Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

Marcus had been right about Diphtheria. She’d made her mark on the world. She was a beautiful and well-respected commodity at the world-famous Arlington Hall, had gotten her own listing in the Blue Book, had even borne a child by the locally famous musician Buddy Bolden. It was a grand life she’d been permitted to lead.

Malaria’s existence was ordinary and unadventurous by contrast. At her job she served drinks. At home she served the family; fretting over their well-being, their successes, their disappointments, their fears. Making sure there was always enough to eat. Worrying about Typhus and his lovesick ways. Keeping an eye on Diphtheria’s boy when his mama was otherwise disposed; off having fun, making her own way, acquiring the things she desired and doing so without guilt or shame.

Tonight Marcus had brought her a new concern regarding Dropsy and his unwholesome affiliation with Jim Jam Jump. But it was more than a mere item of concern to her now, it was a new twist on an old tune, an idea that instantaneously fermented in her mind a challenge of lifelong principles regarding duty and honor, principles thrust upon her at such a young age by her long dead father and his invisible God.

Tonight she understood the attraction of things unsafe. It was true there was something insidiously not right about Jim, something evil and dark-but she saw also a thing exciting and seductive. Like a hurricane party or a jazz funeral, an embrace of some fast-coming and brilliantly inevitable (if unjust) end, an open invitation to the last and wildest party on earth, a high stakes gamble with neither certainty nor hope.

A new name on an old and forgotten dance card.

Though she’d previously believed herself doomed to always do right in her life, she now discovered a secret part of herself deeply attracted to Marcus Nobody Special’s drunken fantasy of evil and intrigue, to this unnamable adventure he’d painted of the world barreling like a comet towards imminent destruction in the form of a mean little boy.

Faithfully responding to Jim’s signal, Dropsy Morningstar dutifully made dramatic reappearance-huffing and puffing with artfully-artificial dread. In between huffs:

“Sorry little fella. Ain’t a doctor on the whole block, but I sure did look. Best ya climb on my back and let me take ya to the Charity Hospital. Ain’t too far, I reckon.”

Walter, still intent on displaying concern for his new young friend’s welfare (but not so much that he’d sacrifice learning a game as intriguing as this “tat”), worked his own angle in Dropsy’s direction; “Boy, it would seem I owe you an apology for handling you so roughly earlier. Our new little pal has declared you quite the hero.”

“No, sir,” Dropsy offered with exaggerated humility. “Just doin’ what anyone’d done. No more’n that is what. No more a’tall.”

“Well, have a seat and let me buy you a drink just the same. The patient is in good hands, the bleeding done stopped.”

Jim displayed his handkerchiefed leg to Dropsy in confirmation.

“Young man’s ’bout to treat us to a local dice game. You ever hear of a game called tat?”

“Well, who hasn’t, sir? Best game of dice ever was, the tat.”

“That’s what I been hearing.”

Dropsy changed the subject for sake of authenticity: “You sure you okay, little fella?”

“Feelin’ just fine,” Jim answered with a sleepy smile. In fact he was feeling downright warm.

“Ain’t been drinking, have ya?” Dropsy persisted. “Skinny little guy like you might get sick is what.”

Walter answered defensively on Jim’s behalf. “Young Nick’s had a little snort is all. Just to ease the pain. Medicinal purposes only, you understand.”

“Well, all right.” Dropsy yielded to the clearly-better-educated-white-man’s-expertise-in-such-matters, as was proper.

“How ’bout that game, now?” The Man Who Loved Mavis sounded eager to lose his shirt.

“Well, then…” Jim slurred, clutching the three dollars. “I’m thinking this might be my lucky night. Got my life saved by this kind niggra, met you nice fellas, now I got me three whole dollars and might turn it into more.”

“That’s right, son,” Walter affirmed. “Luck has smiled on you today. Unless you count getting bit by that dog.”

“Yes, indeed,” agreed The Man Who Loved Mavis.

“Nuff talk, now,” continued Walter. “How about them rules, young Nick?”

“This is the game,” said Jim. “We put this little sugar dice in a hat.” Skinny offered his brown bowler in response. “Each player takes a turn shaking it three times, then the first man up gives it a roll. Then everyone gives it another good shake before the second man gives it a roll-and so forth and so on. After everyone’s had three turns at rollin’, ya just add up the number of dots each player got-and the one with the most wins the buttons or straws…I mean, the dollar bills.”

“Nice little kiddy game is what we got, then,” said Fat Tommy.

“Kiddies and simple niggers, I guess,” said the Man Who Had Not Yet Spoken, whose most remarkable trait was his very unremarkableness.

Dropsy, with slight indignation: “That ain’t the way I’m used to playing no tat. Skipped over the most important rule is what.”

“What might that be, Hero?” spat The Least Remarkable Man. Dropsy noted the man spoke with the venom of a dyed-in-the-wool nigger-hater.

Without looking Least Remarkable in the eye, Dropsy replied, “Winner buys a round of drinks for the table.”

“Oh, I like that rule,” said Fat Tommy.

“My Daddy never told me ’bout that rule,” Jim offered suspiciously.

More laughter. Walter put a hand on Jim’s shoulder, “Well, Nick, your Daddy was a fine man indeed, then. A fine man fer sher, I’d say!” Walter gave Jim’s shoulder a fresh squeeze. “Well, whaddaya say, little fella? Yer friend’s rule does make this little game of tat a bit more interesting.”

“Gee, Mr. Walter, I dunno. Already had two shots and I’m just a youngster.”

“Well, you ain’t no little kid tonight, Nick. No kid I ever seen could knock back shots of rye like you just done.”

“Anymore and I might be sick, Mr. Walter.” Calculated reluctance.

“Best not get sick now. No, sir,” agreed Dropsy, attracting disapproving glances all around-but most severely from The Least Remarkable Man.

“Nigger might have a point,” Jim offered-his word choice specifically designed to earn the confidence of The Least Remarkable Man.

“Nonsense, son,” said Walter. “Can’t hurt to have a little more medicine now, could it? For the pain is all.”

Jim hesitated-staring at his shoes and sniffing at his soul for the precise length of pause. Then:

“No sir. Reckon not, I guess.”

The tat was progressing better than expected. Jim’s timing and execution had been perfect, and Dropsy had not missed a beat.

Walter got down to business straight away. “I nominate our nigger hero friend to pass the dice and hold the hat, being he has no conflict of interest here. Any objections?”

Jim just smiled. This wasn’t going to be much fun if Walter did all the work for him. Took the sport out of it.

On the first round, each player (including Jim) examined the dice carefully before throwing. Six one dollar bills were won by an ecstatic Fat Tommy, who piled up four in front of him and ordered another round for the table with the remaining two.

Second round went to The Least Remarkable Man, resulting in the first non-malicious smile to appear on his face that evening. Dropsy sighed inaudibly and Jim made mental note of the fact that no one thought to double-check the dice on this second round. Shot glasses emptied and the room wobbled accordingly for the marks, Jim keeping his mind clear through sheer force of will. There would be time for room-wobbling later-maybe even a good puke. Now was the time to concentrate.