Blues for Monk

“Monk was my man.”

            It was late. We were in the tiny little studio apartment I’d rented as a camp-out spot, till a decent situation presented itself.

            “How does it come to pass that artists of that stature spend their lives scuffling like rats in the alleys?”

            “That is sin, my friend; that is the definition of sin.”

            “Who are the sinners?”

            “Always comes back to the people with the money.”

            “But having money’s not a sin.”

            “What you do with it might be.”

            “Have enough of it and you can do whatever you want and still come out smelling good.”

            “Are we just jealous?”

            “Shouldn’t we be? Haven’t we worked hard?”

            “You’ve got a point there.”

            “No one should be allowed to have too much money.”

            “How much is too much?”

            “Too much is more than you need.”

            “Good luck with that one.”

            “There should be a cut-off point. This much - and no more. Why should anyone be allowed to accumulate so much? Can you think of a single person who does something that’s that valuable?”

            “How valuable is that?”

            “You know what I’m talking about.”

            We sat in silence for a while pondering the injustice of life - a recurrent theme with a shifting pedal point.

            “Let’s listen to ‘Round Midnight’ one more time.”

            “I could do that.”

            Then we sat back and witnessed pure beauty.

            It almost made things better.

           

No Title

Walking down the street I saw a sign that said ‘Live Jazz’. It was like an oasis after crossing dune after dune of desert. I went on in.

            There were three tables that housed people and two waiters stood by the bar.

            I walked up to the bartender.

            “I’ll have a Red Tail Ale and a shot of Jack Daniel’s. Where’s the band?”

            “They left. They’re not here anymore.”

            He walked off to get my drinks.

            Over at the three tables the people laughed, caught in their bubble. The rest of the room was dark.

            “Eighteen bucks.” said the bartender as he clunked my drinks onto the bar.

            “Phew…” I wasn’t used to prices like that. I looked out the window into the night. “Does Billie work here anymore?”

            “No, she’s gone.”

            “Monk?”

            “Gone.”

            “Miles?”

            “Gone.”

            “Look, last time I was in here all these people were here…Duke, Rahsaan, Wayne, Tony, Sonny, Bird, Art…what’s up?”

            “Gone.”

            He shrugged his shoulders and padded off along the planks.

            I was quick to down the Jack and chug my beer. I slammed the glasses down onto the oak and rose to leave, knocking over the stool. At least there’d be one other casualty from this tragedy.

            Outside on the street I took a deep breath of the winter air. Lights were being doused behind me, one by one.

            I looked off down the street in the direction I needed to go and it was even darker down there.