Pegi Clark-Pearson
ALL THAT JAZZ
by
Pegi Clark-Pearson (copyright 1996 All Rights Reserved)
"We've never had a social evening," Frank says, moving
his bar stool closer to mine.
"You've never asked," I say.
Not that I give a damn. Not that I'd go out with him.
"Anyway, married men are not my thing."
"You didn't hear? Marcy left me. I'm single again," he
says as he downs the drink in front of him.
Hard stuff. Holds up his finger to the waitress for
another. He looks sad, like he just found out it's cancer and
he's got six weeks left to do whatever needs to be done; like
he's facing it like a man.
"I'm sorry, Frank. I didn't know."
Marcy was his dream girl. Twenty years younger. Cute
in a buttoned up Lord & Taylor way. Frank followed her around
like a faithful puppy dog, but he always had a drink in his
hand. He just had to drink, and I guess she'd had it with him.
"So. You and me. Two singles. Maybe we could swing a
little?"
Better not answer that one. Don't kick a man when he's
down. Frank's a good looking man. He's fiftyish. He's gray. Not
just his hair, but all over, in spite of his tan. He's been
inching toward retirement since he and Marcy hooked up a couple
of decades ago. Until this monkey- wrenching of his life, all he
wanted was a cozy house and a cozy wife and a TV that worked.
More or less. Tubajo, as the Japanese golfer said.
His hand is on my arm, "I just want to be friends,
Bonnie," he says.
"Fine. Maybe we can work on that later. I came to
listen to the music."
I pour the rest of my Heineken in the glass and turn
away so I can concentrate on the trio. The pianoman is into it
now. St. Thomas. We all have our St. Thomas memories. The tanned
and smooth skinned waitress requested it. She moves at the sink
in her private circle of Carribbean memory, suds up her arms
like sea foam, washing glasses.
The pianoman's head is lifted toward the ceiling, his
eyes closed. The drummer is tranced and the bass man's caressing
his bass like he's near orgasm. Everybody in the place is
moving. Anything from a single finger drumming on the bar to the
guy who is circling and gyrating around his girlfriend.
Everybody's moving, except the two black couples in the corner;
three IBM programmers and a Beacon schoolteacher. Are they cool
or are they cold?
The pianoman's eyes are open now, rallying around the
ceiling. His face reflects pain or ecstacy, oh do it to me baby,
and the bass man is leaning over, embracing, reaching deep into
the strings, arms wrapped around the silky basswood, boodeedoom,
his hand slides suddenly skyward and a dirty blues guitar rises
out of the cellar of the bass. The drummer bops away with a
happy fixed smile. He owns this place. Tonight it's full and
everyone is into the sound.
Frank taps me on the shoulder, "Marcie and I were
happy in St. Thomas," his blue eyes watery.
"Go ahead and cry, Frank. You'll feel better."
He looks affronted. He gets up and moves unsteadily
toward the men's room.
Jack the bartender comes over, "Who's the guy?"
Sometimes I miss Jack. We used to be close. Sometimes
I'm sorry I walked out. I wonder if Jack is jealous.
"A neighbor. A bereaving grass widower to be."
"Looks like he does bereaving well."
"Everybody's good at something," I say.
Jack is good at observing people. He's totally blind
when it comes to looking at himself. Which is why I walked out.
"I'm going to Ireland. Did I tell you? Bud and I are
going to sample all the Irish whiskey they've got."
Bud is his bartender buddy in the city. Both of them
drink too much. Jack would never admit it. Nor would he admit
it's why he can't remember if he told me something or not, even
after he's told me five times.
"Bartender," one of the programmers wants service.
"See you, Bonnie."
I don't come here to see Jack. I don't come here to
meet Franks. I come here because on the weekends there is great
jazz and I love jazz. It's a local place. I know most of the
people. Sometimes I come with friends, but I'm very comfortable
coming by myself. When I'm alone I like to sit here, at the end
of the bar, close to the bandstand where I can really see the
musicians, the pianoman's hands doing the keyboard, the
baseman's right chording and his left plucking, sliding,
coaxing. I like to watch the musician's faces too. I like to
watch people doing what they're happy doing.
Frank is back, looking gray faced, like he bleached
his tan in the men's room, like he threw up.
"Wadda I owe you, buddy," he says to Jack.
Jack totals his check and they settle up.
"I'll see you Bonnie," says Frank, "I'll give you a
jingle."
All desire for me or for playing the part of a single
has left Frank's eyes. All he wants is to sleep. A few hours
sleep without pain. Without reaching for the girl of his dreams
who's no longer there.
Table of contents