Dancing with VenusCopyright © May 2010 by Roscoe JamesAll rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.eISBN 978-1-60737-588-3Cover Artist: April MartinezPrinted in the United States of AmericaPublished byLoose Id LLCChapter OneThe stars were gone, the moon had faded to a pale disk floating above the far horizon of the cityscape, and the sun was hard and hot two hours over Lake Michigan. Chicago, the great meatpacker, the city of steel, was awake and shaking its fist at the world.Jessie opened her eyes and waited for things to come into focus. A discolored ceiling with cracks in one corner brought to mind a spider's web holding a water stain in place. The smell of the old building conjured snippets of a mumbled, disjointed conversation. How 'bout a drink? I come to see you perform whenever you're in town… Not far away… Sure, we can stop and get a bottle… taxi…condom…She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked to her right.His hair was black with a pillow-head slop that reminded her of a Little Rascal kid. His shoulders were broad but not impressively so. The sheet covered his ass, and her recollection, while cloudy, was that there was nothing special underneath.Music played softly from a clock radio on the nightstand. Jessie closed her eyes and imagined the notes. They floated in a cloud just out of reach. Something classical. Something she couldn't name. Each pull of the bow across the instrument's strings danced on her chest.Her reverie ended with the music. The deep baritone of a Sunday-morning coffee-mug-hugging announcer intruded. “'Improvisations on a Theme for Cello.' That was from a live performance given by Miss Dionysius last year at Carnegie Hall. Next we have a more conventional piece from that same concert…â€As much as she'd like to lounge in bed and listen, Jessie tuned the announcer out. No time… She slid off the side of the bed she'd won in their early-morning struggle of grunts and shoves, steadied herself on the corner of the nightstand, and searched the floor for her panties. She found them wrapped around the neck of an empty Jack bottle.Fifteen minutes later she stopped at a table beside the door to her strange bedfellow's messy apartment and perused some unopened mail. Jethro Sullivan. She cringed. She couldn't recall doing a Jethro before, and if she'd been sober enough to know, she might have found another candidate. Her Aunt Trudy would have said his name sounded too much like a cartoon character.The building was full of morning noises and unpleasant smells. A baby was crying behind an ugly brown door in the apartment across the hallway, a man sneezed somewhere to her right, and a TV evangelist was chasing demons on the next floor up.Down one flight, past a row of tarnished brass mailbox fronts she vaguely remembered being groped against, and out onto the three-step concrete stoop of one of Chicago's lesser examples of Victorian architecture, Jessie tried to get her bearings. The street was noisy and smelled like sewer and tar. The air was already hot and muggy. The bright morning sun made the top of her head feel like it would break off and float away. She could only hope.She plopped her Stetson in place, fished in her oversize purse for her mirrored Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses, and took refuge.A taxi appeared at the corner half a block away, and she tucked her purse under her arm and ran.* * *“Have you seen Bob?†Jessie leaned against the bar and watched a black kid she didn't know rack clean glasses behind the bar.“He's in the back.†The kid finished the glasses and walked off with a J&B box full of empty bottles.“Did he leave an envelope for me? Should have my name on it. Jessica Butler.†What she really wanted was something to make her head stop throbbing. She looked around the empty dive and tried to find the charm. The cozy atmosphere that oozed up onstage when she was singing. Just like Jethro, the Blues and Booze's morning-after appeal was lacking.Where's the fucking magic?She'd anguished for weeks over her upcoming pilgrimage. At first she'd ignored the oversize envelope that had found its way to the Blues and Booze. She hadn't been home for over a year and didn't relish her mother, the Good Ship Disapproval, sailing up her river. But the lure had proven too great. Wednesday past she gave in and sliced the top of the envelope open.“He said ya gotta talk to him.â€She got her guitar out the stage prop room, leaned the love of her life against the bar beside her duffel bag, and headed for the kitchen.Bob Fletcher was sitting behind his cluttered desk in his T-shirt, going through bills. He looked like a surly black Buddha with a penchant for Cuban cigars.“Damn, Jessie, you look like shit.â€â€œDrop dead, Bob.â€Bob chuckled, chewed the business end of his cigar, and flipped an envelope across the top of the desk. Jessie stuffed the envelope in her shirt pocket and pulled out her smokes.“What's December look like, Bob? You still looking for coverage?â€Bob stared daggers at a piece of paper with a lot of numbers on the back and grunted. “December's lookin' cold as hell, kid.†He dropped the offensive bill in a pile, knocked ashes off his stogie, and leaned back in his chair. “That's high season, Jessie. I don't know… I'll have to see what I can do. You know how it is. I've got the tourists coming in. Maybe you can drop your cut?â€She jerked her feet off Bob's desk, pushed up from the old chair, and blew a cloud of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling. She smiled down coyly.“Not dropping my cut, Bob. Give me a call. See what you can do with the last two weeks in December and the first week of January. Do it 'cause you love me, Bob. Who else puts up with your shit like I do?†She turned and headed for the door.“If I book you in here in December, you're going to have to find something besides blue jeans and cowboy boots to wear. I mean it, Jessie. That shit's okay the rest of the year, but we get suits and swanky evening gowns in here during Christmas and New Year's.â€â€œYou tell me the last time B.B. King wore a low-cut full-length evening gown.â€â€œDoesn't have to be a dress, Jessie. But even B.B. King wears a suit. I mean it, Jessie.â€She flipped Bob the bird and left.“And get rid of that fucking hat! This is a blues bar! Not some goddamned rodeo joint!â€Jessie gave the kid behind the bar the evil eye on her way out. She threw her duffel bag over her shoulder, her purse over the other, grabbed her guitar, and hit the street.Chicago had grown old. Or she had. She wasn't sure which.* * *At the bus station on Cumberland, Jessie made her way through the smokers, junkies, and soldiers gathered around the front entrance and got in line for a ticket. It wasn't that she couldn't afford to fly. She could. But she did most of her gigs traveling on Greyhound, and given the way things ended the last time she'd made a pilgrimage home, she didn't feel any need to rush.She put her duffel bag on the floor in front of door seventeen and found a place she could sit. The bus station was full of Chicago weekenders heading home. She put her sunglasses back on, pulled the front of her Stetson down, crossed her arms across her chest, and propped her feet on her guitar case.She had an hour to wait and she was too restless to sleep. She dug in her purse for some aspirin, chewed, and dry-swallowed two. She let her head nod and eyes droop, but generally watched for people to start gathering alongside their luggage.Fifteen minutes later the line started beefing up and she took up post beside her duffel bag. Before they hit Gary, Indiana, she was sound asleep. By two o'clock in the afternoon, they rolled into the station at Indianapolis. Her stomach was howling, so she sprinted across the back of the parking lot and bought some sliders and the biggest soft drink they had at White Castle.Jessie barely made it back before the bus left. She settled into her seat, enjoyed her meal, and let her mind wander. Twenty miles south of Indianapolis, anxiety jumped out and got a stranglehold on her.* * *The sun was hiding behind dark clouds that seemed to tug on the tree line in the distance, the grey dog was humming, and the other passengers had settled into quiet conversations or gone to sleep. The seat beside her was empty. A summer drizzle turned to a summer downpour as they continued south. Lightning off to the west was followed by muffled claps of thunder.It wasn't being alone, independent, and always on the road that made her chest feel tight and uncomfortable. It was the prospect of always being alone with nothing but her independence to keep her company that brought on the anxiety attacks.And then there was them.Jessie dug in her purse until she found her little black book. Not actually black. It was a small pink spiral notepad with the stub of a pencil slid into the metal binder at the top. She held it and tried to decide how her life had gotten so screwed up.At twenty-eight Jessie thought she harbored far too many regrets. She didn't know enough about other people's lives to have any idea. Since leaving home at twenty-two to pursue music seriously, she'd spent all her time wandering from town to town, small burgs and big cities included, and really had no idea... [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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Dancing with VenusCopyright © May 2010 by Roscoe JamesAll rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.eISBN 978-1-60737-588-3Cover Artist: April MartinezPrinted in the United States of AmericaPublished byLoose Id LLCChapter OneThe stars were gone, the moon had faded to a pale disk floating above the far horizon of the cityscape, and the sun was hard and hot two hours over Lake Michigan. Chicago, the great meatpacker, the city of steel, was awake and shaking its fist at the world.Jessie opened her eyes and waited for things to come into focus. A discolored ceiling with cracks in one corner brought to mind a spider's web holding a water stain in place. The smell of the old building conjured snippets of a mumbled, disjointed conversation. How 'bout a drink? I come to see you perform whenever you're in town… Not far away… Sure, we can stop and get a bottle… taxi…condom…She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked to her right.His hair was black with a pillow-head slop that reminded her of a Little Rascal kid. His shoulders were broad but not impressively so. The sheet covered his ass, and her recollection, while cloudy, was that there was nothing special underneath.Music played softly from a clock radio on the nightstand. Jessie closed her eyes and imagined the notes. They floated in a cloud just out of reach. Something classical. Something she couldn't name. Each pull of the bow across the instrument's strings danced on her chest.Her reverie ended with the music. The deep baritone of a Sunday-morning coffee-mug-hugging announcer intruded. “'Improvisations on a Theme for Cello.' That was from a live performance given by Miss Dionysius last year at Carnegie Hall. Next we have a more conventional piece from that same concert…â€As much as she'd like to lounge in bed and listen, Jessie tuned the announcer out. No time… She slid off the side of the bed she'd won in their early-morning struggle of grunts and shoves, steadied herself on the corner of the nightstand, and searched the floor for her panties. She found them wrapped around the neck of an empty Jack bottle.Fifteen minutes later she stopped at a table beside the door to her strange bedfellow's messy apartment and perused some unopened mail. Jethro Sullivan. She cringed. She couldn't recall doing a Jethro before, and if she'd been sober enough to know, she might have found another candidate. Her Aunt Trudy would have said his name sounded too much like a cartoon character.The building was full of morning noises and unpleasant smells. A baby was crying behind an ugly brown door in the apartment across the hallway, a man sneezed somewhere to her right, and a TV evangelist was chasing demons on the next floor up.Down one flight, past a row of tarnished brass mailbox fronts she vaguely remembered being groped against, and out onto the three-step concrete stoop of one of Chicago's lesser examples of Victorian architecture, Jessie tried to get her bearings. The street was noisy and smelled like sewer and tar. The air was already hot and muggy. The bright morning sun made the top of her head feel like it would break off and float away. She could only hope.She plopped her Stetson in place, fished in her oversize purse for her mirrored Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses, and took refuge.A taxi appeared at the corner half a block away, and she tucked her purse under her arm and ran.* * *“Have you seen Bob?†Jessie leaned against the bar and watched a black kid she didn't know rack clean glasses behind the bar.“He's in the back.†The kid finished the glasses and walked off with a J&B box full of empty bottles.“Did he leave an envelope for me? Should have my name on it. Jessica Butler.†What she really wanted was something to make her head stop throbbing. She looked around the empty dive and tried to find the charm. The cozy atmosphere that oozed up onstage when she was singing. Just like Jethro, the Blues and Booze's morning-after appeal was lacking.Where's the fucking magic?She'd anguished for weeks over her upcoming pilgrimage. At first she'd ignored the oversize envelope that had found its way to the Blues and Booze. She hadn't been home for over a year and didn't relish her mother, the Good Ship Disapproval, sailing up her river. But the lure had proven too great. Wednesday past she gave in and sliced the top of the envelope open.“He said ya gotta talk to him.â€She got her guitar out the stage prop room, leaned the love of her life against the bar beside her duffel bag, and headed for the kitchen.Bob Fletcher was sitting behind his cluttered desk in his T-shirt, going through bills. He looked like a surly black Buddha with a penchant for Cuban cigars.“Damn, Jessie, you look like shit.â€â€œDrop dead, Bob.â€Bob chuckled, chewed the business end of his cigar, and flipped an envelope across the top of the desk. Jessie stuffed the envelope in her shirt pocket and pulled out her smokes.“What's December look like, Bob? You still looking for coverage?â€Bob stared daggers at a piece of paper with a lot of numbers on the back and grunted. “December's lookin' cold as hell, kid.†He dropped the offensive bill in a pile, knocked ashes off his stogie, and leaned back in his chair. “That's high season, Jessie. I don't know… I'll have to see what I can do. You know how it is. I've got the tourists coming in. Maybe you can drop your cut?â€She jerked her feet off Bob's desk, pushed up from the old chair, and blew a cloud of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling. She smiled down coyly.“Not dropping my cut, Bob. Give me a call. See what you can do with the last two weeks in December and the first week of January. Do it 'cause you love me, Bob. Who else puts up with your shit like I do?†She turned and headed for the door.“If I book you in here in December, you're going to have to find something besides blue jeans and cowboy boots to wear. I mean it, Jessie. That shit's okay the rest of the year, but we get suits and swanky evening gowns in here during Christmas and New Year's.â€â€œYou tell me the last time B.B. King wore a low-cut full-length evening gown.â€â€œDoesn't have to be a dress, Jessie. But even B.B. King wears a suit. I mean it, Jessie.â€She flipped Bob the bird and left.“And get rid of that fucking hat! This is a blues bar! Not some goddamned rodeo joint!â€Jessie gave the kid behind the bar the evil eye on her way out. She threw her duffel bag over her shoulder, her purse over the other, grabbed her guitar, and hit the street.Chicago had grown old. Or she had. She wasn't sure which.* * *At the bus station on Cumberland, Jessie made her way through the smokers, junkies, and soldiers gathered around the front entrance and got in line for a ticket. It wasn't that she couldn't afford to fly. She could. But she did most of her gigs traveling on Greyhound, and given the way things ended the last time she'd made a pilgrimage home, she didn't feel any need to rush.She put her duffel bag on the floor in front of door seventeen and found a place she could sit. The bus station was full of Chicago weekenders heading home. She put her sunglasses back on, pulled the front of her Stetson down, crossed her arms across her chest, and propped her feet on her guitar case.She had an hour to wait and she was too restless to sleep. She dug in her purse for some aspirin, chewed, and dry-swallowed two. She let her head nod and eyes droop, but generally watched for people to start gathering alongside their luggage.Fifteen minutes later the line started beefing up and she took up post beside her duffel bag. Before they hit Gary, Indiana, she was sound asleep. By two o'clock in the afternoon, they rolled into the station at Indianapolis. Her stomach was howling, so she sprinted across the back of the parking lot and bought some sliders and the biggest soft drink they had at White Castle.Jessie barely made it back before the bus left. She settled into her seat, enjoyed her meal, and let her mind wander. Twenty miles south of Indianapolis, anxiety jumped out and got a stranglehold on her.* * *The sun was hiding behind dark clouds that seemed to tug on the tree line in the distance, the grey dog was humming, and the other passengers had settled into quiet conversations or gone to sleep. The seat beside her was empty. A summer drizzle turned to a summer downpour as they continued south. Lightning off to the west was followed by muffled claps of thunder.It wasn't being alone, independent, and always on the road that made her chest feel tight and uncomfortable. It was the prospect of always being alone with nothing but her independence to keep her company that brought on the anxiety attacks.And then there was them.Jessie dug in her purse until she found her little black book. Not actually black. It was a small pink spiral notepad with the stub of a pencil slid into the metal binder at the top. She held it and tried to decide how her life had gotten so screwed up.At twenty-eight Jessie thought she harbored far too many regrets. She didn't know enough about other people's lives to have any idea. Since leaving home at twenty-two to pursue music seriously, she'd spent all her time wandering from town to town, small burgs and big cities included, and really had no idea... [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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Dancing with VenusCopyright © May 2010 by Roscoe JamesAll rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.eISBN 978-1-60737-588-3Cover Artist: April MartinezPrinted in the United States of AmericaPublished byLoose Id LLCChapter OneThe stars were gone, the moon had faded to a pale disk floating above the far horizon of the cityscape, and the sun was hard and hot two hours over Lake Michigan. Chicago, the great meatpacker, the city of steel, was awake and shaking its fist at the world.Jessie opened her eyes and waited for things to come into focus. A discolored ceiling with cracks in one corner brought to mind a spider's web holding a water stain in place. The smell of the old building conjured snippets of a mumbled, disjointed conversation. How 'bout a drink? I come to see you perform whenever you're in town… Not far away… Sure, we can stop and get a bottle… taxi…condom…She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked to her right.His hair was black with a pillow-head slop that reminded her of a Little Rascal kid. His shoulders were broad but not impressively so. The sheet covered his ass, and her recollection, while cloudy, was that there was nothing special underneath.Music played softly from a clock radio on the nightstand. Jessie closed her eyes and imagined the notes. They floated in a cloud just out of reach. Something classical. Something she couldn't name. Each pull of the bow across the instrument's strings danced on her chest.Her reverie ended with the music. The deep baritone of a Sunday-morning coffee-mug-hugging announcer intruded. “'Improvisations on a Theme for Cello.' That was from a live performance given by Miss Dionysius last year at Carnegie Hall. Next we have a more conventional piece from that same concert…â€As much as she'd like to lounge in bed and listen, Jessie tuned the announcer out. No time… She slid off the side of the bed she'd won in their early-morning struggle of grunts and shoves, steadied herself on the corner of the nightstand, and searched the floor for her panties. She found them wrapped around the neck of an empty Jack bottle.Fifteen minutes later she stopped at a table beside the door to her strange bedfellow's messy apartment and perused some unopened mail. Jethro Sullivan. She cringed. She couldn't recall doing a Jethro before, and if she'd been sober enough to know, she might have found another candidate. Her Aunt Trudy would have said his name sounded too much like a cartoon character.The building was full of morning noises and unpleasant smells. A baby was crying behind an ugly brown door in the apartment across the hallway, a man sneezed somewhere to her right, and a TV evangelist was chasing demons on the next floor up.Down one flight, past a row of tarnished brass mailbox fronts she vaguely remembered being groped against, and out onto the three-step concrete stoop of one of Chicago's lesser examples of Victorian architecture, Jessie tried to get her bearings. The street was noisy and smelled like sewer and tar. The air was already hot and muggy. The bright morning sun made the top of her head feel like it would break off and float away. She could only hope.She plopped her Stetson in place, fished in her oversize purse for her mirrored Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses, and took refuge.A taxi appeared at the corner half a block away, and she tucked her purse under her arm and ran.* * *“Have you seen Bob?†Jessie leaned against the bar and watched a black kid she didn't know rack clean glasses behind the bar.“He's in the back.†The kid finished the glasses and walked off with a J&B box full of empty bottles.“Did he leave an envelope for me? Should have my name on it. Jessica Butler.†What she really wanted was something to make her head stop throbbing. She looked around the empty dive and tried to find the charm. The cozy atmosphere that oozed up onstage when she was singing. Just like Jethro, the Blues and Booze's morning-after appeal was lacking.Where's the fucking magic?She'd anguished for weeks over her upcoming pilgrimage. At first she'd ignored the oversize envelope that had found its way to the Blues and Booze. She hadn't been home for over a year and didn't relish her mother, the Good Ship Disapproval, sailing up her river. But the lure had proven too great. Wednesday past she gave in and sliced the top of the envelope open.“He said ya gotta talk to him.â€She got her guitar out the stage prop room, leaned the love of her life against the bar beside her duffel bag, and headed for the kitchen.Bob Fletcher was sitting behind his cluttered desk in his T-shirt, going through bills. He looked like a surly black Buddha with a penchant for Cuban cigars.“Damn, Jessie, you look like shit.â€â€œDrop dead, Bob.â€Bob chuckled, chewed the business end of his cigar, and flipped an envelope across the top of the desk. Jessie stuffed the envelope in her shirt pocket and pulled out her smokes.“What's December look like, Bob? You still looking for coverage?â€Bob stared daggers at a piece of paper with a lot of numbers on the back and grunted. “December's lookin' cold as hell, kid.†He dropped the offensive bill in a pile, knocked ashes off his stogie, and leaned back in his chair. “That's high season, Jessie. I don't know… I'll have to see what I can do. You know how it is. I've got the tourists coming in. Maybe you can drop your cut?â€She jerked her feet off Bob's desk, pushed up from the old chair, and blew a cloud of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling. She smiled down coyly.“Not dropping my cut, Bob. Give me a call. See what you can do with the last two weeks in December and the first week of January. Do it 'cause you love me, Bob. Who else puts up with your shit like I do?†She turned and headed for the door.“If I book you in here in December, you're going to have to find something besides blue jeans and cowboy boots to wear. I mean it, Jessie. That shit's okay the rest of the year, but we get suits and swanky evening gowns in here during Christmas and New Year's.â€â€œYou tell me the last time B.B. King wore a low-cut full-length evening gown.â€â€œDoesn't have to be a dress, Jessie. But even B.B. King wears a suit. I mean it, Jessie.â€She flipped Bob the bird and left.“And get rid of that fucking hat! This is a blues bar! Not some goddamned rodeo joint!â€Jessie gave the kid behind the bar the evil eye on her way out. She threw her duffel bag over her shoulder, her purse over the other, grabbed her guitar, and hit the street.Chicago had grown old. Or she had. She wasn't sure which.* * *At the bus station on Cumberland, Jessie made her way through the smokers, junkies, and soldiers gathered around the front entrance and got in line for a ticket. It wasn't that she couldn't afford to fly. She could. But she did most of her gigs traveling on Greyhound, and given the way things ended the last time she'd made a pilgrimage home, she didn't feel any need to rush.She put her duffel bag on the floor in front of door seventeen and found a place she could sit. The bus station was full of Chicago weekenders heading home. She put her sunglasses back on, pulled the front of her Stetson down, crossed her arms across her chest, and propped her feet on her guitar case.She had an hour to wait and she was too restless to sleep. She dug in her purse for some aspirin, chewed, and dry-swallowed two. She let her head nod and eyes droop, but generally watched for people to start gathering alongside their luggage.Fifteen minutes later the line started beefing up and she took up post beside her duffel bag. Before they hit Gary, Indiana, she was sound asleep. By two o'clock in the afternoon, they rolled into the station at Indianapolis. Her stomach was howling, so she sprinted across the back of the parking lot and bought some sliders and the biggest soft drink they had at White Castle.Jessie barely made it back before the bus left. She settled into her seat, enjoyed her meal, and let her mind wander. Twenty miles south of Indianapolis, anxiety jumped out and got a stranglehold on her.* * *The sun was hiding behind dark clouds that seemed to tug on the tree line in the distance, the grey dog was humming, and the other passengers had settled into quiet conversations or gone to sleep. The seat beside her was empty. A summer drizzle turned to a summer downpour as they continued south. Lightning off to the west was followed by muffled claps of thunder.It wasn't being alone, independent, and always on the road that made her chest feel tight and uncomfortable. It was the prospect of always being alone with nothing but her independence to keep her company that brought on the anxiety attacks.And then there was them.Jessie dug in her purse until she found her little black book. Not actually black. It was a small pink spiral notepad with the stub of a pencil slid into the metal binder at the top. She held it and tried to decide how her life had gotten so screwed up.At twenty-eight Jessie thought she harbored far too many regrets. She didn't know enough about other people's lives to have any idea. Since leaving home at twenty-two to pursue music seriously, she'd spent all her time wandering from town to town, small burgs and big cities included, and really had no idea... [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]