Chapter Seventeen
She's got our night played out in her head like a playlist.
She's done up in some charity-shop rag-doll throw-together and I swear that skirt has been made from a cut off from some curtain in some lifestyle magazine somewhere. Of course, she had to do me up. I'm in some hideious chocolate brown shit-stain shirt that I assume a male guest at the B n B left there. Maybe out of sheer distaste. I got to keep my black slacks and shoes but she insisted on a tweed tie. She's got a slick black suit jacket that transforms half way down into two little coat tails. Underneath this is a frilly purple-grape silky shirt complete with a paisley-cravate that matches her paisley-patch skirt which uses more acidic colours than your traditional octogenarian's paisley pattern. I suspect even a 60s Camden would reject us as a little too much.
She has taken me to this Jazz-Bar-Cafe thing. There are cobwebs in the top corners of the walls and low level lighting so everyone looks like a character from a bad 50s detective film. Shadowy and filled with mystique. At the other end of the lounge is a jazz band. Three men in bad suits, one on drums, one double-bass and one sax. There's a piano, but no pianist. We are at a small table facing the bar, which is occupied by some weathered old beatnik who looks like he's had one-too-many all the time. He's got the mandatory beatnik beard - sharply cut and stinking of pretentiousness. How can you have a pretentious beard? I don't know - that just seems to be the term most people use to discredit someone when they can't think of an actual reason. We were in our normal odd silence that she relishes when she turned to me and started the conversation.
"So - what's your deal?"
"Well - I got thrown out of my house by my wife, and whereas most men would try and win her back and regain their life, I've decided to go into a bit of a tailspin."
"Why did she kick you to the curb?"
"I don't know. I just went to a bar and tried to assess my life. Y'know - think outside the box. All that existential crap. Then You happened, and I find myself here"
"Do you regret leaving your life to follow me around?"
"Well - First of all, Wasn't it you who followed me around?"
"Isn't this music terrible?"
"It's not too bad... kind of, well, the blues I guess."
"Blues? If I ran over a tortoise and I recorded whatever noise a tortoise makes when being run over, be it a yelp and a squeal or a crunch and a smoosh, and then played that noise backwards again and again with an out of tune sax played over the top, I reckon it would have more life in it than this"
"You're not a fan then"
She gets up out of her seat, goes over to the bar and whispers on the barman's ear. He goes off and pours two shots of what looks like scotch, and as she walks back here with them, the barman goes over to the band and whispers something in the bass player's ear. She sits back down.
"This is more like it" and as she knocks back her shot, the band start playing Take Five, my favourite jazz song ever. I smile, she knows why, and I pick up my glass.
"Here's to jazz"
I knock back the shot, my head hits the table, and I pass out.
She's done up in some charity-shop rag-doll throw-together and I swear that skirt has been made from a cut off from some curtain in some lifestyle magazine somewhere. Of course, she had to do me up. I'm in some hideious chocolate brown shit-stain shirt that I assume a male guest at the B n B left there. Maybe out of sheer distaste. I got to keep my black slacks and shoes but she insisted on a tweed tie. She's got a slick black suit jacket that transforms half way down into two little coat tails. Underneath this is a frilly purple-grape silky shirt complete with a paisley-cravate that matches her paisley-patch skirt which uses more acidic colours than your traditional octogenarian's paisley pattern. I suspect even a 60s Camden would reject us as a little too much.
She has taken me to this Jazz-Bar-Cafe thing. There are cobwebs in the top corners of the walls and low level lighting so everyone looks like a character from a bad 50s detective film. Shadowy and filled with mystique. At the other end of the lounge is a jazz band. Three men in bad suits, one on drums, one double-bass and one sax. There's a piano, but no pianist. We are at a small table facing the bar, which is occupied by some weathered old beatnik who looks like he's had one-too-many all the time. He's got the mandatory beatnik beard - sharply cut and stinking of pretentiousness. How can you have a pretentious beard? I don't know - that just seems to be the term most people use to discredit someone when they can't think of an actual reason. We were in our normal odd silence that she relishes when she turned to me and started the conversation.
"So - what's your deal?"
"Well - I got thrown out of my house by my wife, and whereas most men would try and win her back and regain their life, I've decided to go into a bit of a tailspin."
"Why did she kick you to the curb?"
"I don't know. I just went to a bar and tried to assess my life. Y'know - think outside the box. All that existential crap. Then You happened, and I find myself here"
"Do you regret leaving your life to follow me around?"
"Well - First of all, Wasn't it you who followed me around?"
"Isn't this music terrible?"
"It's not too bad... kind of, well, the blues I guess."
"Blues? If I ran over a tortoise and I recorded whatever noise a tortoise makes when being run over, be it a yelp and a squeal or a crunch and a smoosh, and then played that noise backwards again and again with an out of tune sax played over the top, I reckon it would have more life in it than this"
"You're not a fan then"
She gets up out of her seat, goes over to the bar and whispers on the barman's ear. He goes off and pours two shots of what looks like scotch, and as she walks back here with them, the barman goes over to the band and whispers something in the bass player's ear. She sits back down.
"This is more like it" and as she knocks back her shot, the band start playing Take Five, my favourite jazz song ever. I smile, she knows why, and I pick up my glass.
"Here's to jazz"
I knock back the shot, my head hits the table, and I pass out.
posted by TokenArtStudent at 6:07 PM
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