The Sickle Jazz Cafe

Dad's cafe hardly lasted a year. This old farm town didn't appreciate jazz. Blues, mixed with modern country, they tolerate. We'd get the occasional customer looking for an Eric Clapton album. But never jazz.

Jazz requires you to stop; You've got to really listen to feel the swell of music cutting through as soft as a surgical knife.

The old farm folk were just too busy to spend twenty bucks on a night of slacking off. And if they were going to get drunk, they had moonshine at home.

Dad couldn't bear returning after the bank put that yellow sign on the door.

The Sickle Jazz Cafe

CLOSED //

on the grounds of

BANKRUPTCY//

I stared at it for a moment, allowing the rage of my father's small, shattered dream to bubble up before ripping it off the door and storming inside.

Dad insisted overhead lighting would ruin the mood. So I spent at least three minutes lifting the shaded skirts and pulling the switch on each vintage lamp. Mismatched coffee tables and record players of various sizes rested in between rows of pleather sofas that looped around the room, creating uneven paths. I told him it looked like a hoarder's basement. He said there was an appeal to that.

Once I could see, I took in my father's favorite albums hanging on the dark blue walls. He had a large collection of fifties nostalgia, classic twenty Jazz Age albums, as well as some modern rock and pop. He had Madonna's second album hanging above the women's restroom asd Prince's Purple Rain over the men's.

Besides the music, Dad had a wide range of oil paintings, ceramics, and photography. Mom was relieved when he uncluttered our house with the trinkets and stuffed them in here. I was sure she'd have a hard time biting her tongue once it was all moved back in.

The piece of art my father was most proud of was the golden sickle he hung on the wall across from the bar. He kept it well polished, but warned me not to get too close to the point. He inherited it from his father, who was devastated when his son left their family farm to pursue music.

The Cafe wasn't the first time my dad's dreams were crushed. Turns out there aren't many well-paying jobs for pianists.

I brought a few garbage bags, and we kept large boxes in the break room. I didn't know where to start packing. So I went over to my favorite record player and put on Ella Fitzgerald's Misty, then went to the break room.

Even in here, Dad didn't put in any lighting. I used my phone's flashlight to search through the junk until I found the flattened stack of cardboard boxes.

I froze. The sudden voice made my heart lurch.

"Hello?" I called over my shoulder.

I could have sworn it was a young woman's voice. But as I walked out of the break room and back to the rows of pleather seats and yellow lamps, I found myself alone.

Nothing was misplaced. The front door still had its deadbolt locked. I went back to the break room to gather more boxes of vinyl, but I only got a few sleeves organized when the same voice called out again.

The voice had a guttural rhythm to it. Perfect for singing over a wail of trumpets. I fled the breakroom, but no one was standing beside the door.

I took a breath; perhaps there was something wrong with the record? I took Ella off and replaced her with Charlie Parker.

He began scatting, improvising over an overlay of brass, and for whatever reason the chaos of his song soothed my nerves. I put my fingers gently on the spinning record, thanking the incredible invention for the song. I wished that the farmers would have given jazz a chance. They might have found some solace.

When the strange voice didn't return, and my heart calmed, I turned and spotted the gleaming sickle. Dad would want that back, and I wasn't keen on returning to the dark breakroom just yet. I pulled up one of the bar chairs and attempted to pull the tool off the wall. He hung it with nails and rope. I attempted to lower it down, but the handle got caught. I jumped down, getting away just in time, as the sickle dangled, pointed end out, against the wall.

The point twinkled against the warm lamp. I gingerly touched the sharp point. It was as fine as a serrated steak knife.

I turned slowly, expecting to see a mad woman. But still, there was no one.

"Is anyone there?" I asked through the lump forming in my throat.

"You shouldn't be in here! This is still my father's business." Hearing the voice say my father's name sent a cold chill down my back.

I couldn't hear footsteps or any other signs of life. Charlie was still scatting. I jogged over to the record player to pull the vinyl off, but the track had stopped spinning. Charlie's voice kept crashing through the room as I removed the vinyl and looked around frantically for the source.

"I'm warning you! I'll call the police!"

I put my face over the bell of the player. Sure enough, Charlie's voice wasn't coming from there. I slid and tiptoed across the room, checking each player while looking over my shoulder for any sudden movements.

Then, as I had my face lowered over the final record, an electrical current shot through my ears. A gush of wind and dust smacked me across the face.

I backed away from the pulsing vibration of light. It grew large, pressing against the ceiling and spreading across the room. I cowered behind one of the sofas, unable to make sense of what I was seeing. Bodies were hidden inside the current. They were holding blunt objects and limping toward me. I froze in terror as the eyes of musicians locked onto mine. Then, a cold hand shoved me. I stumbled and tried to run, but they chased after me. In the dark, I couldn't find the door.

With nowhere to run, I turned to face them, and a cool clarity fell upon me. They began to play. Horns flooded the room, a drummer beat his symbols, and behind them, sitting hunched over a piano, was my father.

Another cold hand shoved me backward into the wall. Electricity buzzed through my ribcage, and my heart sliced open with the love of jazz. The love grew warmer until I was downright hot. I touched my chest, but found the sharp end of the sickle instead.

I could.

I could hear everything.

The cry of the brass, the pleading of the drums. My father's longing drenching the chorus, the scatting, ever-changing beat.

The loud lullaby soothed the vibrating ache in my spine. I swayed on the hook to the beat, my foot twitched to keep the rhythm. The last thought I had before my eyes flickered closed and the cafe disappeared was how sad it was that my dad missed such a great performance. It would have mended his heart knowing at least one person finally heard him play.