Year 1: Forever Forgotten Salamander by Josh Ferguson

Hey guys! Here's my short piece for the workshop tomorrow. Hope you enjoy!

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A soulful saxophone yearned through the Sierra Jazz Lounge, which was hustling and bustling with sharp suits and dazzling dresses. Thick Marlboro smoke hung in the dimly lit air, hovering over everyone’s heads as they sloshed their wine glasses about. All their boisterous and ignorant chatter was to the point of suffocating. The laughter, the puffs of cigars, the slurping of wine, the sniffing of cocaine, the calls for celebration, the obnoxious catcalling, the murmurs of shallow men, the squeals of ditzy blondes, the drunken words of the lonely, and everything else in between.

Every note that came from the jazz band was lost upon the ears of everyone in the club. No one came here for the music. Not a single soul. These people may have been living in the 1920’s, in the so-called Jazz Age, but jazz clubs like this one were never about the jazz itself. The music was forever doomed to mingle with the cigarette fog in the air. But the band, who called themselves ‘Sinclair and The Salamander Blues’, knew of this. The drummer kept on drumming, the upright bassist kept on stringing a beat, the piano man kept on speaking to the mind, the trumpeter kept on singing to the heart, and the saxophonist kept on serenading the sad pasts of anyone that might have been listening.

Their melodies did not go fully unheard, thankfully. One man in the crowd, with unkempt hair and a suit one or two sizes bigger than him, gave The Salamander Blues his upmost attention. He let them swallow him entirely in their smooth yet cacophonous sound, their carefree yet meticulous arrangements. And he loved it. The feeling he got when he listened to them was worth a million dollars, maybe two million. After all, it was better than talking to the bastard bozos he was sitting w-

“Heywood!” a man said from across the table. “You’ve barely touched your drink. Either you drink up or I’m gonna finish it for ya!” Heywood broke his vison away from the band to the man, who had a filthy prostitute wrapped around his broad shoulders, then looked upon the cocktail by his own arm.

“Oh right,” Heywood said, necking his drink back in a massive gulp. He returned his attention back to the band.

“I’ve noticed you’ve been pretty silent since we all sat down,” the man said with a chuckle. “What’s eating you, ol’ boy?”

“Nothing” Heywood replied, making half eye contact. “Nothing to worry your little head about, anyway.”

“If you say so.”

As he downed the rest of his drink, he caught eyes with Paloma, who stroked his arm up and down ever so cautiously, moving from the top of his elbow all the way down to the webs between his pencil-like fingers, and back up again. She had confident lips and innocent eyes. The brief glance they shared before he looked back towards the stage reminded him once more how unlucky he was to have her.   

“Whatever it is you can tell me, Honeybear” she said.

“There’s nothing to worry about, I’ve already said this”

“I know I know, you just need to loosen up a little that’s all. Francis is right, you haven’t said a word all night”.

Heywood just focused on the music. She stopped stroking his arm.

A circle of laughter erupted from the table, but he didn’t even notice. Or even cared, for that matter. What he did notice, however, was the saxophonist blurting out a raging solo as beads of sweat fell from his brow onto the stage floor. How sad. All that passion, all that desire, was being projected into a void of nothingness, an ignorant oblivion known only as the Sierra Jazz Lounge.

The stroking started again. “C’mon babe. Talk. What’s on your mind?” Paloma said.

For the first time all night, Heywood gave his attention to something other than the music playing.

“Honey you really want to know what’s on my mind?” he said.

“That’d be swell.”

He bit his lip and, for the first time all night, turned away from the stage towards the table.  

“Okay then,” he began. “I’ll tell ya what’s been on my mind. All of us have come here to have fun, right?”

“Well yes, that is the exact reason. Why else would we come?”

“I don’t know, to talk, perhaps? Talk about things that actually matter? Instead of beating our gums about who Carissa is canoodling with this week, and other such things?”

“Oh Heywood, don’t be such a wet blanket. We’re just having a good time! If I knew you were gonna be so grouchy, I would’ve left you at the apartment.” She wore a coy face, complimenting her tone of voice. “Maybe another cocktail will set you straight.”

“Honey, I don’t want one. Look, ev-”

“Waiter!” she shouted, her hand waving frantically towards the bar. She signalled two fingers and gave the man a not-so-subtle wink.

“Look,” Heywood repeated. “Everyone’s having fun, y’say. Yet I can’t help but feel this is the most depressing place in all of New Orleans”

“C’mon Heywood!” Francis scoffed at him. “What in God’s name makes you say that?” As much as the answer was obvious, Heywood scrambled for what he wanted to say. There were numerous reasons, after all. The stench of false happiness, the eyesore of pretend electricity. The all-too-common whore sucking Francis’s neck was definitely another reason, but he resisted the temptation to bring it up.

Heywood licked his lips-

He cleared his throat-

Words burning his teeth-

The swallow of spit-

The opening of the mouth-

And then-

No one cared.

Everyone suddenly turned their heads to a spilt over glass, to the oozing of champagne onto the silk tablecloth, and to the embarrassment of a dolled up poster girl. She giggled like emptiness itself.

“Oopsies!” she laughed.

The whole table burst into hysterics.

Except for Heywood, who looked on hopelessly.

Much like the music, he meant nothing to them.