Red Hot Blues (9 page)

And it goes like this:

Red. Hot. Bluuuuuuues.

Quick. Shot. Boooooooze.

Big. Spot. Newwwwwws.

Red. Hot. Bluuuuuuuues.

I met my baby on a Saturday night.

I said no honey don’t you put up a
fight.

I tried to teach him that his way is
wrong.

I tried to tell him that he’s killin my
song.

But he...wouldn’t listen, he wouldn’t say
no.

I tried to kiss him. He said he must go.

I stood my ground, looked
him...in-the-eye!

I said, “No honey, you kiss me now or I’m
waving goodbye!”

(Drums. Jam. Guitar.)

He said, “Oh honey baby, you’re killin my
groove.”

I said, “Uh-uh, big boy, you think you’re
too smooth!”

He said, “Please darlin...just one more
dance.”

He looked me over, tried to touch me—I
said, “Baby, watch what you doin wit doze
filthy
hands!
”

(Crowd clapping along.)

Red. Hot. Bluuuuuuues.

(You can’t afford this!)

Quick. Shot. Boooooooze.

(You can’t touch this!)

Big. Spot. Newwwwwws.

(Yeah, those filthy hands brother!)

Red. Hot. Bluuuuuuuues.

(Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh—Hot!)

He looked forlorn. Damn right he should.

Because a...woman scorned, just ain’t NO
good!

He begged forgiveness, got down on his
knees.

I said, “Honey, you better start beggin, ‘Oh
lawd god help me PLEASE!’”

(Male vocals join in.)

Red. Hot. Bluuuuuuues.

(Please, baby! You better beg!)

Quick. Shot. Boooooooze.

(I don’t want yo booze, yo blues, yo ugly
news!)

Big. Spot. Newwwwwws.

(Oh you think you big?)

Red. Hot. Bluuuuuuuues.

(Crowd cheering. Going nuts.)

I’ll tell you how this story ends: boy got
down on his knees.

He begged with all his heart, said he wanted
me to be his main squeeze.

I said, “Honey-bunny, you ain’t learned the
first damn lesson about wooing a woman, now have you?”

“
And what is that lesson baby? Tell
me!”

(Pause. Pause. Pause.)

“
Yo sorry ass ain’t good enough to be down
to my knees!”

(The crowd erupts, laughing, cheering,
clapping.)

(Male vocals join in.)

Red. Hot. Bluuuuuuues.

(Damn straight, brother, get down and kiss
those feet!)

Quick. Shot. Boooooooze.

(You had enough booze. Now you need to
schmooze!)

Big. Spot. Newwwwwws.

(You old news. I want me a man with a
Cadillac, some style, a three-piece. You old news!)

Red. Hot. Bluuuuuuuues.

Red. Hot. Bluuuuuuuues.

Red. Hot. Bluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuues.

(Crash. Bam. Slam! Final solo. And it’s
over.)

The place implodes. People start yelling for
an encore. I’ve got more material, but it’s rare that you ever hit
that sweet-spot again after a good song, unless you’ve planned for
it.

Ace and I hit that sweet spot last Tuesday,
in the third song.

He’s on his feet, cheering, clapping.
Clapping wildly, forcefully, his guitar dangling behind him. His
chest looks so strong. His arms so powerful, like he’s worked in a
field or lifting things all his life.

Is there a swelling under his eye?

I let myself imagine that he’s mine, that
he’s my boyfriend. A light imagination. I know it’s not real. But
sometimes all a girl has is her dreams. And her dreams keep her
warm at night.

He hollers, shouts, cheers. So does everyone
else. A few other people stand. Not all of them. But enough of
them. It doesn’t go to my head. I love the blues. And I can write
the blues. It’s one of the few things—that and my voice—that I’m
completely confident about. And that I don’t need to be modest
about.

Ace is shaking his head, that shake that
musicians do which looks like “No” but actually means, “Damn,
yes
!”

I curtsy, as a joke. People like it. They
shout some more.

The sexiest thing about me is my voice. I
love my voice. And I love music. And if it weren’t for these
moments in my life, I think I would have never made it this
far.

Layna’s in the back, behind the bar,
cheering. When I look over at her, she points at Ace, then at the
stage, then at Ace again.
Get him up there with you!

I don’t think. I act. I ask the lead
guitarist if it would be OK. He starts putting his guitar down but
I tell him, no, I’d like
both
of them up here. It’s just the
right thing to do. He says no. I insist. And he stays.

I ask Max if it’d be OK if Ace got up here,
two leads, one vocalist.

Max says it’s cool. He doesn’t smile or
anything, because he’s always a little stressed out on Open Jam
night. It’s hard to match people up and keep it all rolling on
schedule.

I call up to Ace with my hand. He looks over
at Max as if for approval, but Max is too busy looking down at the
notepad, organizing the acts that are still coming up.

Ace gets up, and the roars of the crowd get
even louder. Some of the folks here were also here last week. They
remember us.

Ace is so tall next to me.
So
tall!
And hard, and solid.

I suddenly realize how out of my league I am.
But it doesn’t bother me right now. Right now, nothing bothers me.
Right now, I’m in the moment.

We hit it.

And. We. Rock. The. House.

They ask for an encore.

And another.

When we finally walk off stage, people are
clapping and flinging crumpled-up dollar bills our way (again!)

Max tries to get us all off stage as quickly
as possible. He looks even more stressed out. We’ve delayed the
evening’s schedule.

Ace and I sit down, next to each other, not
even thinking about it.

He puts his hand on my leg—

For a moment everything stops. I have that
very female reaction again, a sting, a burn, a warmth. And there’s
nothing. A sense that I can’t breathe. No sound. Just my breath.
And heat
.

—and then the sound returns to the room and I
see him smiling. People pat his shoulders. A girl screams out,
“Ace, you’re so sexy!” (
Bitch.
) He laughs.

And then I see the cut, and the bruise, just
under his left eye. I’d been right. I didn’t see it on stage
because I was on the other side of him. It looks fresh, like he got
it tonight, or last night...

I get worried.

I see him grimace a little, and the smile
fades eventually.

I say nothing, but we stay sitting together
there for at least the next set. I offer him a drink but he ends up
paying for it himself, and for mine. He buys me another one.

As a joke I say, “You trying to get me
drunk?”

He laughs, and sings, “
Quick. Shot.
Boooooooze.
”

That just makes me laugh so much my stomach
eventually hurts.

I accept the drink; we toast. He keeps it
light, keeps laughing, but every now and then I see the light
grimace of pain. I suddenly want to rub away that pain. I want to
put my hand over it and spread salve on it. I want to hold it close
to my bosom and make it all go away.

I know the feeling of pain. And I know the
need to have someone wash it away.

I watch the rest of the set, but suddenly I
feel like Ace and I have shared a moment. One where nothing is said
but everything is said.

Like last week.

I know, right now, that I’m starting to like
him. I know. I know. It’s dumb. I hardly know him. And maybe it’s
because he’s the only dude who’s ever approached me at this bar
that doesn’t seem to want to get into my pants and who seems
genuinely interested in just hanging out with me. That makes me
comfortable around him.

But it doesn’t change the facts.

There are perceptions that go beyond the
eyes, the ears, the nose, touch, taste. There are moments when
things are understood, appreciated, grasped. Without words.

This is one of those moments.

And I want to know what’s hurting him.

It’s an all-engulfing thought right now.

It’s
all
I want to know.

At the end of the set, he grabs my elbow and
starts getting up. He says, “Come outside with me.”

His eyes quiver. They shake. There’s an
intensity in the way he asks (commands?) me to do it and I find
myself complying immediately.

But there’s no fear on my side. Only a
burning to find out what’s behind those eyes tonight. Last week as
well. I
knew
there’d been something there! This week it’s
more pronounced. Black, hurting eyes. A dark, stormy look.

And the cut...

His tee is shorter this time. His arms bulge
snugly under it. And I can make out a little more of the tat. It
seems like the bottom of a shield. And the tip of a sword? A
dress?

When we get outside, three other people are
standing there. Smoking. Ace pulls me over to where he’d stood just
a week ago, wearing a cowboy hat, under the wrought-iron balcony of
the New Orleans style apartment.

He stops, looks down at me with quivering
eyes. I can see the swell under his left eye clearly now. Someone
hit him there. Recently. Probably even today.

He pulls a smoke out. Says nothing.

The temperature has dropped about ten
degrees. And a wind has picked up. It’s pleasant now, not nearly as
hot. But when this happens it means it’s gonna storm. And when it
storms in Tennessee, it
storms
.

He tries to light his cigarette, but fails
twice. His hands are shaking. Eventually he gets it on. “Smoke?” he
asks me again, just like last week, and holds it out to me.

“I told you I don’t smoke, remember?”

He looks embarrassed for a second. “Shit,
sorry. My head is elsewhere.” He looks beyond me, behind me, at
nothing. Which is not too difficult seeing as his chin reaches the
top of my head! “Don’t smoke...
anymore
...if I recall
correctly.”

I smile. Nice detail for him to remember.
“Yeah,” I say softly.

The other people outside have left. My eyes
are glued to the glowing part of his skin, under his eye, and the
cut underneath that.

He catches me staring at it, looks away,
shuffles his feet.

He’s shivering. But it’s not cold enough to
shiver.

“What happened to you?” I raise my fingers
and just lightly touch the swell.

He flinches away, grimaces.

“Sorry,” I say. “Does it hurt?”

“It does when you touch it.”

He turns so that the side of his body is
facing me, the side
without
the swelling.

“Sorry, my hand just went there. Like it had
a mind of its own for a second.”

Silence, then he looks at me. “No, it’s cool.
It’s cool for you to touch it.”

“What happened?”

He says nothing, but lightning-pain shoots
through his eyes. Deep pain. Sorrowful pain. The type of pain a
person could weep about.

He clenches his teeth.

“That’s OK, you don’t have to talk about it,”
I say.

He nods tightly, and I can see him fighting
for stability, for strength, clenching his jaw, looking at the
ground. Staring at the burning cigarette in his fingers.

He chucks it away, half-smoked, says nothing
more.

I suddenly feel unwelcomed. He kept his
promise to me, but I think he wants me to go. He’s saying nothing.
Not looking at me. Not talking to me.

Just like Brett did on that day
after
.

I have too much pride to go through that shit
again.

I take a step away.

But my foot doesn’t even land on the ground
before I feel his hand gripping my elbow. For dear life. Gripping
it like there’s nothing left to hold on to.

When I turn to face him, his eyes shatter.
Tears sneak out of them, even though he fights them. He fights them
with all he has. His jaw works, pulls, moves. And tears pour. His
chest starts to shudder. He gasps once.

I grab him, pull him to the side, away from
Printers Alley, around the corner, near the parking lot. He doesn’t
need to attract attention to himself. This is deep. This is
personal. Other people don’t need to see it.

When we get around the corner, he yanks me
toward him, and he holds me. Like I’m the last thing left to hold
on to in the world.

And he breaks apart.

I’m not quite sure how to act, what to say.
So I don’t say anything. I hold him, and feel his body convulse and
break while he holds back the torrential rain which is his uncried
tears.

I want to let him know it’s OK to let it out,
because I can tell he’s fighting them, but I say nothing. I just
let him hold on to me.

I want to tell him he’s fine, that the pain
will go away, but I don’t know that it will. Some pain lasts
forever.

I want to bury my lips on his chest, be
engulfed in the musk of his body, and kiss the ache better. But
I’ll never do that. Because that’s not my place.

How much time goes by? It doesn’t matter. But
eventually he settles. He lets me go, straightens, rubs his red
eyes. And then laughs.

A good cry can do that to a person.

Trust me, I would know.

The swelling under his left eye is bigger,
getting bluer. The cut is redder. But his face is cleaner, more
relieved. That’s the problem with dudes, they don’t cry often
enough. It helps.

“What’s so funny?” I ask him.

He’s smiling, wiping his tears away. “The
fact that I just cried my ass off in front of a girl I don’t even
know?”

I tilt my head. “Yeah, that is pretty
funny.”