Scotch and curry - short story - Black South Fiction, Art, Culture

African American Review, Summer, 1993 by Lolis Eric Elie

Some people applaud when we begin a song that they know. It is more than recognition. There is catharsis there. We are playing exactly what they would play if they could play and were on the bandstand. The songs break down, lend credence to, that which they have felt in the most private extremities of their own souls.

But what does Wandalyn feel?

Often she doesn't even look at us. Her eyes scan the room, selecting other eyes to play with. When she is in the mood, she may snap her fingers to the music. Even dance! hips still planted firmly on her stool. Or, if she is in a very good mood, she may even dance with one of the men here.

Knowing that it is possible for Wandalyn to snap or dance to our music makes the band play harder. Bands hope too. But Wandalyn doesn't share herself with us even through the music.

When Wandalyn's friends are here they call her Cheeky Red. It is a common nickname. New Orleans is full of Cheeky Reds like Boston is full of Carrot Tops and towns near the Texas border are full of guys called Tex. And perhaps at one point this nickname held meaning. Perhaps it was only given to people with a very specific combination of look and attitude. Now, it is applied to almost anyone with reddish-brown skin. A creole complexion.

But it fits Wandalyn. She has a thin, sharp face framed by a mane of hair that's been dyed auburn. Her nose is small and broad and her eyes are a temperature of tan that can burn. When she smiles the light catches the star-shaped cap on her front tooth so consistently that it seems practiced. How she practices catching light on a gold tooth I can not say. But she never misses, and this is certainly part of what Curry saw.

Alvin didn't let Curry drink between sets. The bartenders knew this. But after the gigs, before everyone packed up to leave, Curry was allowed a beer or two. That night, sitting on the stool, Wandalyn's tooth flashing, he ordered Chivas Regal, her drink. And since the musicians pay half-price, the bartender served him J&B.

Their conversation was quieter this time. I sat with Skeet at a table near Wandalyn's stool. Our conversation was kept sparse so we could hear theirs. But Curry, still cocking his head and gesturing with his hands, spoke in the low, late-night whispers of the men here. From time to time he would put his hand on her hand or on her shoulder as if to make a point. She listened (without seriousness, I thought) to this young boy. When Curry's second scotch came, he put his hand on her knee as he reached to take a sip, and she just looked at him, not moving, watching him take a smooth, long swallow. I shuddered.

Curry finished his drink and quickly got up. We expected that he would come over to our table then, but he didn't. He picked up his guitar and walked along the bar back to Wandalyn's stool. With her cigarette still in her mouth, she got up, and they walked out together.

Looking blankly around the room, I pretended it was nothing.

It is a different world inside The Lion's Den. A different world, far from the world where the man who is the mayor is and the stage is held by whichever municipal or international crisis is current. Those things exist in here and are even discussed. But while these patrons know that politicians and events affect much of what happens on the streets and sidewalks outside of this place and even affect their lives outside these walls, this place doesn't feel as if it itself is impacted.