X. Atkins - Richmond Noir

“I said I’ll be ready!”

“You got a song, at least? Know you’ve been strugglin’ to find somethin’ that works.”

Jayden wiped sweat from his forehead. “I’ll have some-thin’ by Thursday.”

Quincy dropped his fork on his plate, the metal clanging obnoxiously against the porcelain, drawing the attention of the other restaurant patrons. He moved to the edge of the seat, folded his arms on the table, and looked straight into Jayden’s eyes. His voice lowered. “What happened to you, Jay? What are you thinkin’? You tryin’ to go cold turkey right before the Hippodrome? The Apollo of the South. Ella Fitzgerald, Duke Ellington, and Billie Holliday all played there. You know how many people get discovered.”

“I gotta,” Jayden said defensively. “If I don’t, Janie’ll leave me.”

“So what? You gonna let some bitch destroy your dreams? Never knew you as a pussy.” The bell on the door rang furiously as a young man entered the diner. He wore a button-up at least two sizes too big; still, he stood confidently. Third Street smog mixed with the smell of bacon, but the harmony ended as the door slammed. Quincy’s eyes sparkled. “Tré! Tré, over here.”

The boy approached them briskly, a saxophone case in hand. His hair was conked, he whistled loudly. He looked no older than fourteen.

“Tré, I’d like you to meet Jayden. With some development, I think Tré’s got a future.” The young man extended his hand. Jayden reluctantly took it. “Jay here’s playin’ at the Hippodrome tomorrow night. He’s gonna sit at the piano and stare at the audience. It’s revolutionary.”

“I’ll have somethin’ composed,” Jayden mumbled.

“How’s it comin’?” Tré asked.

“It’ll come.”

“He’s goin’ cold turkey.”

“Damn!” Tré looked around the restaurant nervously. Satisfied, he reached into his coat and took out a small plastic bag. “Here.”

Jayden examined its contents, then pushed it away. “Naw, man, can’t do it. My girlfriend would have a heart attack.”

“And so will I if you fuck this up!” Quincy growled. “It was real nice of Tré to help you out.” He leaned closer. “You’ll stop shakin’ and you’ll get a song. Win-win, you feel me?”

Jayden paused, staring at the bag on the table. He wrapped his hand around the plastic and placed it in his coat pocket.

“Now you’re thinkin’.” Quincy smiled. “That’s my boy! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Jayden replied. He placed a few dollars on the table. “Thanks for the chance, Q. Nice meeting you, Tré. You’re real generous.”

“Ain’t nothin’,” Quincy replied, finishing off his potatoes. He looked up. “Just don’t mess it up.”

Tré nodded in agreement. Jayden walked away.

He tried to find his song; tried to find that brilliance — that excellence — everyone said he had, but the more he played, the more frustrated he became. He wanted to play more than music — wanted to give the world something deeper than a beautiful arrangement. He wanted to play his life in song. But this tune wouldn’t come, no matter how much he tried. He pressed his fingers hard against the ivory, filling the room with dissonant noise.

Gingerly, hands embraced him from behind. They made their way across his shoulders, then traced his spine.

“You know, when I was a boy, my daddy used to play all night long,” Jayden said. “I’d listen from my bedroom as my Mama cursed and cried, but he’d keep playin’. Like she was just singin’ the words to his songs. After she fell asleep he’d come get me; sit me down on the bench and teach me. Then he’d put me on his lap and play poetry with glazed eyes. I wanted to be him, baby.”

Janie sat beside him, running her fingers down his thighs. “It’ll come. You’re just puttin’ a lot of pressure on yourself, that’s all.”

“I got a reason to be nervous, don’t I? This can make or break me — set us up for life — and I ain’t got any ideas. I can’t stop shakin’ and I’m sweatin’ all the time.” He looked into her eyes, asking for understanding; asking her permission for the easy way out. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him.

“It’s late. Come to bed.”

“I can’t. I ain’t got no melody. No song—”

“Yeah, you do. It’s inside. You just gotta let it go.”

“What if it don’t come in time?”

“Then it just isn’t time. Not the end of the world. There are other gigs, other clubs—”

“Of course there are other gigs and other clubs, but you only get one shot at the Hippodrome.”

Janie moved from the piano bench to the side of the bed and patted the mattress. He hesitated. She frowned. “Look, baby, you’ve been playin’ all day. I don’t think your song is gonna break through tonight.” She grabbed his arm. “Let it go.”

“A little longer, Janie.”

She sighed. “Maybe tea will calm you down. I’ll be back.” She left the room.

Jayden fumbled with the keys a little more before finally giving up. He shifted to Miles Davis’s “My Funny Valentine,” played half the song, then stopped, his muscles tensing. He took the plastic bag out of his pocket and held it, running his fingers down the smooth shaft of the needle. Frantically, he searched for a lighter.

“What you looking for?” Janie asked.

Jayden shoved the bag back in his pocket. “Nothin’.”

“I love it when you play that song.” She handed him a steaming cup.

“Thank you.” He drank quickly. She watched intently from the bed.

“I want you to know that whatever happens tomorrow, I’m proud of you.” She tugged on his arm, gently but with persistence.

Reluctantly, he moved toward her. Without wasting time, she kissed his cheek. She moved her lips down to his neck while unbuttoning his shirt. He ran his hands down her curves. His body shook. He tried to push past it — tried to take control — but there was no use. Janie moved away from him.

“I’m sorry, baby—”

“Don’t be.” She laid her head against the mattress, pulling Jayden to her chest. She wrapped her arms around him, gripping him tighter when the shaking grew more intense. He stayed in her arms all night.

Streetlights illuminated the stone exterior of the Hippodrome. Ivy covered the building; portraits of Jackson Ward adorned its façade. The marquee read: Come See the Stars of Tomorrow . Rain fell like the notes of a sonata, but that didn’t stop people from coming. Smooth lavender music filled the air, blending with the sound of rainwater. On most nights, people only danced on stage. Tonight, however, bodies trickled down the aisles, whiskey perfuming conversation. Women swayed their hips to syncopated music and men smiled because they knew it was all for them. The vast majority dressed casually. Janie and Jayden stood out, she wearing a tight red dress and he dressed in a five-button suit. They grabbed a booth against the back wall.

“This place used to be classy,” Janie said.

“This whole neighborhood used to be classy.” He fiddled with the plastic bag in his coat pocket. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do, baby.”

“Play something old.”

“I need something new.”

“Improvise.”

An announcer in a bright white penguin suit marched to the center of the stage and grabbed the microphone. “Are y’all ready for live music?” he called out.

People clapped and yelled in excitement.

“We’ll start the show in about ten minutes. Until then, enjoy the piccolo, get loose, and relax.”

Janie placed her hand on Jayden’s thigh. “You’re gonna do fine.”

He smiled uneasily. “I gotta run to the bathroom. I’ll be back.” He made his way through the crowd of staggering people. In the haze he saw Tré sitting at the bar. The kid lifted his glass. Jayden nodded in acknowledgment. Once inside the bathroom, he headed straight for the stall. Muted music leaked inside. He took out the bag, mouth watering, hands shaking in anticipation. Thoughts of his father, his dreams, his future overwhelmed him. The music shifted from the jitterbug to classic jazz. “My Funny Valentine.” He pressed his head against the cold metal of the door, fighting. The room spun. Jayden leaned against the toilet, nauseous. He breathed hard into the bowl until the feeling went away. Slowly, he made his way back out of the stall; stared at his blurred image. “I can do this,” he whispered, splashing water on his face. He reentered the club, body shaking once more.