Sing Me the Blues

For Joel

On a Thursday night, misty drizzle bejeweled the peeling paint of a tired sign that hung above a pair of dark wood doors with diamond windows. “The Double Six” it read in jaunty letters alongside a pair of red dice sporting six flaky white pips. The gutters hung low, raindrops slowly dripped off mismatched siding, and muffled guitar music hummed from inside. Blues riffs muttered in time to the shuffling of old ice on the river, troubling the moist air of quarter to midnight.

The shocks of a late model Honda wheezed over the old trolley tracks. The car crunched around to the back and parked next to the dumpsters. She took a moment after turning off the key to sit in the quiet. The spitting rain coalesced and slid down the windshield. She closed her eyes and laid her head back on the musty tan upholstery. She gave herself three deep breaths before unlocking the door and swinging into the damp cold.

The back door of The Double Six always stuck, but on rainy nights it needed extra force. One of these days she was sure she’d pull the flimsy handle right off. And wouldn’t he make her pay for it, too. Dank, warm air smelling of ancient cigarettes rolled out into the night, and she straightened her tired spine before plunging in.

“Hey Kay!” called Monica as she ducked into the back hall. “He’s gonna want you up in five.”

She nodded and shuffled back to the closet that served as a dressing room. Three minutes later, she’d peeled out of her waitress blouse and jeans and into a simple black wrap dress. She slid black flip flops with tattered black sequined flowers on her swollen feet. Good enough. One more deep breath and she wobbled to the dusty red curtains that framed the tiny stage. As usual, Rob was on the upright piano and Abe hunched over his electric guitar like an ancient barnacle. A glistening glass of three fingers of gin twinkled on top of the piano, waiting for her. All set.

She peered through the bar, noting the handful of regulars, a scattering of strangers, and Snake Eyes perched on his stool. Nothing escaped his black-eyed watch over his precious club. He twitched a thin black eyebrow at her. Time to get going.

Abe let the last riff hang in the air as she climbed the step to the stage. She settled on the stool, nudged the mic closer and reached for the glass. Tossing it back in three swallows, she let the cut crystal of the gin slice through the fog of exhaustion, muscle aches, and too many cans of Monster. She turned her face up to the lone spotlight and sang.

***

After a half hour of standards and torch songs, she called for a take five. So help her, if she didn’t get to the ladies in time, she’d pee down her legs. Refreshed, or at least relieved, she shuffled back to the stool and the spotlight for another set. They’d learned early to stick to the songbook. If she sang her own songs, the walls did strange things.

The second set wrung her dry and maybe she’d sleep soundly before the mid shift at the bodega tomorrow. Snake Eyes indicated his favorite back booth to settle up. Lord knew she needed the cash, but this week, the catharsis was honey sweet.

She slid carefully across the red leatherette, mindful of her skirt on the crumbling edges. Snake Eyes had a tall glass of lemon water for her. A rare kind gesture, she dimly wondered why he was in a good mood. He was never in a good mood.

“Sweet baby Kay,” even his low voice was oily. “That was a good two sets.” He placed a brown envelope alongside the water glass. She knew better than to grab it straight off. She’d learned right quick that he regarded that as rudeness. She needed to play the game for a bit.

He tapped a manicured nail on the pay packet. “I believe your talent is developin’, darlin’,” he drawled. “Got some fresh faces tonight. Happy to spend on some cocktails and such.” He cocked his head. “Good business.”

She nodded carefully and waited. She’d also learned not to give even the faintest suggestion of interrupting as Snake liked to converse on his own time.

“So, baby girl, I’m gonna need sumpin’.” Ice crystals formed on her spine. She took a sip of water as her mouth went dry. Snake didn’t do favors. He abhorred loose ends.

“Two Thursdays from now, I have a meeting during your set.” He shifted to fold his hands on the table, a diamond pinky ring sparked and his trademark carved ruby dice cufflinks glowered in the bar lights. “It culminates several plans, so I need you to bring all that talent.” He reached across and tapped the back of her hand. “Sing your own songs,” he stated and leaned back into the banquette.

Startled, she looked him straight in the eye. “My songs?” she whispered.

“Your songs,” he growled. “I want you to bring the house down.” He spread his hands wide, “and I’ll triple your fee because I’m fair.”

She tried to will all the hairs on her arms back down and prayed he hadn’t noticed. Nothing escaped Snake Eyes, though, and he chuckled as he pinned her to the booth with those piercing black eyes. “Make it a showstopper. These…associates…should be impressed and…distracted.”

“Yes, sir,” she mumbled. She finished the lemon water. It would look ungrateful if she didn’t. And slid out of the booth, envelope tucked away. She tried to appear casual as she walked back to the dressing room to change, hiding her shaking hands in her skirt.

***

Two weeks hadn’t been enough time to put any polish on them, but she had knocked together a half dozen songs. She figured she could sprinkle them through two sets and end with what she privately considered a darn fine showstopper. She sacrificed sleep to run through the chords with Rob and Abe. They didn’t dare add the lyrics until that night. Instead, she scribbled them on the backs of receipts and bits of bills between serving coffee and stacking lettuce.

The days zipped past in a blur of exhilaration and exhaustion. The songs came swift and easy, having bounced around in her head for years. She finally put the lyrics down in a spiral notebook filched from the back office of the diner a couple days before.

Tuesday, 3 am, she leaned out her window and watched the sickle moon sail on a scrap of cloud. Music spiraled through her and she couldn’t stop humming. She could just glimpse a scatter of stars behind the orange sodium lights of the city. Two more days and she could let it free.

***

Thursday night rolled in dark and windy, restless, and spoiling for a fight. She managed to arrive a half hour early, somehow catching all the lights. Excitement fizzed through her fingers as she gripped the steering wheel. New possibilities seemed to cluster in the cobwebbed corners of the old Double Six.

She hurried to change into black pants and a borrowed sparkly low-cut top. If Snake wanted his singer to be distracting, she figured she better show some skin.

“Sweet baby Kay,” he said, setting her teeth on edge. Snake leaned against the doorframe and eyed her. “My dear, I am surprised. Didn’t know you could clean up so nice.”

“Well,” she dared to turn and look at him straight on. “You said ‘distraction’.”

“So I did, so I did,” he nodded. “You’ve got some songs?”

“Yes, sir,” she waved the notebook. “The boys and I did some practicin’. I can’t say they’re perfect, but I believe they’ll do for your purposes.”

“Good. Perfect would’ve been nice, though. Now, baby girl, this is a big deal and there’s a lot of money involved. So, I need you to focus and put all that heart out there.” He tilted his chin. “You think you can do that for old Snake Eyes?”

She knew it wasn’t really a question. She nodded.

“Fine, fine, fine,” he rumbled. “I’m feeling generous tonight, so here.” He tossed a plain brown envelope on the cluttered makeup table. “That’s half your fee. The rest after you light this place up and give us a helluva show.”

She nodded, not trusting her voice to tremble. Snake slid out the doorway as she tucked the money in her pocket.

***

The joint was bustling and she shied away from wondering why. It made good cover for shady transactions, but all these people ratcheted up her thready nerves. The two waitresses were too busy to run the spotlight, so while the single can light haloed her hair, for a change she could see the crowd. She couldn’t hide.

Instead of her gin, a tall glass of water with a lemon slice perspired on top of the piano. Snake wanted her sharp and she despaired briefly, missing that messy edge between clarity and oblivion. She caught the eye of Rob as he slid onto the bench. Abe stubbed out his cigarette and picked up the guitar. She settled the stool, sipped the water, and reached for the mic. She saw Snake flick a signal from his favorite booth and she dove into the music.

After a saucy standard, she told the boys to kick it up and launched into her first original.

Oh, you can have your shorts

You can swirl your skirts

But, honey, if I want to dance

It’s PANTS!

I need to move

I need to stretch

I might even twerk

I can’t do that in no pencil skirt

Any pants, don’t need no pattern

Black pants

Brown pants

Red pants

Dance pants!

Chairs were quickly scooted back and a space cleared for dancing. Rob remembered his honky tonk roots and took the piano to school. The lights sparked and she noticed the paint got a little brighter. She held back, leashing the power tightly. Not yet. Just a couple of teaspoons of sugar to get the feet moving.

They kept it up tempo and she slipped in a couple of happy little tunes to keep the mood light and the dancing lively. Make them thirsty and focused on each other, not the tense conversation in the back of the room.

Steady applause greeted her at set break. She needed that tall glass of water now. Sweat gathered in her elbows and knees as she struggled to keep control. Dance hall posters had unfurled on the deep red walls. There was an impression of lingering brassy trumpets and trombones, and fresh candles lit the tables.

Snake’s deal was going south. She slipped to the bar in hopes of a drink. Joe shook his head at her hopeful look and topped off the water. Clearly, he was under orders to keep her sober. She peeked over his shoulder to the back booth and spotted a large satchel under the elbow of the man haggling with Snake. As Joe handed her back the glass, fresh lemon tickled her nose and an idea bubbled to the surface. It wasn’t a good idea or a wise idea, but it might be her ticket to a fresh start.

Back on stage, she started with a sweet slow love song of her own. The crowd got sentimental and swayed to the low beat of Abe’s guitar. The candles burned lower, the room darkened and she opened up a little bit more. Gilt mirrors replaced the posters. She’d saved the mid-tempo songs for this set and watched the body language in the tattered back booth settle down. Snake gave her a tiny nod. She shifted into another of her compositions and let more power off the leash.

My man is crazy ‘bout me

Thinks I’ve hung the moon

But one thing his passion fans

Is my tired old dishpan hands

I don’t know if it’s the callouses

Or the knobby knuckles and scars

But every night he rubs in balm

And caresses my fingers and palms

Couples slipped out the doors, the curtains turned black, and Abe made his guitar sound like a lover. She watched only Snake and his business deal, now. She could almost see the fissures and cracks of distrust and greed. Time to break those wide open.

She leaned back to Rob and Abe and said, “Torch song and quit it.” Their eyes widened, but they moved into the low chords that started it off. She reached into the center of her soul, closed her eyes a moment, and let all the years unsnarl, the pleasure and the pain, into her power.

You might flush

For a silly crush

But this flame

It ignites

Promises smoldering nights

Don’t touch

Stay away

Can’t you feel it?

The heat, the blaze

This burning

Soul yearning

Live fire

Under my skin

She could smell burning and taste ashes. The candles blazed higher. What was left of the crowd sat motionless, transfixed. And Snake’s anger was blazing from the back. She reached down and pulled more, pouring herself out.

Nothing quenches

Nothing drenches

Sooty fingerprints

Stain the table

Charcoal marks

These weeping walls

The crimson paint on the walls started to bubble and run. Smoke from singeing curtains drifted around the ceiling. She held the crowd and leaned into the dark driving beat, the anguished chords.

You left me

Walked away

Leaving me this burning

My future a pyre

Small fires started in the corners but no one moved for an extinguisher or even a glass of water. Blue flames flickered across the bar and still she held them. She could feel heat flushing her face, sweat running into her eyes. She heard the gunshots, but they were for her ears alone.

I’m a conflagration

Hands searing in this wildfire

I can’t take the white-hot yearning

Time to burn it all down

She put all her will, all her fear, all her anger in the last phrase and the walls roared with flame.

***

The night was eerily calm, the stars bright. She walked out the charred double doors, satchel of cash across her shoulder. Abe and Rob followed, shaken and coughing. They stood in the parking lot for a moment, watching flames dance across the roof, playful as kittens.

“Thank you,” she whispered, voice rough as charcoal.

“Where do you go from here?” gruffed Abe.

She smiled, “No place special.”

Rob laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. “You be careful, now Kay.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to hear from you, see nothin’ in the papers.”

“Oh, Rob, honey, my name is Kallista and trust me, you’ll not be seeing me again.”

She gripped their hands goodbye, glanced at the old Honda, then turned her face to the stars and started walking.

Lyrics:

Dance Pants

Oh, you can have your shorts

You can swirl your skirts

But, honey, if I want to dance

It’s PANTS!

I need to move

I need to stretch

I might even twerk

I can’t do that in no pencil skirt

Any pants, don’t need no pattern

Black pants

Brown pants

Red pants

Dance pants!

I got to dip my hip

Stride and glide

Spin and sashay

In a mini skirt? No way!

I need my pants!

Plaid pants

Striped pants

Paisley pants

Dance pants!

Dishpan Hands

My man is crazy ‘bout me

Thinks I’ve hung the moon

But one thing his passion fans

Is my tired old dishpan hands

I don’t know if it’s the callouses

Or the knobby knuckles and scars

But every night he rubs in balm

And caresses my fingers and palms

Oh, he’s not much to look at

A little crooked, a little short

Within his love I stand

My tired old dishpan hands

My touch sets him afire

He’ll twirl me around the room

We cuddle under the sheets

Hands entwined, sticky sweet

Torch Song

You might flush

For a silly crush

But this flame

It ignites

Promises smoldering nights

Don’t touch

Stay away

Can’t you feel it?

The heat, the blaze

This burning

Soul yearning

Live fire

Under my skin

Nothing quenches

Nothing drenches

Sooty fingerprints

Stain the table

Charcoal marks

These weeping walls

You left me

Walked away

Leaving me this burning

My future a pyre

I’m a conflagration

Hands searing in this wildfire

I can’t take the white-hot yearning

Time to burn it all down