From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
February is Black History Month
One-Easy Boogle
… he, all six feet two, one hundred and ninety-five lanky pounds, brown- skinned brother of him dressed in his Saturday night finery nothing flashy but a couple of guys, a couple of guys not skimpy in the fashion plater set-up looked the look that they thought he made the cool grade, better some brown sugar gave sets of big eyes his way (truth finery stuff bought at Wal-Mart’s or cadged from older brother not using the material since said brother had long ago given up Saturday night roaming, Saturday night hungers), had spied her, all that brown sugar of her not giving a set of big eye glances his way across the room the minute he came in the door. Came into Brother Earl’s High Hat Lounge ready for some low-key jazz and maybe some jam too, came into his what did the white folks call it, yeah, his watering hole (funny white-bread name for bars but those white folks were always coming with up weird words, had been coming up with weird crap ever since they hung “nigger” and “high yella” on his people). So he gave her his full eyes up and down, and then down and up, practically unclothing her slinky frilly white dress low cut the way he liked them in order to see what baubles a gal had. While he was too much of a gentleman to lick his chops, he also knew if she had seen him in such a foolish schoolboy on a lark pose he would be sleeping alone that night. Or more likely given his luck lately with some cheap pick-up floozy like Sarah Lou or Betty Buck ready to roll over for a guy, a guy like him in his finery (they too not able to tell the difference or maybe he mused they were looking at other stuff, looking down his well-creased pants), with some dough, some good liquor and reefer, and a line of patter to get her out of her panties (not hard when it came to floozy time, midnight hour time, he knew, knew only too well not being able to shake either of those two whores when they got their walking daddy habits on). She not so much beautiful as fetching, all high yella like Mr. Whitey said, knowing she had plenty of blood coursing through her veins from some long ago indignity ravaged on his great-grandmother, maybe before. Yeah, fetching in the long haul which was usually preferable unlike Sarah Lou who after he had had his way with her and he woke up the next morning her beside him would scamper out of bed and out the door before she opened her blood-shot eyes. Yes, one look at her, one look at that light brown sugar, one once-over (really twice over) told him that, told him too that he needed to be cool, cool enough to stay a little aloof while she was up at the stand in front of that band singing, singing some faggy Cole Porter tune that Billie made pop, sounded like Night and Day as he came in, some god-struck angel face now that he had stopped looking up and down and started to figure out what he needed to do when intermission time came.
He knew for instance, that she would require scotch, high-shelf scotch, to soothe those tender vocal cords like some magic elixir. He liked to speculate on the brand; here it seemed to require Haig &Haig Royal Bonded to aid his cause. (He was right when he asked the waitress what the torch singer was drinking when he sent a drink over to her table at intermission, and plenty of it too, judging by the way she drank the drink in front of her and later that one he had sent up to the stage so she would not be dry between songs). He thought about whether she would want to be complimented on her clothes. (She did, talking for a little too long about it, about how tough it was to keep herself in slinky dresses which guys wanted to look at her in, the boss too, until he moved the subject on to her music that blues jazz mix that she had down pat, very pat). Or whether telling her that she had a fine body (nice shoulders, slim waist, etc.), nice legs, nice well-turned ankles, nice hair, nice, fill in the blank, or any combination of nices, would get him any place. (It did, as she gave him even more meaningful looks as they talked, only be stopped by the call for the next set from Sammy, the combo leader). Thought whether he should ask right then whether she wanted a nightcap with him elsewhere later or ask her ask her at the end of the evening. (End of the evening, a wise choice since she kept giving him meaningful little smiles along with the drinks to keep the mood up throughout that last performance.)
Preliminaries over he once again listened to that angel-voice, listened to her phrasing, listened for the pause between the phrasing, and then that slight little snarl of the upper lip as she went into her own blues-drenched version of Rock Me Baby, and looking right at him, right directly at him, when she sang long drawn out phrasing sang, “rock me all night long.”(He did, and she did too.)
… and hence this be-bop poem in celebration
Easy Boogie
Down in the bass
That steady beat
Walking walking walking
Like marching feet.
Down in the bass
They easy roll,
Rolling like I like it
In my soul.
Riffs, smears, breaks.
Hey, Lawdy Mama!
Do you hear what I said?
Easy like I rock it
In my bed!
No comments:
Post a Comment