Shackling Water

by Adam Mansbach

  VAMP | BLOODLINES | DRINKS

  Maybe she's working late, Latif said, looking at his watch. He and Sonny sat drinking at the only table in Dutchman's that wasn't still piled with inverted chairs from last night's sweep-up. Latif was unsurprised that Mona hadn't shown; she'd walked through his unlocked door at six-thirty yesterday to go to dinner and found him lying naked on the floor, an ash cigarette balanced vertical between his lips and a half-empty pack in his left hand.

  I've got a new painting for you, Latif said in response to her sarcastic Ready to go? The ash toppled onto his lips when he spoke and he ignored it. A guy who keeps blowing and blowing on his horn but nothing comes out, and instead his head gets bigger and bigger until it explodes and splatters all over the walls. Then the snakes come out and lick it off. He spit the cigarette butt in the air, loudly, raising a cloud of ash. The filter landed on his chest. He craned his arm and bent it at the elbow so his fist was over his face, then tilted the pack until a cigarette slid out. He caught it with his lips.

  Mona, bored and annoyed by the whole scene, said nothing. Latif knew she was coming, she thought; he'd wanted her to find him like this. She wondered whether he had studied the apartment like a set designer and made minute adjustments for her: arrayed himself at just the proper angle or draped and redraped the clothes littering the usually immaculate room so that her entrance would play perfectly. She had no patience for this juvenile shit, these human dioramas Latif constructed to let her know he was in pain, in need of sympathy or closeness or distance or support or whatever without opening his mouth. She glanced at her painting, leaning up against the window, and noticed a pair of orange-handled scissors balanced open on top.

  I take it we're not having dinner, Mona said after a minute. So I'm gonna go now. She put her hands in her coat pockets and turned slowly toward the door.

  I probably need to be alone. Latif sighed, in a tone Mona knew was supposed to sound contrite and troubled. Apology and excuse rolled into one.

  Well, do me a favor and just cancel next time, said Mona, then panged with regret that she'd sounded so harsh. You can call me if you want to talk, she added, softer.

  Around eleven he had, and Mona listened to the streetnoise behind him thinking how ridiculous it was that her man considered a corner payphone his home line. He likes having no phone, Mona thought. That way she was reachable and he wasn't.

  I don't know what I'm supposed to do when you're like this, she said into the receiver, pacing her studio. She'd gone home and taken a bath and now she was trying to get up the gusto to work. Instead of her mother's elusive baby blues, though, Mona closed her eyes and saw Latif's despondent darkbrowns, staring at her from his grimy floor.

  Neither do I. You shouldn't have to deal with that. Latif was weird about patching things up on the phone. Standing in public with his quarter running out, wary about cats on the block somehow knowing he was holding weight, Latif was sometimes refreshingly candid and other times inclined to say whatever he thought Mona wanted to hear. Either way, they argued in shorthand and nothing seemed real. This time Latif had stood unspeaking for what seemed like minutes, the payphone receiver microphoning life as it screaming by, and Mona had held back, pulled the conversation into none of the dark territories encroaching on her heart. Instead she listened to Latif think, and when the quarter dropped and forced him to act he spoke over the operator's automated voice. Have a drink with me and Sonny after work tomorrow? knowing she didn't like Sonny Burma and for good goddamn reason. But there was pleading in his tone and she agreed.

  So where was she? She'll show up, Sonny assured.

  Latif grimaced around the cocktail straw he was chewing and leaned his head against his fisted hand. As his identity faltered, Latif resorted to overwrought gestures to make sure his frustration, and thus his seriousness, was duly noted. Sometimes I wish I had somebody like Marisol, Latif confided. Somebody who'd just shut the fuck up and get my back like it was her job.

  They don't grow those domestically, smirked Sonny. You got to import. And unless you're a genius like Albert she's an idiot for sacrificing herself. Even if you are.

  Maybe that kind of support brings genius into bloom.

  Even if it does, man, you'd hate it. Marisol used to go around saying I no love man, I love musician. She might as well be Albert's personal assistant.

  Well, I've got one other fantasy relationship up my sleeve.

  Let me guess, said Sonny. The two great artists living together in mutual badness, wedded to art and each other in a symbiotic bohemian bliss quite different from anything you've ever actually seen.

  Latif nodded sheepishly. Throw in that homegirl sucks dick like a champ and you've pretty much got it.

  Whenever you needed her, she'd be busy. And vice versa.

  I could deal with that, Latif said. Mona's always telling me I don't make her feel needed. I'm like what the fuck do you want me to do, need you more than I need you?

  How's her stuff, anyway? She really on some artist shit?

  It's good, but no. She's on some ol Emily-Dickinson-die-with-a-house-full-of-poems shit.

  Sonny chuckled. She's probably sitting someplace right now telling somebody that her boyfriend's on some ol Vinny-Van-die-miserable-and-obsessed-with-his-work shit. That's the stuff you got to watch, Teef, like my man Rubberlegs Williams used to sing. Latif smiled recognition, though he'd never heard the tune. You only have so much energy, and if the music takes it all then where are you?

  But if the music doesn't take it all then where's the music?

  The music's gonna be alright. The music's gonna get played with or without you, just like Albert says.

  Latif smiled. He told me that last week. Mona says it all the time now, even though she has no idea what the fuck it means. Maybe I don't either. It just makes me feel expendable.

  Man, you got it twisted. The idea is that there's a whole tradition keeping you afloat, and if you drop the ball somebody's gonna pick it up.

  . . . So it doesn't really matter what I do. Great.

  Sonny pointed his finger at Latif. You need another drink, boy. Remind me of my cousin's kid. Decided he was gonna be a rapper and now every day Russell Simmons doesn't stop him on the way to school and offer him a deal he gets angrier. Mufucker, you nineteen years old. When I was your age, I was wearing my daddy's suits to gigs. Had to keep my elbows bent all night so the sleeves wouldn't cover my hands, and the jacket buttoned so no one would see that I had the waist folded over and pulled up around my ribs. I'd even put on four or five pairs of socks and wear his shoes. Every check I got went straight into the tailor's pocket.

  Albert seems to think the road would straighten me out.

  Sonny shrugged equivocation. Thing about the road is that not only does it make clear who's bullshitting—something the bandstand lays bare anyway—but also why. Everybody's analyzing everybody, whispering crosscurrents of shit-talk and familial concern. Lotta interpersonal polyrhythms to decode.

  Sounds like it could be a nightmare, said Latif.

  All depends on the band. The more you understand about each other, the better y'all might sound. Or the worse. You might have a cat who never wants to stop playing; gotta figure out if he's the most serious dude around or the most trifling. Amir was with a pianist like that in Charlie Sanchez's band; he said it took them all a couple of months to figure out that homeboy's reluctance to stand up from the pianobench didn't stem so much from straightshot ebony-and-ivory love as from a fear of having to relate to motherfuckers any other way but through those keys. The finest waitress in the club walked by, plump ass eyepopping even beneath straightlegged black uniform pants, and they paused to give her smiles and stare after her.

  It's all about finding a balance on the road, Burma said when she was gone. Ol Mr. Play-All-Night might seem as deep as holy hellfire as he tries to cajole cats into joining him for a postgig session in the hotel lobby, offering to play time for the absent drummer out getting laid. Or when he stays at the clu
b by himself, linebacker shoulders up around his ears as he puts down those two-handed meaty trinkletinkles on the dressingroom piano with the door open. He knows those sounds are bound to draw in some young lingering drummer only too happy to accompany Play-All-Night's Latin lines on a beer bottle and a spoon until dawn shows its asscrack.

  Sounds like Play-All-Night's gonna be one hell of a musician even if he is socially retarded, Teef opined.

  Maybe, said Sonny, looking left and right and then returning to his interrupted point, but if he keeps dragging his woodshed everywhere like it's a porta-potty then he's gonna miss some other shit that he can't grow without. Maybe while he's in the lobby the bassist, tenorman, and roadmanager are huddled over some latenight-menu room service, TV in the background playing time, having a session of their own. Maybe the bass player intros by pizzicato bitching about the leader underpaying them—which Play-All-Night doesn't even know, let's say, cause this the first band he's been in.

  Maybe from there, they stretch the convo into an analysis of generational jazzworld discord, or backflip into band business and break down how the new arrangement sounds or discuss new tunes to bring the leader. Sonny sipped his drink and smiled. Or maybe they're just talking dumb shit—but the dumb shit is important too, because you learn to flow from topic to topic together, as a unit. One time, I remember, we spent an hour discussing interspecies fighting—who would win if a polar bear and a hippopotamus should somehow meet under neutral sportsmanlike conditions. Or a shark and an elephant in five feet of water. And then the saxophonist's gaze fell on a framed photo of our bass player's son, always the last thing to go back in his suitcase, and boom, we're building about raising kids and how to make a marriage work in the face of travel and all this ass out here. You dig? Latif nodded.

  And a cat like Play-All-Night, his only contribution to all that is an Art Tatum impression rising from the lobby like campfire sparks, reaching the thirdfloor window still glowing. Amir told me that after a while, there was a sort of unspoken thing in the band where everybody kind of wanted to stay up talking until Play-All-Night quit and went to bed or joined the cipher. But he never did either one, and everybody wound up exhausted all the time from trying to outlast him. On top of which, you're never alone on the road except right before bed, so even when you want to crash you end up puttering around your room or calling your girl in New York or, if you're me, jerking off to the sounds of the blacked-out adult movies because you're too cheap to pay for porn.

  Into their cloud of laughter shuffled Larry Calvin, gaunt and ashy-fingered, hands dangling at his sides bare of his trademark rings. Lo-Cal Larry Larr, said Sonny, jubilant. What's poppin, partner? Haven't seen your ass in here for weeks.

  That's because he's supposed to be at City Hospital, said Teef sternly, fixing Larry with impassive eyes. Say Brother gave him half the money for a one-month treatment that ain't over til next week. It was the dealer's conscience-balming policy to pony up a portion of the rehab bill for any longtime client who decided it was time to kick. I'm in the leisure service business, Say Brother would say. I ain tryna make no junkies. If a cat on Say Bro's clean list tried to cop, Latif was supposed to refuse the sale.

  Come on, bruh, said Larry, do me a solid. I got a gig lined up at Free Will tomorrow and I need my medicine. Gotta blow my head to blow my horn that good. His eyes drifted over to Sonny. You know what I mean, Burma. Say Brother will never know, Teef. That's my word.

  Latif regarded him from beneath halfmasted eyelids, too sympathetic to Lo-Cal's plight to turn him down. It wasn't the first time Latif had heard this rap; plenty of musicians seemed to agree smack was a toxin but a fuel. He gave Larry what he needed and they watched him vanish like a specter.

  It's true, Sonny said when he was gone. He's almost listenable when he's high. Latif nodded. How many nights had he watched Sonny negotiate the supreme mathematics of the blues, swing the band like a babe in arms, twenty minutes after the needle slid beneath his skin? How many times had Latif made deliveries to loft apartment jam sessions, stuck around to sit in with a borrowed horn and watched the night brush morning in a swirl of creation and consumption?

  Some cats just hear better high, Sonny continued. He lit a cigarette and so did Teef. The colors in the music come out more distinctly. It's like a sunbeam through a haze; you can't see nothing but fog all around you, but when that beam breaks through it's like the sun has never been brighter. You hear pure blocks of sound.

  Sonny's eyes brightened and Latif turned in his chair to see what he was missing. Well, well. Better late than never. Mona walked toward them through Dutchman's, swaying her hips and smiling. A hint of lechery glinted in Sonny's eyes as Mona bent forward in her lowcut dress to kiss him hello. Teef felt a twinge of pride.

  Sorry I'm late; the subway's all fucked up. What did I miss?

  Not much, said Latif. He smiled to let her know that last night's despondence was behind him, hoping he looked more convincing than he felt. Mona squeezed his hand and he relaxed. She was certainly remarkable sometimes. Nothing in her carriage suggested the scene she had walked out on yesterday. Watching her almost made him forget himself.

  Just waiting for you to show up so we could get into something deep, winked Sonny.

  Well, it just so happens I've got something deep to talk to you about, said Mona, crossing her legs and reaching for Latif's smokes.

  Oh yeah? said Sonny mildly, lifting the tablecandle to her lips. Latif pinched Mona's thigh beneath the table and she looked at him like I know and I don't care. He'd been pleading with her not to do this since they met, and now it looked like his bargaining power was gone.

  Baby— said Latif.

  Your brother Marlon misses you, said Mona. She exhaled smoke.

  Sonny's lip curved like she'd made a joke. Says who?

  Says Marlon. Mona leaned forward, elbows on the table and breasts squeezed between them, cigarette cocked next to her ear. How do you think it feels to have the person you trust most disown you just for being gay?

  It's more complicated than that, Mona, said Sonny, slow and deliberate, like he was talking to a ten-year-old he didn't like. He stared down and traced a line across the table with his cocktail straw. And frankly, it's none of your business.

  It may not be, but nobody else is willing to tell you to stop being an asshole so I'm making it my business.

  Sonny glanced at Latif and tried to play it off: slouched in his chair pretend-bemused and said, Your girl is whylin, bruh.

  Mona leaned further toward him, until her chair was pitched up on its frontlegs: secret-sharing distance. She put her hand on Sonny's arm. Latif watched him soften at her touch and was impressed despite himself. Listen, Mona said. I know what it feels like to lose touch with family and convince yourself that you don't care. Let me tell you something, and then I promise I'll shut up. When I met Marlon I was just learning to paint. We'd go for coffee after class at MOMA and sit and talk for hours. He made me feel like I could be an artist, like I was searching for myself in the right place. He showed me some things I'll always be grateful for, the same way I'll bet somebody showed you things when you first started playing the piano. The same way I'll bet you showed Marlon things when he was growing up. He misses you, Sonny, and I bet you miss him.

  He's my brother, said Sonny. Of course I miss him. But that's not the point.

  What is the point? asked Mona quick. That you hate fags? Or that you're too stubborn to say you're sorry when you know you're wrong?

  Sonny stared off, scanned the portraits on the walls, spoke without looking at her. This is the first time anybody's mentioned Marlon to me in years, he said. His one-note laugh was a rusty knife scraping the air. Sometimes that pisses me off. Makes no sense, huh? Getting angry because your friends don't bring up something you told them not to?

  A lot of things make no sense. Mona smiled; Sonny smiled back, reluctantly, and Mona pressed her advantage. This is really the last thing I'll say: Anytime you decide you want to see your bro
ther, I'd be happy to arrange it.

  Is he still dating whiteboys? asked Sonny. No offense.

  Mona shook her head. No. He's been with a Haitian man for two years now.

  Huh, said Sonny. Well, don't hold you breath. But thanks. I'm glad to know he's got a friend like you. Alright. Enough. New topic. Who's drinking what?

  BREAKS | PROPHECY | STOPTIME

  Mona was quiet in the cab up from the bar, arms folded stoic. Latif wondered if her mind was on Marlon Burma or on him; he got his answer the minute they were back uptown in the disheveled stankness of Latif's neglected room. Mona sat down on the unmade bed and didn't take her coat off. You know what? she said. You're never depressed in public. With Sonny, you're fine, and then as soon as we get in the cab I feel you sinking back into your own world.

  I pretend better in public, said Latif. He didn't want to join her on the bed and there was nowhere else to sit except the floor, so he paced. You want me to pretend for you?

  Sit still, thought Mona; why can't you sit still? I want you to treat me as well as you do total strangers, she said.

  He stopped abruptly in midstride and turned to face her. We are strangers, he said hardvoiced, turning up the volume. You don't understand me and I don't understand you, okay? Latif threw up his hands like Icarus. I don't even understand myself. I'm sitting here with my horn like a fucking kid at his father's bedside, holding his hand and waiting for him to die, and I'm sorry but that's all I can think about right now.

  Mona nodded through his last few words as if she'd heard it all before. Yeah yeah yeah, she said, and Latif winced at the venom in her voice. The great tortured artist who can't play. I'm sorry, but do you know how boring that is?

  The word cut him, sharp with unexpectedness. He knew he was temperamental, caustic, an occasional asshole, but in all his mirror-searching Latif had never felt bored—that was half a step from giving up. It was cruel, that word; it slapped his whole life flat. He stared at Mona, hurt. Her eyes flickered sadness, in apology not only for what she'd said but what she knew she was about to.