The city’s warehouse district lay inland of Washington’s Pacific coast and the green wreath lamps cast a fresh streetscape of red brick and black iron fire escapes. Howie’s new shoes hit the cobblestones as more freedom rose through his chest. It welled and rushed to a head as he walked in the hot humid air.
Nicely-dressed yuppies, buppies and trust-fund-afarians smiled and looked him in the eye, giving hope that at twenty-eight the best of life waited. Women, so tall and thin, walked with pride, unescorted. Cars rolled through narrow streets, yielding right-of-way to pedestrians. None of this surprised Howie; he had cased the city before accepting the job as Market Analyst. He would have invested more effort negotiating salary except his future boss was an imposing man. When Howie broached the issue, his employer got mad. It was unclear how far he could push that matter. But he needed the change and the move.
Clevens Street was up-ahead and he would take a right, then left. The place was called Jagger’s. He didn’t know of any connection to Mic or the Stones. The landlady at the apartment had informed him that they offered patrons the chance to sing between the second and third sets. Apparently, they played blues and rock and jazz. He wasn’t a singer but he would do it, though he hadn’t chosen a song.
Fresh air caressed him in a lulling breeze as a passing brunette in slinky black dress and heels flashed him a smile--driving him crazy. Howie turned, admiring subtleties of her departure.
Late that afternoon, he had worked-out and his arms and legs were tense with the strange male thoughts seeping in, like he needed a naked woman beside him that night and as things gained in momentum he might grab hold of the night and carry it through on his shoulders.
Jagger’s seemed to jut from the corner of Marshall and Forty-Third, bordered by abandoned storefronts, murmuring rising and a beating red sign. Howie spotted the cue-ball head of the heavy bouncer sitting outside. Through an open window women with exotic flourishes melded contemporary dress with the 20’s and 70’s, hinting Asian and European inspiration. They danced while men watched. Howie exchanged a grin with the bouncer.
Smoke stung his eyes as music hit him with electric guitar and bass and the snare drums tempted his heart to match cadence as a short blonde grasped his bicep to swing between two guys, affording an eyeful of her bronze cleavage.
Hardwood floors shined and reflected. Patrons in small gatherings danced and conversed beyond the second floor’s ledge of rusty metallic waterfalls. At the bar, he found a spot to press between and he got out some dollars. He put them back inside his wallet. He didn’t want to get drunk. Not even one beer. He’d do it sober to ensure the experience was lucent. The anticipation, the anguish, humiliation--everything--it would be his.
“What are you drinking?” the bartender yelled.
“I want to sing.”
The bartender grinned. “You sure? It’s not something you can back-out of.”
“I have to do it. No one knows me.”
He popped tops off green beers. “You’re serious?” He looked at Howie. “What do you think you can sing?”
Black-lacquered railroad-ties ringed the stage like a squat Mayan pyramid. “I’ll sing, ‘Miss You.’”
The bartender grimaced, “Miss You? Here? You know where this is, right? Jagger’s. And you want to sing the Stones? Miss You? You can’t even dance to that. No. Pick something else.”
“They’ll dance.”
He smirked. “Hold on.” A beefy man behind the bar joined them. “See this guy?” he asked the beefy man. “I’m not sure whether I should give this guy a mike or call the cops.”
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RandomThis is weird, unclassifiable stuff. Much of it centers around technical satire. There's some dream fiction in here also and a variety of experiments with the fictional writing structure and theme.
