He feels for the smooth round rocks glass on the table in front of him, sits back in his chair and lifts the glass to his face. The sweet scent of whiskey mixed with the chorus of buzzing lamps becomes strangely intoxicating and he takes note of the salty-sweet moment before wetting his lips on the cool rim of the whiskey glass. The whiskey goes down warm but does not burn like it did before. The man downs the entire glass easily and then drops it back on the thick table top in front of him.
Outside he hears the unmistakable approaching roar of a 1200 cc Sportster. It pierces the drapes and the closed doors and rattles his kitchen table before fading away again further down the street. When he can no longer feel the Harley’s vibration in the empty rocks glass in his hand, when he can again only hear the buzz of lamps around him – the man cocks back his empty glass and then slings it out across the table like it were a shuffle board. He listens to the sound of the glass scrape heavily across the oak table top and catches his breath in the moment of silence that follows. In that moment of silence, that moment before the splintering sound of broken glass on tile floor, like the moment of calm certainty before a violent car crash, in that moment the man sees what must be done.
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He counts each step, turning to his right after number six, to his left after number nine and stops after seventeen. He reaches out and feels for the doorknob at his belt and then pushes open the office door. Unsure of his steps in this room, the man holds his hands out to either side as a guide. He runs his fingertips over cardboard boxes, leather books, papers, files – all from another lifetime, when he was another man. Slowly the man picks his way through the room until he comes to a tall metal cabinet. A combination lock hangs open on the front door to the cabinet. The man feels the shape of the lock in his hand for a moment. Sixteen, eight, twelve, he whispers to himself. As he pulls open the cabinet door he hears the squeal of dusty brake pads outside and then the hissing exhale of air brakes. It is the city metro bus – either the nineteen after or the twenty-one before. He has no way of knowing. Outside on the street the bus pulls away and inside the cluttered office the man feels within the metal cabinet with one hand for a box of shells and with the other for his forty-four caliber revolver.
He stuffs the box of shells into his left pocket and lets the forty-four hang at right his side. As he turns to feel his way back to the near empty bottle of whiskey in the kitchen his hand grazes across something and he stops because of it. For a moment he stands there and lets his fingers feel the rough surface of the object. It is a case he knows to be black. And inside is an instrument that he remembers he once enjoyed to play. After a moment he finds the handle and he lifts the case from its dusty perch. With a box of shells in his pocket, his forty-four revolver hanging from one hand and his alto sax hanging from the other, the man counts each step back to the worn wooden table and the buzz of the hanging kitchen lamp.
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At the kitchen table once more, the man sips from a fresh glass of whiskey and turns over the box of shells. The shells ring as they spill over each other and onto the table top. The man takes another sip and then sets down the glass, reaching for the revolver. He swings out the round cylinder and begins to shove in shell after shell. He counts to six, spins the cylinder and snaps it back into place. Now he pauses. He sets the revolver down softly on the table top and takes another sip from his whiskey glass. So this is what it comes to, he says aloud. Just like that, he says to himself. Well, alright then, he says. But he doesn’t move. He sips his whiskey slowly and he doesn’t move.
He finishes his glass of whiskey and another after it and then he finally sets down the rocks glass. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. Then he reaches out across the table in front of him – pushing past the loose shells… the empty bottle of whiskey… and the loaded revolver… until his hands find the rough, black saxophone case.
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The sun sits low on the horizon now, painting the downtown skyline in a golden light. In the heart of the city, long, dark fingers stretch down from plexiglass windows to cover sun scorched streets. It is on the corner of Congress and Sixth, below corporate skyscrapers and between evening shadows, that the man finally stops. Maybe it's the warm sunshine on his pale face; maybe it's the frantic energy brushing past his slumped shoulders as people push their way down the sidewalk; maybe it’s the weight of the saxophone that hangs from his neck or maybe it's the anchored lamp post on which he now leans against... Whatever the reason, the man pauses and breathes in this moment.It is the first time he has been outside of his house in more than a month. His hands are shaking and he inhales deeply again to steady himself. How many years has it been, he wonders silently, since he was just like the rest – rushing along these very streets, always on his way to somewhere. Something begins to stir deep within his chest. A knot begins to grow in his throat. The man listens to the traffic roaring from right to left in front of him. He smells the bitter-sweet cocktail of exhaust, cigarette smoke, the hotdog stand he passed not long ago and the occasional whiff of a woman's perfume. He feels the breeze kicking up at his back – the warmth of the setting sun on his face. And with shaking hands, the man reaches down to the saxophone hanging from his neck. His fingers naturally find their home positions on the sax keys. He coughs once, licks his lips and then places them around the dry reed of the sax.
It starts softly, tenderly – this song that has been held inside for too many years now. There are notes of contentment, happiness at first. They are barely a whisper to the passing world of times forgotten, of people forsaken. But the notes build, one by one and begin to gain momentum as the man continues to play. Soon the tone of the song begins to become more candid, more telling. The evening air is filled with notes of discord, loneliness, pain.
The man pushes away from the lamp post. His shoulders begin to sway from side to side as he lifts his head and cries out to the heavens above. Cars drive by more slowly now. Some roll down their windows as they pass. Pedestrians slow their pace as they approach. Some of them even stop and watch. Some of them even stop and listen… for a moment... And then with a shake of the head, a deep breath or even a smile they eventually all pull themselves away from the scene. But still the man plays on. The sun eventually sets. But still the man plays on. He stands at an intersection, one road behind him and another laid out before him. He stands at an intersection, surrounded by a city that does not sleep… and he plays on.
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1 comments:
Ryan- this is a twist on my summer evening a smooth read- and for me an enjoyable read- I look forward to the samples and writings you'll post!!
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