passing girls, they smoke and leer and look less potent for it. The girls look bored/worried, but not due to the guys. I think the girls worry each other.
New couples claw then nuzzle. Other couples ignore one another in silent yelling. I keep walking.
I’m already downtown, so aim East to a reliable spot.
The spot is as I left it. Plaster and shaded pink lights and uneven planks. The specials are still curlicued in chalk above white linen tables. Tea light candles warm up ruddy faces. This crowd feels heartier. The chatter and clinking thread with the smells of the place, of buttery cooking and a little perfumed sweat.
I'm lucky. A fight leads to a storming out at the bar. A stool right in front of the makeshift stage frees up. I smile lightly at the fighters. Their mouths are flecked either with beer foam or rabies while they yank on their coats. I slip into place and order a glass of red, middle of the chart, neither swill nor deluxe.
The lesbian Hungarian is still behind the bar. Paprika red hair is piled up to cool the nape of her neck, but her temples are damp. Her tattoos still peek when she reaches for bottles and her accent still knots around broad vowels. Above all her eyes are still hard-laughing. Only way to describe it. She was forcing a gingham shirt to dip and swell in striking ways. She’s still studying to be a masseuse. Until then, the gingham seems content to roll with it.
The quartet takes the stage. All but the upright bass player are seated in a neat row. The Leader is in the center. He sports a vest and natty bow tie and bookish glasses atop a pinched face. He’s either a blues guy or an accountant at Scrooge & Marley.
Leader’s trumpet rolls out a four-chord tune nice and wide, then his riffs turn jagged. His shoulders dip with the change. He performs sitting down until the lyric crests with meaning. Then he rises to sing. His voice is scraped and pitched high, over the din. His throat veins bulge when he does so and I feel as if it hurts. Otherwise he gestures and warbles from his wooden chair as if it's a revival meeting where coffee is served.
On Leader's right: a wind player tripling on bassoon, sax and clarinet. Sometimes he swaps all three in one tune. There is no hectic flash on his face, no sheen of effort. Calm, as he licks his lips and twiddles his fingers along the valves, checks the action. He’s all in black and a folded bandana hugs his forehead. His instruments are littered at his feet, necks craned up at him, like begging puppies. He reaches for them without notice but great care.
On Leader’s left: a guitarist strumming the time and on wispy vocal back-up. He wears a cowboy hat over a ham face with sandpaper cheeks. Cowboy boots tap out the beat and he's hunched hard over both his gut and the guitar straddling his knee.
The only one not in a row like schoolboys is the bassist. He alone has a music stand and charts. A sub? He’s also younger than the rest by nearly twenty years, or looks it. He wears sheepish black glasses and has a stringy blonde pompadour that would rather live in his eyes. He slaps and plucks and darts around the chord rather than just hammering out the 2 and 4.
The crowd responds to the quartet not wildly, but warmly. I decide I like them too.
On break they grab drinks and still chat with each other. Tight crew. A lot of players go for a cigarette, or a drink, a joint, or wander to be away. These four want to talk to each other. They drink while they talk, no mistake, but I don’t see anything harder than beer. I spot Delirium Tremens on tap, and that’s as hard as beer needs to get.
A short, final set. Leader warned us not to get too attached. The band retakes their straight-backed places, chat low among each other. None lock eyes in their row. None need to. All face out. I happen to be close enough to hear. They whisper what to lead with. Democratic. Each have a say, or a grumbling veto. Then the guitarist strums out a blues strut and chins bob in time and eyes all aimed differently, they spring out of the gate in tight unison. I don’t know why I enjoy that, but I do.
Now my glass of middling red is gone. I toss bills on the counter. The lesbian Hungarian’s eyes give me the ‘silly boy' flash. I smile and mean it. She's right, I can be silly.
The band packs up. One of them must have a car for all that gear. One of them always does.
It no longer feels like surrender to go home.
© Eric Yves Garcia 2013
