We sat at the bar instead of at one of the small tables around the stage. I ordered a Blatz because it felt right. The beer, poured from a dusty brown bottle, tasted like it could have been in a case for twenty years tucked away somewhere in the lounge’s basement, away from prying eyes.
Mary ordered a dry martini. She was dressed for it. She wore a black dress, her wavy chocolate hair thrown in contrast over her pale shoulders. I was dressed appropriately for my expired Blatz - dirty jeans and a brown hooded sweatshirt. We didn’t look like we arrived together, which we hadn’t, but she kissed me when I sat next to her so I guess those who saw figured we were together - even if she looked like she just came from a ball, and I from a grocery store stock room.
When I walked in the bouncer at the door was dressed in black leather and rattled with chains and had scowled at my identification. I had wondered at his bushy gray handlebar mustache in the past, but that night my eyes went immediately to the small tv above a corner of the bar. The election results were still rolling in and a map of the
The place was empty aside from Mary and I, two old men sitting directly under the tv and a few quiet, dark faces scattered around the room. The band members of the organ trio scheduled to play that night were sitting next to the stage smoking cigarettes, talking.
It was a Tuesday. It was November. It was raining outside.
Most everyone in the city was at home peeling of voting stickers and waiting.
The lounge was strange that night. Usually it was hard to find a table or even a place to stand. Empty, everything looked worn out and sad. The lack of smoke somehow stripped the room of its charm, and the absence of body heat made it colder than it should have been. Mary looked out of place when usually I would have been the one that clashed with hipster dresses and black jeans.
Jimmy Smith was somewhere in there - noodling inside the old juke box at the end of the bar. The sound on the tv was turned down, which was just as good since no one at the bar had any desire to listen to the red and blue commentary.
Jazz clubs rarely feel as hopeless as they did that night.
I lit a cigarette for the both of us and we watched the small tv in silence for a while. Mary barely touched her drink and put her hand on my leg.
“How was it,” I finally asked. Mary handed me the cigarette back.
“Boring, I snuck out after they announced she had taken
“Boring,” I laughed, “an election gala boring?”
“For those that wanted to be there it was quite exciting, I suppose.” She sipped her martini and eyed me over the rim. The marks her lipstick left on the glass annoyed me.
The juke box abruptly cut off and we turned towards the stage where the band had finally started to unload their gear. A man in a dull white shirt and wrinkled black slacks yelled to the bar, “Ten minutes Andy, put Jimmy back on.” The bartender, he must have been new, I didn’t recognize him, smiled apologetically and the scratchy juke box faded back in.
Mary stared after the man in the sad clothes as he sat behind his organ and lit another cigarette. “It’s amazing,” Mary said looking away from me, “how bland the man can look before he starts playing.” She turned back to me, then back to the stage. “Remember the first night you brought me here?”
“I do”
“I shouldn’t have been mean to you, Patrick.”
“What do you mean?” She turned back to me again and searched my face. I took a long drag of a fresh cigarette and avoided her eyes.
We were lucky the night Mary was referring to. A table opened up right in front of the stage and we were able to beat another couple to it, laughing about it as we sat down and trying not to look at the angry pair. The same trio was on stage. The same man with the unassuming clothes and the small bird like head and brown moppy hair was behind the organ. Of course he was playing then, in the middle of a solo, so he didn't look the same. He looked like he was in control of the cold, late winter wind blowing outside, and that if he wished he could warm it up and turn it into a spring breeze. He might have, but I wasn’t interested in the weather that night.
I realized how much difference an organ and facial expressions can change a man’s appearance that night.
Mary thought it fun to start teasing me. He looked good behind his instrument, she whispered in my ear. But it was playful. I just smiled and told her to listen for the changes as they started up again. She was going to eye him the whole song and try and get him to slip up. I just smiled, trying to ignore her fun.
He didn’t slip up when he noticed her. He played to her instead, like she was the only woman sitting in the smoky room. He wouldn’t take his eyes off of her. And she strung him along - and me. She lost herself. By the end of the night she wasn’t teasing me anymore, she was teasing the man behind the organ in the red cape. I never let on that i noticed.
“Well,” she said at the bar as she looked up at the election unfolding, “I’m sorry even if you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
I didn’t say anything. I tried another sip but gave up on it half way through. I caught the bartender’s attention “Andy, right? You can toss this. Bring me a Guinness when you get a chance.” He emptied the Blatz and started the slow draw.
One of the old men under the tv slapped the bar, stood up and threw his hands triumphantly into the air. I looked from the Guinness up to the tv and Mary squeezed my leg. CNN was calling the election for Madame Larentia.
“Hope,” Mary said next to me in almost a whisper. I turned to her and looked into her brown eyes and she smiled. She looked happy. I hadn’t seen a genuine smile on her face for a long time.
“Hope,” I raised my pint.
The organ trio started to play. Mary looked over her shoulder at the stage for a moment and then turned back to me. The cape was thrown over the bench, around the organ man’s shoulders. But she said, “let’s go home.”
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