Lyrics from an Old Soul

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Holiday

March 28, 2007

I fear that the end is near: the end of my world, the end of my dreams, and all that that really means. Maybe I’ll become inspired again. Maybe not. I just want for one day to know how it feels to win.

What piece of craziness is this? A little vague for a poem, don’t you think? I tell you, working at Shantel’s Jazz Spot gets weirder and weirder every day. Tonight, like every Wednesday night, is talent night. We get a lot of singers, painters, comedians, poets, and musicians to showcase their talent. Some of the musicians are so talented; they’ll play you right to snooze-blues having you move to a whole different tune, I promise you. Others just better be glad that there aren’t any tomatoes in the building.

“Holiday, take care of table seven.”

“I got it, Stu. You just worry about you and I’ll handle this.”

“Yeah, alright.”

Stu serves as our local cook, bouncer, and janitor when needed. I sure wish that I had his energy.

“Hey girl, are you alright?” I ask Rayhana as I make my way to the counter to reload my tray. She’s a new girl from Mississippi that started about two weeks ago. She goes to school during the day, and works here at night. Though she never says so, most times she’s busy trying to figure out how to get up outta this dump.

“Oh, I’m fine. I just didn’t get too much sleep last night. But I’m fine.”

“Yeah, whatever. You just better not let Toni catch you like this. You were ten minutes late for your shift yesterday, and fifteen minutes late today.”

“I know, I’ma get it together. I promise. I’m just in such a slump right now.”

“Yeah, well slump or no slump, every time you walk through those doors, you better have on a jazz smile that says, ‘I’m on time for my shift.”

“Ha, Ha. . . .”

“Well, I’ll check back with you later. People are piling up here and there, and by God, I know we don’t have enough tables to seat ‘em.”

“Alright, see ya.”

***

Rayhana

Dear Diary,

I feel like I’m tearing myself in two. I go to school during the day, and work all night just so I won’t have to go home. I want to move forward, but what could’ve been and what should’ve been of my past causes me to regret the present. I’m surrounded by sweaty men who’ve had way too much to drink, and women who are just as loose as the fannies that they rode in here on. My soul tells me to trust in God, but my flesh desires to know why and for what purpose. I just don’t see why I needed to complete 3 ½ years of college just to work a minimum wage job (something that I could’ve done straight out of high school). The girl that I once was, full of dreams and hopes, she’s long gone now. I don’t even know her anymore, but I wish to God that I did. I don’t know where I’m headed. I’m blinded by the common picture of emptiness and wasted talent that lies before me. I just heard a man that can play better than Jimmy Hendricks, Louis Armstrong, and Beethoven put together. Yet, that same man’s just recovered from five years of endless addiction to h****n. I’ve heard comedians funnier than Eddie Griffin and Mike Epps times two, stuck in this crap hole with me. I’ve seen singers with voices of heavenly angels, singing for $25 a night. Decisions, decisions. The process of making much needed decisions escapes me. I feel like I’m in the middle of the sea. I’m not moving forward or backward, to the left or to the right. I’m just stuck in the middle of the sea, unsure of what awaits me, far from anyone’s reach of saving me. God, I wish I wasn’t so lost in thought. If only clarity were to be mine. Ta-ta for now!

“Hey, beautiful.”

In slides the black knight of my existence. Pooch is a 25 year-old, nice looking, chocolate-peach, Greek god who always seems to give me the chills. I wonder what happened to him. I often wonder if he’s like me, a victim of existence. As he sits in one of the empty stools before me, I gather my thoughts and act cool as if I didn’t even notice him at all.

“Hey, Pooch. It’s Rayhana, by the way. Don’t act like you don’t know. What’ll it be?” I ask, as cool as I can say it.

“Bottle of Heineken, please ma’am . . . and a side tray with your name and number,” he replies with a grin. That sly devil, but he won’t catch me this time; I’ll put Jesus on him.

“Please, in your dreams. You’re lucky that I’m still here. My shift is over in twenty minutes, and I’m out of here.”

“You mean I won’t be seeing you tonight?”

“Ah, let me check . . . NO!”

“Oh, that’s cold. That’s alright though, I got you…”

“Hey man, let’s go,” ejects the h****n addicted musician as he walks to the bar. Gee, he’s a lot cuter up close, but a devil in the sand I bet. “I’m not trying to be here all night.”

“Man, be cool. We have to wait on Al anyway. Why don’t you just sit down, enjoy a drink, and chill out.”

The man sits down reluctantly, as if it pains him to do so. He’s obviously agitated.

“What’ll it be?” I ask, as if by habit. His presence annoys me for some reason. I don’t know why, but his vibe just rubs me the wrong way.

“Sweet tea will be fine.”

“And while you’re at it, drive that tea through Long Island if you can, please ma’am.”

“No, sweet tea is fine. Just sweet tea!” He says it with such force that even I am taken aback. Our eyes pass a glance for a second or two, nothing romantic, just a space of confusion. Who is this man? And why is he so darn demanding? But, it is my job to give the customer exactly what he wants.

“Sweet tea it is, sir.”

“Thanks.”