Life Sucks
by Charissa Dufour
© 2014 by Charissa Dufour
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Josh’s short fingers ran over the piano as if they were skimming the top of a cloud. His instructors had always told his mother he would never be a great pianist because his fingers were just too short. He had proven them wrong, and right in a way. He had become a superb pianist, even accepted into the New England Conservatory of Music, the oldest conservatory in the United States. He had lasted a whole seven months before dropping out.
The short pianist glanced out over the thinning crowd and tried to mask his frustration. He detested noisy drunks, and tonight the place was packed with them. They weren’t here for the jazz. They were here for the booze. Of the fifty or so patrons still lining the bar or sitting around small tables or lounging in the booths, only about ten of them were still listening to his music. Granted, it was Wednesday. He may be skilled enough for the New England Conservatory, but he wasn’t well-known enough to rank the weekend gigs. Still, playing at jazz clubs, like the Birdland, paid the rent.
It was sad to see the place so empty. It could seat 500, and often did on a Saturday night with a star on the stage or a great orchestra in the pit. Not that Josh ever got to see the place full when he performed.
Josh pulled his gaze away from the rowdy soldiers obscuring the long bar with olive-drab dress uniforms. They were enjoying their evening, some so drunk they were having difficulty staying on their stools.
His fingers nearly missed their next cue as he forced his angry thoughts away. Josh had been watching soldiers, dressed in their smart uniforms, pass him by on the street or celebrating in clubs for nearly two years. They shouldn’t bother him anymore.
But some emotions are hard to subdue, Josh told himself as he forced his eyes back on the black and white keys.
He wrapped up his current song and seamlessly transitioned into his own rendition of Moonglow. The slinky tune flowed from his mind, through his fingers, and into the keys. Josh had to admit it was better with a vocalist, but he was skilled enough to keep the melody flowing with only his ten short fingers. Still, it wasn’t enough to keep his mind distracted from the unruly soldiers at the bar. He wanted to be among their ranks. They were risking their lives to keep back the red tide of communism. If the Soviet Union could manufacture an atomic bomb, years ahead of when the U.S. expected it, who knew what the North Koreans could be capable of. Their communist ways had to be stopped before they spread any further.
I should be over there! Josh thought as his worked through a complicated key change.
His mother’s favorite saying came to mind: “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” His wishes weren’t any good against the military’s regulations: People who had the vision of rhinos don’t get to join the army.
Josh scrunched up his nose to shift the large glasses, a habit that often produced a scolding from his mother. She hated it when he did that, but when his hands were busy with piano keys, he couldn’t exactly stop to adjust the heavy object resting on his nose. Another hour and the old bartender would begin encouraging the guests to leave. He had one more hour of peace.
Like himself, Josh’s mother was not proud to have her only son working as a jazz pianist rather than representing his country in the fight against communism. This meant most of his time away from the clubs was spent with that one sour old woman. Josh’s father had died in the Second World War, making Josh’s lack of military involvement all the more painful to his mother. It wasn’t his fault the U.S. military didn’t trust him to strap his glasses to his face. Then again, they could break. What would he do then?
Josh sighed again, his eyes drifting back over the audience and resting on a woman with dark black hair, the bangs cropped short in the latest style. Every woman seemed crazy for Audrey Hepburn and her current hair style. Personally, Josh couldn’t see the draw. She was pretty, sure. But he preferred women with a little more flare. Now Barbara Stanwyck, she was a real woman. Josh felt his heart quicken at the thought of her, and forced his attention back on his music.
He knew from experience that thinking about women never made his music better.
Women. Another favorite subject of his mother’s. She couldn’t fathom how a man could remain single while all his competition was on the other side of the planet. Josh couldn’t seem to explain to her that no woman, however desperate, wanted a red-haired, four-eyed man who barely reached their shoulders. They wanted their men tall, robust, and, preferably, in olive-drab. However talented he might be, his talents were only found on a set of ivory keys.
Josh let out another sigh. Why must his thoughts run to his mother and her numerous complaints? Before he could fathom an answer, he noticed the soldiers and their dates pointing at him, their faces turning into scowls. He knew what they were saying:
“Why wasn’t he fighting?”
“Such a coward!”
“I’m sure those glasses are fake.”
He had heard them all, and a thousand more jarring phrases. No one would stop to ask him if his eyesight was really that bad. No one would ask to look through his glasses to see for themselves. They just assumed he was dodging the draft and leave it at that.
Josh couldn’t really blame them. Had their roles been reversed, he probably would be saying the exact same thing. In his meager opinion, there weren’t any excuses good enough to keep a man from fighting for his country. But his opinion didn’t matter. It was the opinion of the army doctor that mattered in this situation.
And so Josh continued to play, his fingers plunking out You Oughta Be in Pictures on their own accord as his eyes brought his attention back to the beauty sitting at the table alone. When she noticed his attention, she smiled at him and winked.
Josh’s fingers tumbled over the next two measures, missing half the notes. The woman giggled, catching his mistake. Thankfully, the other patrons were too drunk to notice.
It wasn’t long before the soldiers left with their dates, and shortly after that, the bartender called for the removal of those few still sipping their drinks. Josh ended his song with a trill, his eyes on the winking dame as she tossed a few coins onto the table and made her exit with the others.
“Whew. Never thought they’d leave,” grumbled the bartender.
“Yep,” agreed Josh out of habit. They had the same conversation every night at closing.
Josh stood up and stretched out his arms and shoulders. Whether his mother wanted to admit it or not, playing for hours on end was hard work. Maybe not as hard as the work done by soldiers and mechanics, but it still left him exhausted.
“You needing food?” asked the bartender.
“Sure. Thanks, Walter.”
Josh closed up the instrument, locked it, and plunked the key down on the bar. Walter would lock it away in the cash register. The Birdland hosted some of the most prestigious artists in New York, but whenever Walter couldn’t get someone more impressive, he filled the slot with Josh. They had a good understanding, and Josh relied on the continuous gigs to fill his pocket and pay his mother’s rent.
He climbed onto a barstool and dug into the food Walter provided him, which consisted of whatever was left over from the kitchen. It didn’t always result in a normal meal. Today his plate included a few cheese
ball appetizers, a small dab of liver paste (without any crackers), one lobster puff, three Anchovy fillet bits, and four stuffed olives. Josh tried his best to stomach it all with grace, but he couldn’t fathom why anyone would order anchovy fillet bits. He smeared the liver paste over the small fish, figuring the two nasty things would be easier to eat all in one rather than separately.
He was wrong.
Finally, when his plate was clean, he pushed it back towards Walter, who was eating his own dinner, and slid off the stool.
“See yah on Tuesday,” he said by way of parting, as he scooped up the dollar bills on the table, left as his pay for the night.
Walter was lucky enough to have better artists for the next couple nights, leaving Josh free to perform at other clubs. The other clubs didn’t pay as much, but they did provide more exposure. Besides, Josh couldn’t afford to take a whole week off just because Walter didn’t need him.
Josh stepped out of the bar, slipped out of his tailed tuxedo jacket, and carefully folded it over his arm. The thick June air was too warm for the heavy jacket. The streets were mostly empty. Wednesday-night workers were already home, most likely asleep in their beds.
It would be another hour before Josh was home in his bed; he had a long walk back to his mother’s apartment. Most of the buses and trollies didn’t run at three in the morning. Josh unbuttoned the top of his white shirt and breathed another sigh of relief.
He didn’t mind the walk home, so long as he wasn’t hassled along the way. Occasionally, some tired or drunken bloke chose to yell at him. It was never an uplifting statement.
Josh was just beginning to hope he would enjoy a quiet walk home when he heard a rumble from down a side street. A glance down the smaller street showed him the group of soldiers, returning to Broadway Street after walking their dates home. They shuffled forward, leaning on each other for support.
He lowered his head to look at the dirty pavement and picked up his pace.
“Hey, look! Iz the player from the Birdlan’,” said one of the men. “C’mon back, lil man.”
Josh ignored them and forced his short legs to speed up. But the tall soldiers, despite the alcohol flowing through their veins, easily caught up with him. The speaker draped his arm across Josh’s narrow shoulders.
“Why yah runnin’?” their spokesman asked.
“Late night. Gotta get home,” Josh mumbled as he tried to duck out from under the man’s arm.
“Got a lil lady to get home to? That why you’re not servin’?”
“No.” Josh couldn’t bring himself to tell a fib, even if it might save him from their disparaging remarks.
“So you just a coward?” asked one of the other men, giving Josh a hard knock on the shoulder.
Josh winced and rubbed his arm. “Doc’s won’t let me. Bad eye sight.”
Before he knew what they were doing, the men had led him down a rather narrow side street. Once again, he tried to duck out from under the soldier’s arm, but the drunk man was faster.
“Where ya goin’? Stay with us tonight!”
“I gotta get home,” said Josh, trying to muster up the courage to look up at the man and make his point clear.
He got his eyes up to the man’s chin before they dropped back to his shoes on their own accord. He was hopeless.
“I don’t much believe in getting’ outa service, meself,” grumbled one of the other men, taking ahold of the collar of his shirt and pulling him up until the fabric of the shirt cut into his armpits.
“Me neither. They wouldn’t,” began Josh, but he couldn’t get his argument out.
The man holding his shirt dragged him across the sidewalk and into a dark ally.
“It’s not my fault,” cried Josh, panic beginning to set in.
His heart raced and his chest tightened until he wasn’t sure he could breathe anymore. Were they really going to beat him up?
As the group bumbled into the ally, their drunken movements caused the whole mob to go down. Josh fell with them, instinctively covering his head with his arms. The men bashed into him as they rose, each one grumbling at him as though he had caused the fall. Before Josh could try to rise himself, he felt a foot drive into his back.
Josh cried out with the impact and scrambled to his feet, his tuxedo jacket falling from his arm. He glanced around, trying to find it in the dark. While he worried over his garment, wondering where he would get the money to repair or replace it, two hands grabbed his shirt again.
“You know how many men I’ve seen die?” asked the largest of the men, his body swaying as though he stood on the deck of a rocking boat.
Josh looked up at him, pushing his glasses back up so he could see the man’s face properly. The soft face was puffy and red, his beady eyes watering as he blinked down at Josh.
“I-I don’t know, sir,” said Josh, trying to calm the situation. “I’ve tried to enlist. Really I…”
The large man cut him off by shoving him into the grimy wall of the ally. Josh barely kept his feet as his glasses slid back to the tip of his nose. He pushed them back up as he regained his footing. What was happening? Why couldn’t they understand?
“Sure yah have!” growled one of the other men.
“I’m very near sighted. I can’t see without my glass…”
“Oh you mean these?” asked the man on his right as he reached forward and grabbed the glasses off Josh’s face.
The world turned blurry, and Josh lunged forward for his glasses, jumping towards the wrong blob. Now, each man now looked identical.
“Wrong one,” said one of the men.
Josh saw him make a move, which he translated as a throw. Josh turned, guessing they had thrown his glasses to another member of their posse. He spotted a man jumping up into the air, and lunged towards him. Josh felt as though he was back in school, the footballers playing keep away with his glasses, only now he was even blinder, and the bullies were war-hardened soldiers.
“So close,” chuckled the man who had caught his glasses.
He easily kept them out of Josh’s reach, not even needing to stand on tiptoe. Once again, like the thousand times before, Josh cursed his short stature.
“Not quite,” laughed another man as he caught the glasses and easily avoided Josh’s efforts.
“Over here,” called one of the shorter man.
Josh hadn’t seen them throw the glasses to the shorter man, but he couldn’t be sure either. They continued the game until they grew bored. Finally, one of them dropped the precious glasses on the ground and stomped on one of the lenses, the heel of his dress shoe shattering the thick glass.
Josh heard the sound of the glass breaking and felt a fire boil inside him. Without thinking through it or worrying about his lack of eyesight, he pulled his fist back and decked the soldier in the face.
There was a brief moment of shock before the group of men erupted into shouts of anger and rage. Josh felt a fist collide with his jaw, barely managing to keep his footing. The blow to his stomach, though, sent him into the brick wall. The wall kept him on his feet as he staggered and tried to raise his fists to protect his face. Josh sensed, more than saw, the next blow and managed to duck just in time. He heard the attacker howl in pain as his fist connected with the brick wall at Josh’s back.
Josh tried to remember the fighting advice his father had given him, but he didn’t remember much from when he was ten years old, much less anything that would help him fight off multiple, well-trained attackers.
A second later, the fist fight turned into a drunken brawl: fists, feet, and knees all in attendance.
Josh felt a blow to his cheekbone and stumbled along the brick wall. Before he could right himself, a foot connected with his stomach. Josh coughed as he collapsed to his knees and grabbed his stomach. Another blow to the stomach quickly followed, and Josh found himself face first on the ground.
Soon, Josh couldn’t tell one knock from another. A few hit him in the head, one to
the nose, and about a million more to the stomach. Josh felt his nose break and blood burst forth. Josh tried to curl up to protect his vital organs, but each time he tried to pull his aching legs up, another foot would bash into his stomach. Other kicks were colliding with his legs.
Josh began choking on the blood pouring from his nose. Finally, a blow to his head knocked him out. The precious blackness lasted for only a few seconds. He woke to the horrible feeling of a man grabbing him by the hair and slamming his head back into the pavement.
Josh felt more hot blood seep around his hair. He waited, thinking any minute the dim light of the ally would fade away and he would float up into eternity.
To his utmost disgust, he remained half conscious, his body screaming out its different agonies.
“Hey, it’s the heat!” yelled one of the men.
“The police,” cried another.
“Run!” cried the third.
Josh felt his main attacker release his hear, his head thumping against the pavement again. He didn’t move, knowing his injuries were beyond any doctors. If only he would drop into unconsciousness again. Death would be easy, if he could be comatose for it. But his mind refused to let him go.
Slowly, he began to feel warm blood press against his shoulders.
Soon, he told himself. Soon.
But where were the police? They had run away because of the police, right?
A second later, he heard the familiar clop of high-heels. No, not a woman. A woman shouldn’t have to see this. Josh closed his eyes, too ashamed to see the look of shock and disgust in the woman’s eyes as she saw his bleeding and battered body. He tried to call out, to warn her away from the scene, but he couldn’t seem to find his lips.
“I thought as much,” he heard the woman say.
Josh felt her kneel beside him. What was she doing?
“You’ll be okay, little pianist,” she murmured softly.
Was she a nurse of some sort? Could he possibly live through this?
Josh kept his eyes closed, refusing to believe the woman’s kind words. He suddenly felt her lifting him up with an arm tucked under his shoulders. His head lulled back, the movement sending a fresh wave of agony through his entire body. A second later, Josh felt two sharp pricks on his neck.
Was she giving him pain medication?
The sharp pain continued, distracting him from the other pain in his body, until he felt the darkness invade his mind. Just when unconsciousness seemed inevitable, the sharp pain retreated. Josh felt the woman press something against his mouth, a warm liquid wetting his lips. Josh licked his lips out of habit, enjoying the salty taste, despite his current state.
Finally, when Josh didn’t think he could handle the pain any long, oblivion took him into its warm embrace.
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