When The Music Stops

When the Music Stops

13th Street, Philadelphia

This evening I post this comment about a muddy dirt road much like the roads that led to our shoddy, shanty-like run-down house in the valleys of one of the South American countries, one that I won’t name for fear of retaliation.

No matter what was done to the small house, it seemed never enough, never enough bed space, never enough cooking space, never enough family space, just never enough. And, if it be known, the oppression, the dictatorial manner in which the authorities governed added to the likelihood that nothing more would ever be done. Our house, our lives were locked in an ever-downward spiral. Deep within the valleys between gargantuan mountains, echoes could be heard of yesterdays forgotten promises from those who aspired to be more, to do more, to see more. Unanswered prayers and unfulfilled dreams lay bare upon the furrowed ground that ran beside our delipidated shack. No matter how much effort was put forth to escape the imprisonment, to move beyond the hold of the poverty that ran rampant within the villages, the muddy dirt road remained before us, the barrier between who we’d become and who we might aspire to be.

To look at the roads that run alongside the embankments lined with trees, one could only imagine the adventures that hid behind each tree trunk, each clearing, each mountain range that enclosed the village hiding it from the world beyond much like an umbrella covers and hides the hands to hold it open. The road was almost impassable for the ordinary traveler, but for those who lived just beyond the bend, there were daily trips for needed yet rare commodities. The rain and its inevitable torrents of water cut gullies and ditches in the roads causing them to appear aged with deep wrinkles filled with murky water. On these wrinkled old roads, I walked carrying small bags of flour and necessities our mother had sent me to buy at the village jot’em down store that stocked only a few of this and a little of that. I'll never forget the warmth of the sun once the rain had subsided as it baked my arms that were exposed to its assault on the road causing it to become cracked and dried. My memory of that time will soon be passing away as new memories push their way into my mind. And, to the surprise of many, I'll always remain rooted in the muddy dirt roads in the poverty-stricken villages I called home. It was my life. It was the only life I knew. Unknown South American author.

For Antonio Alejandro, an emigrant from South America now living in New Jersey, six foot tall with black hair and black eyes, he didn’t look much different than anyone else in the bar in downtown Philadelphia butted up against the mahogany’s shiny surface. He was in Philadelphia on a mission, a mission that would land him in a world unknown to him, but one he wanted more than anything. But, his calling this evening was to take time for himself. Some called him double ‘A’ for short, but mostly just his family members or best friends, what was he had. This evening, like the ones before, found him sitting in front of his favorite bartender, Vazquez something-or-another. He never quite got to the last name between drinks, but it didn’t make any difference nor did it stop the flow of mixed drinks. One after another slid down the bar counter’s slick surface just at the right speed to stop in front of its intended victim. He appreciated the excellent service each time he huddled up at the bar down on Thirteenth street. It had become his hideaway, his place to be, so to speak.

Like all of the other searchers of glory-seeking to “make it” in the real world who lined the bar, each evening as he did, each fell victim to its approaching adversary, the angry night filled with whispered promises, unfulfilled secrets. There arose a chatter about the music, the songs, and the lyrics that compelled the drinkers to drink or that was their excuse to order up another round or lift their glasses high into the air signifying they needed a refill. The music, sometimes more agreeable than others, lulled the listener into a state of vulnerability. As a result of the vulnerability and due to the enchantment of the highs and lows of the melody, each drinker at the bar was compelled to have another, just one more. The cycle was unstoppable, but who would admit that the bartender shouldn’t struggle for the attention of those walking the streets looking for the right door, the right seat, and the right drink?

“So, ‘double A’, I’ve been hearin’ through the grapevine that you’re some kind of musician, a real virtuoso, what ever that means.” commented the bartender as he bent down, pulled out a bar cloth from the shelf under the counter, and began his usual between-drinks activity. The glasses weren’t always spotless, but he wanted them to be. He took pride in his job whether the drinkers acknowledged it or not.

At first, Antonio didn’t want to confess anything or own up to the rumors from those he didn’t know personally. His life, his past was his own business and he’d prefer to keep it that way. No, for him, he only wanted to sip his drink, and chit-chat with the locals who frequented the same space night after night searching for an unattainable solution to their lives' problems. Like the rest of them, he had a story to tell, but for the sake of his memories, his family, and his sibling’s upbringing, he wanted nothing more than to sit in silence until the glass took on a personality of its own beaconing the bartender to come over time and time again.

“I don’t know who’s been spreading that mess around, but they’re far from the truth about many things that are in the wind concerning who I am or what I can or can’t do. You know rumors are spread by fools and those who believe the fools are idiots. Even you have fallen victim to more tales than the others. You know, like you’re labeled our notorious bartender who’s been rumored to have two wives and six children. Now you know as well as I do that a man of your age can’t have that many children. You’re only, what, twenty-three at the most. Why you’re barely out of diapers yourself much less out there fathering children you couldn’t support.” surmised Antonio as he waited for the confessional of a man who was far from the type to father children much less take care of two wives.

The two were at an impasse for a moment and silence separated the facts from the assumptions. It was true that Vasquez was a lady’s man, but he was not husband material. And far be it from the truth that he had any children. He wasn’t ready for that, never would be. His life, his work wasn’t conducive for a marriage to flourish. And, according to the most recent slanderous comments, he’d strayed just about as far as a person would be allowed to stray in the nightlife, into the night clubs, and into the motels that lined the highways leading to his apartment. The motels were less obvious for the shenanigans and unspeakable conduct that he engaged in on special occasions with special visitors. If there were ever a person without scruples, the picture would be a reflection of the bartender who talked to Antonio every evening as the cloak of darkness draped over the city’s streets.

“But let this be a fair warning to those who spread gossip, there is a little truth to some of the comments, some of the accusations about my life, but no one knows the complete truth, perhaps they never will. You know how people can get when they become jealous or envious of someone else,” commented Antonio as he leaned forward to accept another drink from an all-too-interested bartender who was hoping to become the confidant of this stranger who held secrets who didn’t want or need anything from anyone.

“And your name is?” asked Antonio as he paused with a drink in hand.

“Ah, well, my Christian name is Armando Israel Vasquez, but no one calls me that. I only sign that name on documents that ask for my real name or when the police pull me over for somethin’ stupid. Yeah, that’s my name, but everyone who knows me calls me Romeo. I know that’s dumb, but it works for them, they order drinks, they pay their bills, and that works for me.” answered Vasquez as he reached for the bottle to freshen up Antonio’s drink that was long overdue.

Life and its twists and turns in its most unexpected manner were setting Antonio up for an opportunity. It wasn’t anything that he was looking for or planned, at least not at the ‘watering hole’ on Thirteenth Street. No, that bar was the least possible place for his life to take a turn. The door, one he didn’t know existed, was about to open. And what lay behind the door was far more sinister than a glass of bourbon or White Label and water.

“So, what I’m hearing is that your life is so boring that there’s nothing to talk about. No adventure, no stories to share, no family to brag about. Hey, you sound a lot like me!” laughed ‘Romeo’ as he turned to face who’d become an avid customer with many tales to tell.

“No, I didn’t say that. See, that’s what I’m talking about. You, basically a complete stranger to me, have assumed that I have nothing to share, nothing to give back to the world. Well, if the truth is known.” said Antonio as he let his words trail off and become silent.

“Hey!” shouted a new customer as he walked across the front room and took a seat close to the front door. It was obvious he was a ‘newbie’ in town merely by the way he was dressed. A suit and tie, shined shoes, and a cane completed his ensemble that struck the ‘Romeo’ as odd. No one, at least no one he knew, ever dressed as this man was dressed.

Curious to say the least, the ‘Romeo’ mosied over to greet his new customer. His curiosity was met with the normal hellos and how are yous, but it became completely obvious that the new guy didn’t want to start up a conversation. He wasn’t there for anything more than an evening’s drink.

Sensing the unspoken message, ‘Romeo’ took the man’s drink order, returned to the other side of the bar, and filled the glass. He’d glanced toward the man, but he dared not stare. People didn’t like to be stared at by strangers. Once the drink was ready, ‘Romeo’ hastened to the other end of the counter, placed the drink before the customer, and stepped away. It was done for now or until the glass was empty. Then, if history repeats itself, the stranger will call for another leading to yet another, and so forth and so on. It was just the nature of the liquid beast, the addiction held within the bottles that lined the top shelf of the bar on Thirteenth Street.

There were many things about Philadelphia that people disliked, but there were also many things that enticed people, both visitors and locals to come out into the night to explore. One of the most enjoyable things that tugged at the people’s interest in the nightlife was the piano bars. With the melodious melodies and the tinkling of the keys filling the rooms from the front door to the back, anyone could understand why the piano bars were the backbone of the city known for its creation of some of the greatest musicians who had ever lived. This evening in the most inconspicuous place, a club on Thirteenth Street, Antonio was about the embark on a journey that would not only push him to stardom but also drop him into the depths of darkness that surrounds the musical world and failure. Those who take the risk and risk it all, must be willing to lose it all.