0.00
(0 votes)
You must login to vote
|
|
|
The rain was dribbles outside, impotent piss falling over the roof and leaking off the eaves. Sirens and emergency flashers outside through the big picture windows, strobing a low-class disco through MacCall's. Kristin's little combo swivelled and rocked through their set, the second of the night. Damn but they sucked. Why couldn't the trumpet and the piano ever find the same key, or for that matter, tempo? It wasn't like they just started this jazz act yesterday; Melvin and his trumpet looked like Capone about to commit a particularly musical murder, and Kristin's microphone would be better suited to broadcasting news of the Depression.
The song ground to a halt. The whole thing was absurd, Billy thought. Al's drum heads hadn't been replaced in a decade at least, making the backbeat sound like a deaf smoker's cough. He laughed at the image and at his own clever simile. Someone's pocket started ringing, playing one of those annoying little tunes with about twice the sound quality of the microphone at the guitar. He never could remember the strummer's name. Cellphone guy stepped outside, only to have the awning promptly dump a day's worth of water on his head. At least there was some justice in the world.
Predictably, the band wanted a break. Probably their hips were hurting them, or they needed to take their Metamucil. Again he snickered. Why the hell did he keep coming, anyway? Every week, he asked himself the same question, and every week, he dismissed it as soon as it entered his mind. It was obvious, or it should have been. In fact, despite the band's advanced state of decline, he was always surprised that the place wasn't packed. As long as Kristin was in front of the Geezer Squad, he'd be in the audience. She was delicious, with one of those bobbed hair cuts and a sequin dress that should be illegal.
The band shuffled to their little round table next to the stage. Maybe when he was ninety he could play an instrument poorly and score some face time with a girl like Kristin. As it was, the whole situation was a little too weird for him, and he always watched the show from the bar, near the front door. Safer that way, less chance of being caught staring. She had to be a little... off... to dress the way she did, after all. Probably a clingy bitch. Yeah, that's it. She almost has to be, right?
Suddenly she was at his side, and she smelled like roses. Billy very quickly learned what those old books meant when they talked about swooning. He just never knew it could happen to guys, too.
"Another bottle for the table, Jimmy. Thanks, you're a doll!" She winked at Billy, and by the time he regained rational sense, she was back by the stage, pouring glasses for the coots. "A doll"? Billy thought. Who talks like that? And for god's sake, who actually winks? It was all way too weird. His phone buzzed, a text from his boss reminding him about the report due tomorrow. Fuck. Phone back into the shirt pocket then, and off home. As he got his coat off the back of the chair, Kristin tapped the microphone, and the band started into a bluesy little tune he didn't think he'd heard before. It was one of the better ones - it had to be, because he could actually hear harmony behind Kristin's kewpie voice. He was sitting again.
The occupants of one of the tables near the stage stumbled up and danced their drunken way out. As they passed, old Michael next to him started singing one of his ballads, lost in a stupor. Billy couldn't hear Kristin anymore, and that just wouldn't do. Drawn by the hypnosis of the rose-smell, he found himself at the table recently vacated by the drunken dancing fools.
Well. Things sure were different from here. Kristin -and, for that matter, the geezers- were close enough to touch, and more fortunately, close enough to smell. The band smelled like spice and rum, like Havana. The total effect was wonderful.
Al was laying down a solid, if asthmatic, kick under the piano. Kristin's eyes were closed, and as she sang her hips swayed just ever so much - wonderful. How could the drunks have gotten up from this show? She was crooning about loneliness, and sorrow-drowning, and lost loves, and all the other things that every blues singer since the beginning of time have beaten to death. He had no sooner mused this point than Kristin opened her eyes, and suddenly there were no other singers, no other blues, no other places, and as a matter of fact, he would have been hard pressed to remember who he was if someone were to ask him. She winked at him again, and it was just about the cutest thing he'd ever seen.
The guitar player without a name was playing a violin now. He sounded just as bad as the Gypsy band that played outside MacCall's some weekends. Come to think of it, it might be the same guy. He laughed at that thought. Of course it would have to be, there couldn't be -two- violin players in the world that bad. Kristin caught his laugh, and flashed a smile at him, cherry Cupid's bow lips revealing teeth whiter than the piano keys had ever been.
Al's drums had gone from asthma to full on tuberculosis, and had sped up considerably. Melvin was off in his own world, reaching surprisingly high points with the horn. This was something new entirely. Had one of their tunes ever changed tempo gracefully before? He supposed it didn't matter, especially since Kristin was doing that little kicking dance from the old movies while the nameless violinist sawed through a solo.
The band was ripping through the chord changes now, sliding from one to the other with the ease of men who'd been doing this for a very long time indeed. Kristin looked over her shoulder at him while the band hit a beat-long break. She tipped the hat off his head, and it was on hers, just slightly too big, falling half over her eyes. Billy was charmed completely. He grinned at her, and as Al rolled the band back from the solo section, she went back into a verse. Melvin was on fire, screaming behind her as she sang about... well, it didn't matter, not that Billy could have been bothered to listen to the words. A bum smelling of a year in the gutter and two years on the cheap wine poked his shoulder.
"Buddy, can you spare..." Billy gave him a coin from his pocket. He didn't know how much, his eyes were on Kristin the whole time. As the combo went into the last solo, she started to Charleston again. Lord, but that dress had a high hemline, and her legs... he laughed again. And she was giving a little curtsy, and the set was over.
Kristin put his hat back on his head.
"You like the show tonight, doll?" He grinned. "Aww, you're just sayin' that," she said with a giggle. "Go pay for your drinks. I've got to help the band clean up... can't be skylarking!" He had another one, and paid. As he started out the door, Kristin yelled. "You'll never remember, will you! The front door's all sealed up, remember? Sakes, you'd think the boarded windows'd be a hint. Now screw your head on, and let's go home." Jimmy was shaking his head behind the bar.
"Bye, Miss Kristin. Bye, Billy. Password's 'rabbit' for tomorrow. You got all your effects, Billy?" Did he? Seems like there should have been something in his front pocket, but it -had- been a long night.
"Yeah, see you later."
"Rabbit, don't forget."
"We're not going to be here tomorrow," Kristin chirped. "Billy's taking me to see 'Snow White'!"
"You sure have him wrapped around your finger, don't you, Miss Kristin? Well, have fun at the Bijou, anyway." She winked at him.
"Ready to go, Billy?"
"Yeah, Kristin. Let's go home."
|
