r-kv-r-y winter 2005 fiction by Nathan Leslie
Trance
Burton Kelsky. That’s a name I haven’t thought about for years. Funny, since I used to
think about it at least once an hour. If he were here I suppose he’d make some acerbic
remark about time slipping through a worm hole, the meaninglessness of all of us in the
grand scheme of things. He was big on that idea—humility in the face of our eventual
demise.
“Just face it,” he used to say. “You’re nothing more than walking decay.” Oh yes, he was
cheery.
We met in 1964 at Pike’s Street Café in Baltimore. Joe Hamilton’s quartet was giving me
goose bumps that night; the rhythm section was thumping. I was there with my husband,
Alexander, who was only humoring me since he loathed jazz in general and Joe Hamilton in
particular. Unfortunately, my husband didn’t have any particularly cogent arguments
against either, which diminished my respect for his opinions. What I did know was that
Pike’s offended him in principle simply because, even in those days, there was a two drink
minimum, which Alexander thought was excessive: “If I want a drink, I’ll get a drink,” he’d
say. “I’m already these people three bucks to get in.”
These people. I tried to tell him that this was pretty standard, but he didn’t want to hear
it. About jazz Alexander would only say, “I’m just not all that interested in repetitious
music.” That was all he felt he needed to say on the subject. His clamp-mouthed stance
certainly foreshadowed our eventual downfall; our disagreements surrounded what wasn’t
said.
On that particular evening in 1964, Alexander stepped outside for “a walk around the
block,” mostly to show his distaste for the ballad-heavy set Joe Hamilton played that
night. That was precisely when I saw Burton leaning back on his bar stool in divine
rapture. At first, I thought perhaps the man was just drunk out of his mind, but that
misperception didn’t last long. He swayed in that chair, as if he was in a trance, bobbling
his head, jiggling his legs, waving his arms, his feet jittery and bouncing. Every part of his
body was in some mode of vibration or movement, paced with the sway of the music.
What’s more, despite the darkness of the club, his gesticulation stood out as one can
notice an insect when it races across the desert floor. This was all the justification I
needed to approach him.
When the band took their break between sets, I walked over to the man and stuck out my
hand. He looked at my arm for a moment, like an animal—pure instinct—as if he weren't
sure what it was doing in front of him, not sure if he should shake it or bite it. Slowly his
eyes cycled back to the world of the living. He pushed his glasses back with his thumb and
took my hand limply in his, squeezing with barely any pressure applied. His facial
expression was part-ambivalence, part-humility. What an odd individual, I thought. The
more I looked at him, the more his face seemed strangely asymmetrical, the nose
contorted, ears lopsided, mouth curved in a strange pattern, teeth shooting this way and
that. His clothes didn’t help matters. Mustard yellow pants, and a lime green shirt marred
by several rips and holes. Yet in the vapor of the club, this all seemed tempered, par for
the course somehow.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes.” I was surprised: His voice was scratchy and hoarse.
“That’s all you have to say for yourself? ‘Yes.’ I was watching. You're having some kind
of experience over here.”
He nodded matter-of-factly. Here’s a man with a hidden inner life, I thought. This man
must be complicated. Complicated was what I'd been looking for. I wasn’t bored by
Alexander or stifled. Alexander was a fine man. It was just that he was often occupied, or
preoccupied, or otherwise filled with thoughts having little to do with me. Mostly he was
just dull. Me, I just wanted to be entertained.
I ordered a cocktail and wrote my phone number on the napkin. “Give me a call in the
morning.” I said. “Only in the morning.”
“My name is Burton,” he said.
“Yes. Well, nice to make your acquaintance, Burton.”
I walked back to my seat. He stared at the napkin, squinting, then mouthing he phone
number. After a few minutes the band walked back on stage and I watched Burton tuck it
in his front pocket, returning to his trance.
Yes. He did, in fact, call the next morning. “I was cleaning out my pockets when I found
this number,” he said. “I thought I should straighten this out. Who are you again?”
This didn’t surprise or offend me. It only further endeared him to me. Here was a man
without pretense, a man unaware how bold my maneuver had been -- my husband just a
hundred feet away. I tried to explain this to him, but Burton was less impressed than
baffled. Instead, I asked him if he would be so kind as to join me for breakfast the next
day.
We met at a café five blocks from his apartment on Charles Street. Burton worked for the
public library, each day from noon to six—certainly a mutually convenient schedule for both
of us. On this particular day he showed up, daisies in hand, dressed in a white suit, red tie
leaping out in the field of whiteness. It was certainly better than mustard and lime. He
approached me with his lopsided goofy grin, and thrusted the flowers to me, almost as a
threat. I held them as if they were made of glass, afraid to move. We ordered coffee and
raisin scones.
Then Burton began talking, gabbing with little of the tentativeness or forgetfulness of our
earlier conversations. He was a flower opening to the morning rays.
“Yes. I do work as a librarian,” he said. “But that's is just to pay the bills. My aspiration
is to be the best, I mean—how do I word this —the most powerful poet out there. That’s
what I do.”
I dropped a sugar cube in my coffee.
The reason I was there at Pike’s was that, um, I’m writing this longer poem, but I stopped
and now I’m having a hard time getting back to it, and jazz, well, jazz always helps me tap
into the unconsciousness, into that energy. You see.”
“Is that why you love it so much?”
“It’s as close as it comes religion, or God, or whatever you might want to call it.”
“So you were there on assignment, so to speak.
“What? No. I was there because I was stuck. See, in my view, poetry should create its
own world, not require any knowledge on the reader’s part. It’s a contract between the
reader and myself. It’s communication, see. It’s about this coffee cup."
He thudded his cup on the table to make his point, cracking the ceramic, sending coffee
splattering all over the table. He didn’t miss a beat.
think about it at least once an hour. If he were here I suppose he’d make some acerbic
remark about time slipping through a worm hole, the meaninglessness of all of us in the
grand scheme of things. He was big on that idea—humility in the face of our eventual
demise.
“Just face it,” he used to say. “You’re nothing more than walking decay.” Oh yes, he was
cheery.
We met in 1964 at Pike’s Street Café in Baltimore. Joe Hamilton’s quartet was giving me
goose bumps that night; the rhythm section was thumping. I was there with my husband,
Alexander, who was only humoring me since he loathed jazz in general and Joe Hamilton in
particular. Unfortunately, my husband didn’t have any particularly cogent arguments
against either, which diminished my respect for his opinions. What I did know was that
Pike’s offended him in principle simply because, even in those days, there was a two drink
minimum, which Alexander thought was excessive: “If I want a drink, I’ll get a drink,” he’d
say. “I’m already these people three bucks to get in.”
These people. I tried to tell him that this was pretty standard, but he didn’t want to hear
it. About jazz Alexander would only say, “I’m just not all that interested in repetitious
music.” That was all he felt he needed to say on the subject. His clamp-mouthed stance
certainly foreshadowed our eventual downfall; our disagreements surrounded what wasn’t
said.
On that particular evening in 1964, Alexander stepped outside for “a walk around the
block,” mostly to show his distaste for the ballad-heavy set Joe Hamilton played that
night. That was precisely when I saw Burton leaning back on his bar stool in divine
rapture. At first, I thought perhaps the man was just drunk out of his mind, but that
misperception didn’t last long. He swayed in that chair, as if he was in a trance, bobbling
his head, jiggling his legs, waving his arms, his feet jittery and bouncing. Every part of his
body was in some mode of vibration or movement, paced with the sway of the music.
What’s more, despite the darkness of the club, his gesticulation stood out as one can
notice an insect when it races across the desert floor. This was all the justification I
needed to approach him.
When the band took their break between sets, I walked over to the man and stuck out my
hand. He looked at my arm for a moment, like an animal—pure instinct—as if he weren't
sure what it was doing in front of him, not sure if he should shake it or bite it. Slowly his
eyes cycled back to the world of the living. He pushed his glasses back with his thumb and
took my hand limply in his, squeezing with barely any pressure applied. His facial
expression was part-ambivalence, part-humility. What an odd individual, I thought. The
more I looked at him, the more his face seemed strangely asymmetrical, the nose
contorted, ears lopsided, mouth curved in a strange pattern, teeth shooting this way and
that. His clothes didn’t help matters. Mustard yellow pants, and a lime green shirt marred
by several rips and holes. Yet in the vapor of the club, this all seemed tempered, par for
the course somehow.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes.” I was surprised: His voice was scratchy and hoarse.
“That’s all you have to say for yourself? ‘Yes.’ I was watching. You're having some kind
of experience over here.”
He nodded matter-of-factly. Here’s a man with a hidden inner life, I thought. This man
must be complicated. Complicated was what I'd been looking for. I wasn’t bored by
Alexander or stifled. Alexander was a fine man. It was just that he was often occupied, or
preoccupied, or otherwise filled with thoughts having little to do with me. Mostly he was
just dull. Me, I just wanted to be entertained.
I ordered a cocktail and wrote my phone number on the napkin. “Give me a call in the
morning.” I said. “Only in the morning.”
“My name is Burton,” he said.
“Yes. Well, nice to make your acquaintance, Burton.”
I walked back to my seat. He stared at the napkin, squinting, then mouthing he phone
number. After a few minutes the band walked back on stage and I watched Burton tuck it
in his front pocket, returning to his trance.
Yes. He did, in fact, call the next morning. “I was cleaning out my pockets when I found
this number,” he said. “I thought I should straighten this out. Who are you again?”
This didn’t surprise or offend me. It only further endeared him to me. Here was a man
without pretense, a man unaware how bold my maneuver had been -- my husband just a
hundred feet away. I tried to explain this to him, but Burton was less impressed than
baffled. Instead, I asked him if he would be so kind as to join me for breakfast the next
day.
We met at a café five blocks from his apartment on Charles Street. Burton worked for the
public library, each day from noon to six—certainly a mutually convenient schedule for both
of us. On this particular day he showed up, daisies in hand, dressed in a white suit, red tie
leaping out in the field of whiteness. It was certainly better than mustard and lime. He
approached me with his lopsided goofy grin, and thrusted the flowers to me, almost as a
threat. I held them as if they were made of glass, afraid to move. We ordered coffee and
raisin scones.
Then Burton began talking, gabbing with little of the tentativeness or forgetfulness of our
earlier conversations. He was a flower opening to the morning rays.
“Yes. I do work as a librarian,” he said. “But that's is just to pay the bills. My aspiration
is to be the best, I mean—how do I word this —the most powerful poet out there. That’s
what I do.”
I dropped a sugar cube in my coffee.
The reason I was there at Pike’s was that, um, I’m writing this longer poem, but I stopped
and now I’m having a hard time getting back to it, and jazz, well, jazz always helps me tap
into the unconsciousness, into that energy. You see.”
“Is that why you love it so much?”
“It’s as close as it comes religion, or God, or whatever you might want to call it.”
“So you were there on assignment, so to speak.
“What? No. I was there because I was stuck. See, in my view, poetry should create its
own world, not require any knowledge on the reader’s part. It’s a contract between the
reader and myself. It’s communication, see. It’s about this coffee cup."
He thudded his cup on the table to make his point, cracking the ceramic, sending coffee
splattering all over the table. He didn’t miss a beat.