Joyous Johnson #3

As she stepped out of the club, one practiced hand reached into her purse for a cigarette. Within seconds, she had smoothly drawn it from her snakeskin clutch and placed it between her lips. Unfortunately, as these things often go, she became much less classy and graceful after that. As she fumbled for her lighter (where the hell could it be, anyway? Her purse wasn’t that big), her clutch fell to the ground, and her belongings scattered on the dirty city sidewalk.

It was as if she could hear her mother’s voice over the sweet drifting jazz: “That’s a nasty habit.”

As she pulled her lighter out from under the city bench (and abandoned the lipstick that had fallen next to it), she sighed. Cigarettes were a clumsy, inconvenient, widely-loathed thing. Maybe that’s why she liked them.

The jazz continued to float out the door with each new person entering the already-crowded club.

Twas in the Spring, one sunny day, that’s when he left me, he said he’d stay… but now he’s gone, and I don’t worry – I’m sitting on top of the world…

Of all the songs…

She could remember the first time she heard that one. It was what got her into blues. She was at a friend’s house. At the time, she thought he was pretty much the only guy for her. Now she couldn’t remember his name. She could, however, remember his record collection. In a world of CDs, he stuck to vinyl. He had everything – rock, country, jazz, classical… but, most importantly, he had blues.

It was a languid summer night, pretty much like this one, but easily a decade ago, and they were trying to figure out what to do. There weren’t good movies out, they were too cool for parties, and it was too hot to go outside. She was anxious. This wasn’t life. They should be out doing something wonderful, not just sitting there.
But he was calm. As she bounced ideas of things to do, she finally realized she was talking to herself. He was in another world, sitting cross-legged on the floor, humming quietly, and digging through a pile of records that lined the entire back wall of his room.

It wasn’t a surprise, really. No one listened to her. As she quietly descended into teenage angst, he gently put the record on its player. A quivering harmonica started. “Oh, great. Aimlessly, rambling blues, played by someone who can neither play the harmonica nor sing.”

But, then, the words – she got it. It was the loneliest voice she had ever heard, and, yet, the most comforting…

Worked all the summer, worked all the fall, still spendin’ Christmas in my overalls… and now he’s gone, but I don’t worry – I’m sitting on top of the world…

The summer continued, and their relationship bloomed. At the time, she thought she was falling in love with him. Looking back, she knows it was the blues.

But he was losing interest. All he wanted to do was go out, go to movies, go to parties, go outside. All she wanted to do was sit cross-legged on the floor and listen to his records.

Don’t come here running, holdin out your hand – you can have your woman, got me a man – but now he’s gone, and I don’t worry….
The wind started blowing, and the days got colder. She was foolish for falling for him. She knew she was leaving, but she never could find the heart to tell him…

Finally, she had to. He cried, but she was numb. He reached out for her, she turned away.

Was in the summer, the early fall, just trying to find my little all and all… but now she’s gone, I don’t worry…

She looked between her fingers to find nothing but a burning filter. She let out a bored sigh and snuffed out what remained. The band moved on, and so did she – shoving her hands in her pockets and shuffling down the city street into the darkness.