Anything But Mine (37 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 1 review (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Impassive-Digressive (View user info) at 2006-10-24 00:31:15 EDT
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I sat there transfixed as the bald black bear of a man laid into the keyboard with his massive paws. Above his closed eyes, beads of sweat stood out on his brow, shining in the spotlight. The air in the basement bar was rippled with smoke and the sound of the baby grand. The bar conversation and noise of chipped glasses sliding on scratched tabletops had simply faded into the background, all I could hear, and feel, and taste was the music.
I held my breath as his hands raced in a final blinding crescendo from the depths of the bass to the highest end of the ivory. A brief pause and they came down in a final triumvirate of chords. I exhaled as his eyes opened. He gave a small nod to the piano, before standing and stepping slowly from the stage.
Applause crackled as the spotlight faded behind him. Unconsciously I had already stood and joined in. Then, as if in autopilot, I drained the bitter dregs from the beer I had been nursing and made my way back to the bar.
He was already standing there, his six-and-a-half foot frame leaning against the aging woodwork. A match flared in the crinkled recesses of his hand, followed by a puff of blue-grey smoke from the cigar hanging in his mouth.
The paunchy, ruddy little barkeep turned from the register and looked up at him.
"What'll it be Julius? Just the usual?"
He nodded.
"Let me get that." I call across the bar "And make it two. Please."
They both look over at me. I smile weakly. "I'm a jazz fan." The black man grins, a brilliant white smile splitting his face, and he gives a nod to the barman. I trade one of my last notes for two glasses of light brown liquor. The change comes back - far more than I expected. I shoot a quizzical glace to the back of the barkeeper, as a huge hand comes to rest on my shoulder.
"My drinks are on the house, son. But it's always nice to meet a fan." He wanders to a nearby table and motions for me to join him. I collect the squat glass from the bar and take the seat across from him. The tip of the cigar glows orange as he takes a long drag, studying me as I take a sip of the liquor - which burns ferociously as it goes down. I try very hard not to cough, and almost succeed.
Plumes of smoke snaking from his mouth, he grins again. He looks much older close up, with wrinkles deepening all over his face as he smiles.
"What y'might call an acquired taste. Prob'ly why I'm the only one here who usually drinks the stuff."
His voice is deep, rasping. Like it had been soaked in a barrel of moonshine, before hanging in a smokehouse for a while.
"So," he speaks slowly, deliberately "What's your name, jazz fan?"
"Zack."
"What brings y'here, Zack?"
"The music." I gesture to the piano. "I play too. Nothing like you, though. At least, not yet."
He nods. I see it as permission to continue. Spurred on by my nervousness, the words just tumble out.
"I come from a small town. Way upstate. Nothing but banjos, pickup trucks and jokes about married cousins. My uncle had a piano - an old upright - he taught me to play when I was little. It was my way of escaping the hick redneck stereotype environment." I take another sip of the liquor, and grimace.
"He died six years ago - left me the piano, his gramophone and a collection of old jazz records. I would play, for hours at a time. Pretty soon, I ran out of sheet music and began improvising and playing the tunes I heard on the vinyl." He nods again, and I take another sip.
"My uncle used to tell me about the jazz clubs in the city, and how one day I would come down here and make a name for myself. Soon as I finished school, I took my savings and hitchhiked down here. That was nine weeks ago, though, and things aren't moving as quickly as I had hoped."
Bravely, but foolishly, I take a larger sip. After the ensuing coughing fit, I keep talking.
"But you know what? I'm going to do it. I'm going to make it. I don't care how long it takes me - this city'll be mine one day."
In the pause that follows, I realise how arrogant I must sound, and become self-conscious again. I need to change the subject.
"Julius, right?"
He nods.
"What can you tell me about yourself, and this city of yours?"
My request amuses him, and smoke trickles out his nose as he chuckles quietly to himself.
"This city of mine?"
He shakes his head.
"I'm more than a fraction like you, Zack. I rode into this city, smuggled in the belly of the daily northbound train. I stood on the steps of Central Station that day, my eyes brimmin' with wonder, and my pockets brimmin' with not much at all."
"Back home, I'd heard names like 'Lieutenant Jim Europe', 'King Oliver' and 'The Duke' spoken in revered, whispered breaths. My neighbours down the street would play their jazz records until late at night. I used to sneak out and to beneath their window and listen - more than once, my father found me asleep there the next mornin'."
"Sweet jazz, hot jazz, I couldn't get enough of it. I knew my way around the keys, and had an aunt here in the city, so I made my way up here when I'd had enough of school - determined to have the folks down home whispering my name in the same tones as my heroes'."
He puts down his cigar in the ashtray and puffs his chest.
"Emperor Julius" He smiles "That's what I wanted to hear them whisper. That's what I wanted to be - like the Julius Caesar of jazz."
He picks up the cigar and inhales deeply before continuing.
"Seven long years I worked in the bars and clubs of this city, sweepin' floors, wipin' tables and servin' drinks. Don't get me wrong though, I did hear some of the sweetest sounds the world has to offer. Eventually, I even found a club owner who would let me play during open hours. Only when it was late, mind you, and only on the quiet nights - but it was a start."
"Then, one cold November evenin', this city gave me my break. We had a big name booked, but on the way to the club he was in an automobile accident. The house was full - there were even a couple o' reporters - and I was the only act the manager had. After he gave an apology to the crowd, and promised some free drinks to make up for the inconvenience, I stepped out onto that stage, sat down at the piano, shut my eyes in fear and dived right in."
He leans in, and lowers his voice - like he is telling me an old trade secret.
"One problem with playin' in this city, Zack, is that folks hear average music every day and good music quite regularly - a few of them are even fortunate enough to know what genius sounds like. So when I finished, and stood on the stage, I wasn't surprised by the silence I received. I'd seen it happen dozens o' times before. The crowd gets somethin' so mediocre, they don't respond at all."
"So what did you do?" I refuse to believe that this is how the story ends.
"Nothin'. I just lowered my head and started to slink offstage. Then it happened. They started to clap, and cheer - I thought I was in a dream. The folks that were sittin' down actually stood up and applauded. They made me come back and do an encore. I was so full of emotion that I had tears pourin' down my face, but I still shut my eyes and played."
The old jazz man becomes visibly more animated - like he is reaching his favourite part of the story.
"Things moved fast from there. The reporters in the crowd gave me good enough reviews that I started to get regular gigs. I stopped wipin' tables and started playin' for a living. Soon, folks started knowin' who I was - I would hear them talk about me on the street - whisperin' my name, just like I used to dream about."
Julius stops, downs his drink in one sip and waves at the barkeeper for a refill. I just sit there, eyes wide, longing to hear more.
"You got a girlfriend, Zack?"
"Not right now. There was a girl back home, but she didn't want to come to the city with me. I think she thought I was nuts doing this. I haven't met many girls here. Yet." I grin at him. "I bet you met a few once you got famous."
The barman delivers another glass of liquor and Julius smiles, a glint in his eyes.
"It's true. I did. I lost count years ago - but there's one I remember above all." He leans back in his chair, creaking ominously beneath him and looks up at the dim ceiling lights. "She was Elouise. She would sing at some of the clubs I played - had the voice, and the heart of an angel. I fell in love the first time I saw her on stage. I used to buy her regular accompanist so much booze he'd be unable to play, and I would graciously offer to fill in for him."
"Took me four years of nervous dates 'fore I got up the stones to ask her to marry me. When she said 'yes' I felt like I was back on stage at my first concert listening to the applause. The city was makin' all my dreams come true: I had a job that I loved and a gorgeous wife that I loved even more. Some cats even started calling me 'The Emperor'. For a while there, it felt like this city really was mine."
"Then, one night, I was doin' a gig - just up the street from here as it happens, when the police meet me backstage after my performance. They politely informed me that there'd been a fire in my building and seventeen people had died. Elouise among 'em. My life crashed down on me, hard."
"I found the bottle, and held on tight for longer than I care to remember. I couldn't work 'cause I was usually too drunk to balance on the piano stool. It only made me want to drink more. One afternoon, I beat the daylights out of a barkeep who stopped servin' me. Then I went upstate, and spent a number o' months as a guest of the federal government in a tiny grey cell."
"I came back sober, but at the bottom of the heap, sweeping floors and playing only on the quiet nights. Took me another few years to get to where I am now, and it looks like I've done my dash." He take takes a final drag on his cigar and stubs it out in the ashtray.
"Which is why, young Zack, you're going to finish that drink and play us all somethin' on that piano up there."
"What?" A horde of butterflies erupts in my stomach "But, why?"
His face cracks into another smile.
"'Cause you took the time to listen to this old man talk, and I want to help you on your way. Sometimes this city gives, Zack. The trick lies in rememberin' that she can take away just as fast."
I throw back the final mouthful of liquor, willing my legs to stop shaking long enough for me to make it to the stage.
"I hope you do make this city yours, son. 'Cause if there's one thing I've proven over the years, despite what some folks - including myself - have believed, this city really is anything but mine."
I put my glass on the table, and stand. Still seated, Julius is almost as tall as I am. He nods, and I start striding towards the stage.
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Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2007-06-05 12:24:12 EDT (#)
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