Between the Devil and Charlie Parker

By Matthias Demo

For Jackson Davis every day is comprised of a set list of events: the same seven songs, the same number of drinks, the same number of cigarettes, all while perched atop the same stool at the same bar. That is until one evening a stranger walks into his life and offers him the opportunity to regain that which he has lost but not without a price.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491851500

Matthias Demo

Originally hailing from London Ontario Canada, Matt Demo studied English literature and journalism at the University of British Columbia. Inspired by the majestic Canadian wilderness and the west coast lifestyle, he settled in Vancouver where he flourished as a freelance writer and poet. A romantic at heart he rapidly compiled a large collection of poetry inspired by both personal and observed quixotic situations.

Book preview

© 2013 by Matthias Demo. All rights reserved.

Cover art and design by Jolyanne Vaillancourt

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/15/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-1586-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-5150-0 (ebook)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Intro - Dirty John’s Bar

The Last Stool By The Blues

I Got Rhythm (12:57)

Wednesday

Estrellita (Little Star) (2:49)

Of Toasts And Trusts

Love For Sale (5:37)

The Perfect Day

Almost Like Being In Love (2:36)

A Sense Of Irony

If I Should Lose You (2:49)

No Rest For The Wicked

Dexterity (2:59)

’Tween The Devil And Charlie Parker

Scrapple From The Apple (2:55)

Outro - The Last Defence

For my Dad,

In hopes that the past may reside where it belongs and that which we were destined to be may still lay claim to our souls.

Every moment is a golden one for him who has the vision to recognize it as such.

Henry Miller

Intro

DIRTY JOHN’S BAR

I see that you have found your way back here again. This place has a way about it that always makes people come back. They sit, enjoy a drink, and reflect on the past. I enjoy these moments of reflection in others. I find them to be almost therapeutic. At one time I was like them and I was once like you. Well… in a way.

I suppose that when I first started coming here I knew that I would end up like this. We all have our reasons for ending up where we do. If you plan on sitting here awhile I can unfold my story a little for you. Give you a glimpse into the darkness that has brought me here every night for more days than I can count. I know that this may resemble a cliché, perhaps not, but every word of this tale that I will spin for you is true.

It started on a Wednesday night, much like any Wednesday night. On the night in question I was sitting at my usual stool down the end of Dirty John’s Bar where the pretzels are wet and the drinks are dry; not as dry as the conversation, but pretty damn dry. I was alone. I wanted to be alone. I was in one of my states where I needed time to reflect.

Some days the past hangs heavier than others. My shoulders were beginning to slump more and more every day. I was not deserving of human contact when I was in one of my states. Wednesday nights were always bad for me. Wait… perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself here. Let me tell you about my routine first, and a little bit about this place that we are in. I will eventually get to that Wednesday night that changed everything, and the Wednesday that changed everything further.

I would come in here and find myself, lose myself, and find something else within the last dregs of many bottles of whiskey: a solitary figure sitting alone in the dark down at the end of the bar. There is no greater sense of solitude than that which occurs in public. If you have ever lived a day of pain in this world it will not be hard for you to catch my meaning. Every night I would crawl into my self-imposed prison and carry out my sentence.

The bartender and owner of this establishment, John, nicknamed John the Baptist, is well known in these parts for his long winded sermons that he gives to each new patron that walks through these doors. He has long since given up on his sermonizing in my direction. In fact he only speaks to me in gestures and gibberish these days. Funny that… it wasn’t always like this though. At one time John believed that I was worth saving; much like he believes that you are worth saving. My advice to you is to listen closely to my tale and make what you will of the words that you hear in this place. Wisdom can come from the least likely source, and my story may still be of some value to someone out there.

When I first started coming in here John was very adamant about me drinking slowly and savouring the flavours of the different whiskeys he would serve me. In his way he was trying to get me to find beauty or appreciation in something. I am guessing it was an attempt to get into my head. I have seen him try this on other lost souls that have wandered through the door to crash land on the stools in front of the bar. Once John gets his hooks into you it is all preaching and preening: remoulding the individual back into what they were once intended to be. His sermons would cause many ears to prick up and take a listen.

While he spoke the taps would run dry. It was as if he timed it on purpose to have everyone a few drinks in, then he cut off the flow of alcohol when his audience was ready to imbibe his words: a slightly inebriated, captive, audience of drunkards that needed saving.

I could not figure out why he did this to these poor saps. It seemed to me that the worse off these creatures were the more money John could make. Fixing all of their problems and sending them away would surely drive him out of business. Perhaps not, sorrow multiplies rapidly these days, and all sorrows need to be drowned in their due course.

Some nights I would watch him build up the confidence in the drunken saps, other nights I would focus on the real reason why I came here in the first place. I will get to that in a moment, but for the time being let us talk some more about this establishment where my little tale takes place.

This dirty little bar located in the deep dark dungeons of downtown where the neon lights flicker too many times and spell remnants of the words they used to be, was once home to greatness. Back in the day this place used to house some of the great jazz and blues artists. People would come from far and wide to listen to the great music of their time and sit back with a cool drink in hand. There is nothing quite like jazz music and a refreshing spirit at the end of a hard day. The music of the people always hits home after a hard day. It is rather poetic is it not? Blues and jazz are the music that drive us to keep striving toward our goals. Broken promises and shattered dreams, these are the things that keep us going. The streets are paved with broken promises and the shattered remains of dreams that once were; the dirty forgotten side of life lives here amongst these scattered bar stools.

The bar itself is not necessarily a dirty place. As you can see the glasses are clean, and the booze is decent. This establishment is made dirty by the inhabitants that stroll through the door on a nightly basis, me included. Still, there is a modicum of dignity for the place.

John insisted that the jukebox down at the far end of the bar only play the music of the people. The tracks on the jukebox do not contain lyrics or singing at all. It was a very important factor in many of John’s speeches that he gave to the newly lost individuals that would find their way through the door. John used to tell me that all aspects of life have the same music to them. We are drawn to a specific rhythm; each of us has our own music. The lyrics are changeable at different times of our lives: children listen to the music more than adults and the lyrical content is not relevant to their daily life, teenagers listen to a more rebellious lyrical content to help them understand the changes that they are going through and so forth. John did not have any music with lyrical content on the jukebox because his idea was to provoke change. Familiarity is the anti-venin of change.

John chose his words carefully, just as he chose his music. Both are meant to provide a bite that awakens the mind and stir the soul. Those that he has convinced to move on with their lives and put the past behind them would leave to the words Go with God. Those of us that have stayed are rarely treated to such biblical messages. John reserved his sermons for those that have room in their hearts for more love. There are not too many of us left in the bar that are regulars.

Other than myself there is Larry Prendergast, a former stock broker that lost everything one fatal day when a simple clerical error made all of the difference between rags and riches; Henry Halloway, a smart man that lost his way due to a night of drinking that ended in him crashing his car and accidentally crippling his little boy; and then there is Jimmy the dime Wheeler who lost every dime he ever earned down at the racetrack. Each of us had once been thrust in the spotlight on our first entry into John’s Bar.

Larry sits by himself at a table at the far end of the bar and plays solitaire every night. If you look closely at the deck you will notice that he is missing a card. I guess he does not feel that any sort of victory is attainable anymore. Larry was once a real wiz when it came to adding things up. His money making sense drove him to great success. Many of his former clients are very wealthy due to his business savvy. Larry is a prime example of how success, in so much as it can bring you great wealth and respect, will never be worth as much as the fall that robs you of it. Larry plays his cards every night as a reminder that there will always be that one intangible out there that you can never control. He stretched his hand too far and came up short of too many peoples’ dreams; he could not go back. He is safe here with the risks of his past life tucked away in his memories, playing a game that he can never win, much like the life that he left behind.

Jimmy sits close to John by the taps and reads the racing lines out loud. Every once in a while he mentions a horse that made him some money and reminisces with a story of that day at the track. In his heyday Jimmy was a trainer. He spent his youth around horses out on his parents’ farm grooming and riding the animals. Every day he would train horses for his future. His goal was to be a jockey but he took a fall at the age of nineteen that put an end to that dream. Still full of vigour Jimmy set out to train champion horses for others to ride. His heart and soul were in those animals. Unfortunately there is a specific element that goes hand in hand with horse racing that Jimmy could not elude. He could defeat any foe that he encountered out on the racetrack, but his future began to darken when the call of the race was taken from his hands and replaced with a slip of paper.

High stakes gambling was a monster that Jimmy could not best. His life’s work was stripped from him one muddy day down at the track when his pride and joy, Thunderbolt, took a bad step and broke his leg. That was the end of Jimmy. He stuck around the track for a few more years talking to the other trainers, trying to get a line on the next big thing, watching for the big score that would open up enough money to get his stable back. Some dreams are not meant to come true, and life has a funny way of showing us this fact. All that Jimmy has left is the line in the daily paper.

Henry sits in front of John on a nightly basis and absorbs words as much as he absorbs liquor. John still speaks to Henry in a manner similar to that which he once did when Henry first walked through the door. The words are different but there is something in his tone that makes me feel like Henry may be saved from his nightly boozing in this place. His salvation is that much closer at hand when he speaks of the night that he crashed his car. His little boy continues to struggle with his disability but he fills Henry with hope. The spirit of a child can instil hope in even the most wayward soul. Henry may not become one of us. There is a glimmer behind his eyes that tells me so. May John’s words, his soothing tone, find their destination and save that man.

I remember the last words that John spoke to me in his very distinct tone.

Be careful which spirits you choose for convalescence.

He spoke in a clear voice and made the sign of the cross. That was that. Since that day he has not spoken a single word to me other than the occasional grunt in my direction or a simple back and forth about what