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Gig Life




A cigarette dangled ever so weakly from his chapped lips. His eyes were closed and his hands gripped a cold bottle of Stella, his only companion for the night. Everyone else had gone home. The bar was dusty and dark. Clouds of smoke gathered in mid air and hovered like vicious ghosts above the ground. Most of the chairs had been placed upside down on the dirty tables, the barkeep was cleaning glasses with his greasy towel and the waitress was handling a broom ever so clumsily to collect broken pieces of glass that had assembled throughout the evening. It was now four o’clock in the morning and heavy rain was falling outside. There were no stars in the heavens tonight.

“You gonnah head home soon, pahl?” the barkeep asked hi remaining customer. “The bah’s closed you know.”

“I am aware.” The cigarette man said. “I will leave now.”

He crushed his limp cigarette and poured the remaining drink down his throat. His gulps were big and loud. Each gulp sounded like the cry of a drunken seagull that lost its wing.

“We’ll see ya tomorrah?” inquired the barkeep politely.
“Maybe.”

The cigarette took his horn and jacket and fled out the door into the pouring rain. There he stood, lonely and wet, without a thought in his mind. He looked this way and that and notived the odd absence of souls on the streets of New York that night. Not even a tree stirred and he heard only the endless drops of rain on the ground, his jacket and the case of his horn.
A shrug of fear and cold awoke him and started his agitated walk towards his home.

Home was a ragged room with a tiny bathroom. The carpet was a worn-out beige colour that displayed tiny specks of red wine and soy sauce. The sofa was worn and shabby, as was the only table in the room which was buried in manuscript paper and jazz charts. He looked towards the bed and saw a heaving blanket, breathing solemnly and peacefully. He sighed.
He went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of whiskey. Dirty dishes crowded the sink while the rest of the kitchen seemed spotless and clean. Surprised, he went back into the main room and sat down on the sofa with a heavy drop. He looked at the ceiling and took in the smells of the room. The distant fragrance of a perfume hung like a sweet mist in the air. He closed his eyes and sniffed deeply before letting out a deep throated cough. The heaving blanket rose and kissed him on the cheek.

“Darling, I am so glad that you are home. My friend came over and brought some dinner. I could not clean the dishes. There are some leftovers.”

She took the glass out of his hand, finished the drink and shook. Then she kissed him again and returned to her blanket space.

He sighed again. A bad gig ruins the frame of mind for a few hours. A horrible gig might ruin the entire painting. But a terrible gig shatters the soul.

Tonight, he had had a terrible gig.

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