The Jive At Clive’s [FICTOID]

Moms sat at the end of Clive’s bar, bathed in blue light, awash in whiskey sours.

Wisps of cigarette smoke swirled about her as if dancing to the low / slow / languid jazz from the quintet.

For them, it was a tight gig, barely enough for subway fare but hey, a gig’s a gig and Clive’s -- while not famous -- was at least recognizable.

Moms waited for their set to finish.  She wore an expression more sour than her whiskey and she led the rest of the bar by at least three drinks.

Jerrod stepped up beside an elderly barfly, hunched over and snoring softly.  He ordered a bourbon with beer chaser, effectively paying Clive for the privilege of playing in his establishment.

Most bar owners would spot their musicians a beer between sets but cheapskate Clive made his talent pay.

Jerrod watched stoically as Clive poured the shot.  Clive looked up as the bourbon came within a quarter inch of the top, saw Jerrod’s expression, and filled the shot glass to the brim, an act of unparalleled generosity on Clive’s part.

Clive didn’t mind and Jerrod accepted his net loss for the night.

“Hey,” Moms said, speaking for the first time that night after her initial order.

Clive glanced at her, saw she wasn’t talking at him, turned his back and moved away, bar rag draped over his shoulder.

“Hey!” Moms said, finally getting Jerrod’s attention.

Jerrod first took a sip of his bourbon, pulling his lips back from his teeth as the buttery fire slid down his throat.  “You want something?” he asked, eyes focused on his drink.

“What you playing in a place like this for?” Moms asked.

Been wondering the same thing myself, Jerrod thought, but said, “Gotta play somewhere.  Better than nothing.”

“You should be playing high class clubs,” Moms said. 

Jerrod said nothing, took another sip.  The bourbon tasted fine and he liked to stretch the experience out.

“You hear me?” Moms said.  “High class.”

“I heard you,” Jerrod said, not looking her way.

“You don’t believe me?”

“Believing’s got nothing to do with it,” Jerrod said.  “All the believing in the world ain’t gonna make it happen.”

Moms laughed.  It sounded unpleasant, devoid of mirth.  “You gotta believe,” Moms said.  “I believe I’ll have another drink.”

She drained her whiskey sour and held up the glass, swirling it around to get Clive’s attention.

Clive took his own sweet time acknowledging her but finally trudged down to her end of the bar.  “You want something?”

We all want something, Jerrod thought but stayed silent.

“I want another drink,” Moms said with the faux daintiness of a debutante at her first ball.

“Pay your tab first,” Clive said.

Moms’ sour expression returned but she hauled up her purse, snapped it open, rummaged around inside, found a couple of well-worn bills, and slapped them on the counter.

Clive shrugged, took the cash and the empty glass, and went to make her drink.

“See?” Moms said to Jerrod.  “You gotta ask if you want anything in this world.”

Jerrod finished his bourbon and picked up his beer, hesitating a moment before sipping it.  “What makes you think I ain’t been asking -- ain’t been begging -- for a chance, any chance?”

Moms gestured expansively around her.  “You’re here, ain’t you?”

So are you, Jerrod thought, but sipped his beer instead of speaking.

Clive brought Moms her whiskey sour.  “That’s your last one tonight.”

Moms looked offended.  “I ain’t caused no ruckus!”

“Right.  And you ain’t gonna cause no ruckus ‘cause I’m cutting you off right now.”

She glared at him.  “No tip for you tonight.”

“You never tip,” Clive said, turning away and retreating to the far end of the bar.

“So let me ask you a question,” Jerrod said as Clive moved out of earshot.  “What are you doing here?”

Moms grinned tipsily.  “Jes’ looking for a good time.”

“Un-hunh.  Find one?”

Moms cupped her hands around her fresh drink.  It took a while before she said, “…no…”

“Think you will?”

An even longer while.  “No.”  Moms threw her drink back with a single gulp.

“Then why come here?”

Moms grinned crookedly.  “Like you, young fella.  Better than nowhere.”

She studied Jerrod carefully as he drank his beer.  Clive made up for his loss on the bourbon by giving him a glass of the cheap, watered swill.

“Maybe there’s somewhere better you can be,” Moms said.

Jerrod set the glass down on the bar just loudly enough to make a point, not attract attention.  “Maybe.”

“Maybe someplace we could both go,” Moms said.

“I’m married,” Jerrod lied.  “Got three kids.”

Moms scowled and slid unsteadily off her bar stool.  Clive detected her movement with his bartender’s radar, saying, “Hey…”

“I ain’t forgetting to pay you,” Moms said, poking through her purse again.  Just one bill this time and a handful of change.  She slammed it on the bar loud enough to wake the elderly patron then half-staggered, half-waddled out the door.

“Wha happen?” the old barfly asked.

“Moms’ going home,” said Clive.

Jerrod adjusted his tie and turned around.  “Where you going?” the barfly asked.

“I’m going home, too,” said Jerrod, stepping back up on the stage.

© Buzz Dixon