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Time of The Barracudas
I go long
stretches of time without seeing another living soul. I think it is why I can
get my horn to lament. The solitude does not bother me, but I do get
embarrassed by my occasional pangs of loneliness.
Days on
end with no one. Lion alone, except Juliet. She comes by to clean a few days a
week. Sometimes she asks me if I will be wanting an extra day. I always say
yes. She could use the money and I the company.
To
practice too long alone, without even an audience of one, could lead to a
sloppy embouchure. She mops and gives the place a woman’s touch, while I run
the standards which I know she likes.
Although
it is not part of the deal, we often have dinner together. Sometimes on the
days she has other house to clean we take our coffee in the cafe where I have
my backgammon matches.
I always
touch the old fountain on the way for luck. The water stopped flowing ages ago,
so I do not have to worry about my sleeves as I bend forward to pet the lion
head.
Lion
alone.
Fifteen
heavy tiles moved each at the right time. My understanding of human nature.
Despite my insight, a lesser player can still beat a better player on account
of the dice. There is a metaphor in there somewhere for life, I am sure.
Juliet
says she always knows I will win if I take red. If the other player asks, I do
not insist. Juliet says that Boccherini was really Spanish.
She
pushes her empty bowl away, one hand hidden in her pocket book. I nod my head
“no” and she is gone.
When I
was younger I thought we can only be what we do. It is why a man’s word is so
important. This thought is all unintentionally dishonest. We are what we want.
That way all the factors like age, money and location are irrelevant. With
desire the mask is dropped, our true selves are revealed.
Roman
orgies, a run of perfect notes played from center stage, loosing the dark
things whose teeth prick at what flesh is left uncovered by the blankets late
at night.
I take my
winnings. I had answered all the mundane questions, “Do I like it here?” “Will
I ever go back?” “Are audiences here more appreciative?” with the part of my
brain not involved in more important meanderings.
I go home
to practice a little.
A nod to
desire, Spanish tinged pieces for solo horn.
A short
walk before lunch. The canals look like someone is boiling the water for tea.
The Sardines are running. From a distance I see their tiny bubbles. Hundreds of
pale blue torpedoes darting forward en masse.
I could
sit and watch them every day, it is soothing.
But they
will all get eaten and those which don’t go away.
Wayne Wolfson is a California based author. His works have appeared in many journals
and sites including Happy, 3 A.M Magazine and Saucy Vox.
Wayne's Web Site
E-mail Wayne Wolfson
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