Of Song and Water (19 page)

“Yes,” says the woman. “It's time for me as well.”

He doesn't want them to go. “Let me buy another round,” he says.

“I appreciate it,” says the songwriter. “But I've already been here too long.”

“Stay,” he says, catching the woman's eyes. “We can listen to the next set.”

“She listens like no one else I know,” says the songwriter.

“I should go,” she says.

“We'll take my car,” says the songwriter, gathering and stacking his seed packets.

Coleman pushes across the table “The Sidney Greenstreet Blues.”

The songwriter gestures for him to stop. “You can keep it, my friend. It's yours.”

He puts the seed packet in his breast pocket and stands as the woman and the songwriter prepare to leave. She turns and says good-bye. He holds her perfect fingers and raises her hand to his lips. “Another time, then,” he says.

“Yes,” she says. “Another time.”

The songwriter cocks his head. “Please plant that song,” he says.

He watches the woman and the songwriter disappear beyond the bar and then orders another martini. The stage is quiet and the crowd thins. All the nearby tables go dark. He observes a middle-aged man and a boyish man as they talk and smoke. He toys with the idea of playing guitar, but there's no audience now except for the two men. Still, he finds it difficult to leave. He yearns for a time and place he's never been. Something about the club gives him hope, lets him believe that grace and passion were once possible and could be again. He lifts his drink, feels the cold bite on his tongue. Yes, this room is lovely, he thinks. Even now, with only the three of us, it's lovely.

 

ON MONDAY morning, the sky overcast, gears grinding, he drives through farmland and small towns, down narrow and half-deserted streets, the full load making his truck less squirrelly in the turns. He listens to the news. He stares at the road and the sky beyond the trees. He double-parks in front of the Flat Rock liquor store. He slides out of the cab and walks to the rear of the truck. It's early and the street's gray, but the air is already thick with humidity. He lowers the hydraulic gate. He wishes that small stores had concrete loading docks like the grocery chains. The height of the truck's bed is made for that kind of delivery. Convenience stores force him to do more maneuvering, more ups and downs. He steps onto the lift, hits the switch, and the platform jerks him skyward. He unlocks the roll-up door and raises it. He stacks cases and twelve-packs on the hand truck, tips the load, and swings it toward the lift.

On most mornings, he moves with rehearsed precision, but on this day, with the truck filled to capacity, he tips and swings but misjudges the distance, crushing his fingers between the hand truck and a wall of beer. His arm recoils. He staggers, cursing the cargo and his clumsy move. He rubs his left hand and feels pity for its helplessness, its growing deformity. He holds it in front of his
face like an object that has no relation to his body, and he hears Heather's voice telling him to wear his gloves, the heavy ones, the pair that he always keeps in the truck but then leaves on the dashboard beneath his newspaper and cap.

He rolls the beer onto the lift. His hand throbs. His fingers feel heavy and his knuckles weep, the skin scraped and torn. He looks out at the street and the asphalt moves. He reaches for the switch to lower the lift, but he can't find it. The neon letters that spell LIQUOR float in circles around his head. He grabs the hand truck to steady himself. He glances down, takes a deep breath, and feels his heart racing. He breathes again.

After a while, the beer, truck, storefront, and street stop spinning. When he regains control, he sees that his right foot is close to the edge. Another step and he might've gone over. He pictures the accident he just missed. Short of falling and breaking his neck, he would've dropped his foot into thin air and snagged his trousers, tearing the inseam of his pant leg from ankle to thigh and leaving thin peels of skin on the edge of the lift.

He teeters on the brink. It's often like this when he stands on a dock or a seawall. But the habit started long ago, somewhere on the road – perhaps in Montreal, in a small theater on a proscenium stage. The acoustics impressed him as the show continued, so he ignored the roadies and the union rules and kept the place going until midnight. He listened to the music and the measured silence; both came to his ear without flaws, without a crackle or screech, without the distant drone of voices. Then his vigilance gave way and he played without thinking. During Brian's solo, feeling a new impulse, he adjusted his strap and stood up, squinting at the footlights. He closed his eyes and drifted to the edge of the stage until Tom hit a rimshot that startled him and brought him back. The next step would have found him in the laps of two women sitting in the first row.

“I was swept up in a transcendental moment,” he said. “The music suddenly made sense, complete and absolute sense.”

“That's right,” said Tom, wanting credit for preventing a disaster. “I saw you stepping off, landing facedown on your axe, your cord snapping and trailing behind you. That's pure transcendence.”

He wheels the beer into the store and goes directly to the freezer. He takes a bag of ice and drops it on the floor, kicks it a few times until the frozen mass breaks into pieces. Then he rips open the plastic and thrusts his hand into the cold.

“You got a problem?” says the owner.

“Yeah,” he says. “An accident.”

“You bleedin'?”

“Not much. Maybe a little.”

“You bleedin', you bought it.”

“Okay. Put it on my tab.”

“What tab? You ain't got no tab.”

“Jesus,” he says. “Must be one hell of a margin on ice.”

The owner swats a fly with a rolled-up magazine. “Fuck the margin. It's three bucks.”

“I don't have it.”

“Don't shit with me.”

“I don't have it. Like it says on the truck, drivers don't carry cash.”

“Even a bum carries three bucks. What about lunch? You do pay for lunch, don't ya?”

“I've got a credit card, that's all.”

“Plastic man. That figures.” The owner swats another fly. “Gimme the card.”

He takes out his wallet and fumbles the handoff and the card falls behind the counter.

“I suppose you want me to find it,” says the owner.

“I can cancel it,” he says.

“Maybe you should do that. Call the bank right now, cuz I'm lookin' hard and I don't see it.”

He glares at the owner and feels the muscles in his right arm tighten. He wants to knock the man's head off with a roundhouse punch. Instead, he sets the ice on top of the beer, tips the hand truck, and starts for the door.

“Where you goin' with those suds?” says the owner.

“I lost your invoice,” he says. “Can't deliver without the paperwork.”

The owner pulls a handgun from beneath the counter. “I'd stop right there if I was you.”

“You gonna shoot me?” he says. He points at the camera in the corner near the ceiling. “You gonna kill me on closed-circuit TV?”

The owner lowers the gun. “All right, plastic man. You win. Just leave the beer.”

“I'll take a trade,” he says.

The owner bends down and picks up the card. He slides it through the slot on his register.

“You can cancel that transaction. I want the card
and
the ice.”

The owner hits a button and puts the card on the counter. He smiles – a front tooth missing and a gold cap.

A light in the ceiling flashes and pops.

He slides the hand truck out from under the load. “I'll leave the beer right here,” he says. “I'm sure you can manage.”

“You can't leave it in the door.”

“It's not in the door.” He grabs his credit card and the bag of ice. “See. I can get out. No problem.”

He hustles back to the truck, buttons up the rear, and raises the lift. He keeps an eye on the side-view mirrors while he starts the engine. He rolls off using his right hand to shift and steer. His left hand is pleasantly numb, resting in the ice like a dead fish.

THE NEXT delivery takes more time. He gripes out loud about the market being run-down, about its thick stoop and heavy door, its narrow and cluttered aisles. Looking inside, he sees the wholesome young woman who works the counter two or three mornings a week. She looks over the shoulder of the customer counting his change and waves.

Pulling with one hand, he gets stuck at the stoop. His second attempt fails. A man wanting to get through the door plants a heavy boot on the bottom of the hand truck and gives him a boost.

“Thanks,” he says.

The man grunts and brushes past him toward the magazine stand.

He wheels the load to the rear of the store and leaves the beer stacked against the wall. He waits until the customers have gone.

“You okay?” says the young woman, her face filled with concern.

“Got a bum hand,” he says.

“Sorry,” she says. “You should've taken the day off.”

“Just happened,” he says. “Here's the bad news for the beer. I need you to sign this one.”

She initials the paper. He breathes in her scent. “Is that shampoo or perfume, or what?”

She smiles. “I don't know. I don't wear perfume.”

“It's nice.” He stares at her initials. “Where's Frank?”

“He's in back. You need to see him?”

He looks up. “No. Just tell him I said hello.” He wants very much to reach across the counter and touch her. He hates it that his hand is throbbing. “I'd rather see you than him,” he says, “but don't tell Frank I said that. He'd only feel bad.”

She smiles again. “Are you flirting with me?”

“No,” he says, backing away from the counter, feeling a sudden pinch in his gut. “I hope not.”

“I'm sorry,” she says, the blood rising in her cheeks. “I didn't mean anything.”

“I didn't either,” he says. He stuffs the paper in his shirt. “You're nice. It's nice to see you.”

He heads for the door and pushes the hand truck over the stoop. He stops and turns. He lifts his arm and tries to wave but his swollen hand floats in the air like an inflated rubber glove. He feels silly and self-conscious. I'm a clown, he says to himself. A damn fool.

 

AT THE Black & White Club, he sips his drink and looks closely at the woman who appears to be sitting with him at the table. She wears a hat with a large white brim and a veil. Because of the hat, the dim light, and the cigarette smoke, he finds it impossible to see her face. He follows the outline of her cheeks and chin but all the other details elude him. In sharp contrast, her arms and shoulders, accentuated by a tight, thin, sleeveless dress, reveal a tempting symmetry, a curve and slope so enticing that he wants to brush his lips across her skin. It's cooler than usual in the club. He notices the slight rising and falling of her chest.

“You okay?” he says.

The veil trembles with the give and take of her breathing.

He rubs his knuckles. “Something wrong?”

“What makes you ask?” says the woman.

“Since we got here,” he says, “you haven't said a word.”

“When did we get here?”

“I'm not sure. Later than usual.”

“We missed Django,” she says.

“We did?”

“That's right. Django was here. But we were late.”

He glances at the stage. “I didn't know.”

“It doesn't matter,” she says. She sits with her forearms on the table, her right hand resting on top of her left. “You're a fool,” she says. “What did you see in me?”

“I'm not sure,” he says. “Nothing was clear – the lights, the smoke – ”

“That's not how it seemed.”

“No,” he says. “I suppose not.”

“If you couldn't see, why did you do it?”

“I was bored.”

“That's not a pretty thing to say.”

“All right,” he says. “Some things I could see.”

“Yes,” she says. “I know.”

He spins his drink on a ring of condensation. “I wanted what I saw. It was that – and the boredom.”

“Whenever I heard you play,” she says, “I thought you were playing for me, just me.”

With a steady gaze, he tries to penetrate her veil.

“It was difficult for me to sit with another man and listen to you.”

He wonders if she's telling the truth. “Music is like that,” he says.

“But you did it,” she says. “You made it that way.”

“Yes.”

“You used your guitar for me?”

“Yes. At the end.”

“You're unlucky,” she says.

“I've heard that before. But I'm not so sure. I have a history.”

“That sounds mysterious,” she says. “Are you from another country? Did you kill a man?”

“No, not me.”

“Then you're unlucky.”

“I believe in pattern and symmetry,” he says. “Like a song. Like the curve of your neck and the slope of your shoulders.”

“Yes,” she says. “But you're still unlucky.”

He downs the rest of his drink. “Say a man commits murder and gets away with it. Will another man pay for the crime?”

“Why should he?” says the woman. “There's no justice in that.”

“Justice is hardly the point,” he says. “Symmetry is the point.”