Photo by Baudouin from his series titled “I am a parisian lady”
Her Papa liked piano and her Mama liked the tinny hush of the radio in their old truck. They’d kill her if they knew she was here. Mama with her spit-clean everything and keen Christian morals had no time for New Orleans. “The Devils playground,” she called it, “with all that godless music and all those gypsy women.” But yet, here she was, despite her mother’s warnings of smooth talking men and bass strings that’ll send you straight to hell. Here she was all mixed up in the sweet heavy marmalade air and trails of musky perfume. Women in long pearls and flapper dresses, men with shiny suits. The whole city was buzzing, humming. Chalk full of more life than she’d ever felt, zipping from her fingers to her toes. She wasn’t even sure how she got here, to this strange little cluster of light and sound. All she remembered was when the sun went down on her quiet little Alabama street, the silence felt so stiff and sticky, she could hardly move. Maybe it was the ‘sqeeters flitting around who whispered the idea into her ears. Or perhaps it was the hopeless heat that sent her into a flurry. Either way, she just had to leave.
And now, she was in the thick of it all. It seemed like someone was holding up a mighty magnifying glass and she was peering right into it. The laughter was louder, the food larger, the personalities of the people bigger than her whole house. She didn’t fit in; in fact, she probably looked more out of place than a tabby in a dog kennel. But for the first time in her life, she didn’t care. Her feet wandered without any map, only the sights and smells to guide her. She hid herself within little building nooks, examining the colorful collage of people. A man in a worn out pair of overalls skipped along the cobbled streets like there were little lit matches attached to the balls of his feet and put her slow shuffle to shame. A young girl with flowers placed haphazardly in her hair giggled and got dirt all over her pretty dress, like a perfect postcard picture of innocence. She watched as a woman with soft mahogany skin let her voice carry up into the clouds, each note low and sultry like a roll of thunder. It was magnificent. A crazy collection of human interaction squeezing her in on all sides. Except they didn’t clash, but instead complimented each other. It was like each person brought a certain flavor to the mixing pot of life and deep down she had a fleeting worry that maybe she was too dull to even bask in such a light. But it was something about the way the sun beat down that drove all her stress away. It didn’t matter what she had done, but it was what she chose to do now. Soft bubbles of hope tickled her insides. She just wanted to stuff it all up into a bottle and leave it on her mantle top.
She had never really liked anything herself. More in the sense that she kept a little list of all the things that made her smile, but stored it deep within the caverns of her heart. She wore what her parents wore, she did what her parents did, she talked to the people her parents talked to. Her whole existence just seemed like a perfect little model of theirs. It was easier to comply, but that brief smile of pride on her parents faces only make her happy for a few seconds. Its like she was constantly trying to run through a swamp, while second thoughts scratched at her like bug bites. To her, happiness was merely a ticket for two. She tried to hitch rides on other peoples highs, waiting for the day when that would be enough. But it never was. This, though, she liked this. She liked all of this. She liked the colors, and the people, and the smells, and the lights, and the faces, and the fashion. She sure liked being able to list all her new likes on two hands. She liked how no one seemed to bat an eye. It was so different, so new. The roads curved in ways she had never seen before, and houses seemed to stack like pancakes painted with salmon pinks and berry reds. People here smiled with their whole face, and she suddenly learned all the beautiful intricacies of crinkled eyes. Each restaurant played its own tune, but they all faded into each other like a steadfast soundtrack. The air no longer felt suffocating, instead thick with possibilities, like everyone’s private epiphanies crowed up the oxygen.
In the back of her mind she could hear her little towns church bells while every now and then she’d turn around and swear she saw her mothers shadow. She spent hours studying the way the sunlight hit the sidewalks here and wondered why they always warned her never to walk around alone. It was only until now that she began to question the relationship between freedom and purity. The idea engrained so deeply in her brain that exploration was only an entrance for sin. But if she was never to let any of the bad things in, how was she supposed to open herself up to all the good things too? She knew better than to assume that everything the sun touched was made of gold and honey, but she had also watched as people around her let themselves make pools of their own fearful tears and then drown, because they had always been too scared to learn how to swim. She wanted to be the one to skim the water first even if it was for the very worst, she would at least be able to say she did. It was so tiring to let worry wrap around her like a corset, squeeze her from the insides until she was a hollow little doll. It was like her life was all cradle and carrying, but somehow she knew that everyone needs to fall at least once. This was her chance to scrape her knees. This was her chance to jump even if it meant a heavy landing because there was still the slight chance she would get caught up in the clouds. It looked a lot like a snapshot of heaven here, stored away in some sort of sacred scrapbook. It was easy to mistake strangers for angels amidst all the smoke.
And as the slow-dripping sunset bathed the streets in orange, she felt the tightness that used to stick to her slowly ease away. Gone was the uptight air that always seemed to hold her down, gone with the fleeting powder blue sky. Her cheeks were tinged with ruby and her eyes glowed like fireflies. Suddenly, a whisper of sound caught her ears. A sound she had never heard before. It was magnificent, like a big bouquet of feet-moving music. Was that a Trumpet? A plucked Bass? Maybe a hint of Trombone? How could something be so powerful, yet still so…quiet? She was quick to find the source of this magic melody, as her eyes directed her to a small group setting up for an all-night session on a dusty porch. Oh, my, my, my, did they play. The moonlight glowed on their coffee coloring and the flick of their fingers in the night air. Each face seemed to be etched with a million memories. The only way to describe the song they played was in ocean waves. It rolled beneath her and she let her legs two-step slowly. Sweet like cinnamon rolls and summer nights.
She succumbed, and transformed into a spinning top, roaming wherever the music willed her. She was dizzy and fancy-free. Kicking, twirling, toe tapping, it was hard not to stop and stare at the perfect dancer and her accompaniment. Suddenly the world disappeared and it was just her, all alone on a stage. Clad in black sequins she shimmied and sparkled, a fantastical sight for her already awestruck imaginary audience. She was daring, she was daunting, she was different.
Finally she slipped back into reality. The man with the trumpet tipped his hat at her.
“You like our music little lady?” He asked, weathered skin wrinkling with a smile. His shiny instrument winked at her beneath the streetlight while she struggled to find her balance again.
She nodded, still stuck in a dreamy state.
“Indeed I do mister, whatever is it called?”
He leaned over in his beaten up chair. The first fleeting whisper of a breeze snuck across her skin, leaving little goose bumps in its wake. All at once the city seemed to soften to a dull roar.
“Jazz,” he said in a haunting murmur, “They call it Jazz.”
Jazz. She liked it.
viv 