i chose you

7/31/2019 I chose you

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It was a hot day in March, the sun bared no restraints, and it left all miserable under

its warm glower. All scorched beneath its radiance like bacon on the back burner of an old

stove. At night Los Angeles was a rustling ghost town of the living dead. The sunspresence was still felt during the darkening hours.

Yes, it was a hot day in March when I checked into the motel carrying all that I

owned: a phonograph, the LPs (Charlie Parker, Mingus, Coleman Hawking, Brotzmann,Davis, Coltrane, etc) the work I scoffed and toiled mercilessly with, the books, the few

issues ofHalf BeatMagazine I owned, my Tenor saxophone, and a few clothes.

The day I checked into that rancid motel I told the bookkeeper, a stocky little bit ofa man, that my stay was undeterminable. His voice groaned and splintered like an old dusty

blues LP, Rent is twelve dollars a night. He said handing me my key. His skin was the

color of sand; I could tell he was a smoker right off the bat. His shoulders scrunched like an

accordion, His hair a disheveled pompadourHe belched out a few words, So where are you from?

Oh, I guess you can say Im a . . . traveler of sorts. I hesitated for reasons

unknown to me.

. . . .Of sorts? He looked perplexed his forehead went slack; you couldve smeltthe guys breath from a mile away, his face glinted with oil; enough to shine a cops shoes,

Lord knew there were plenty of them around.You gotta name? His teeth glistened like bricks of gold.

Edmund. . . Edmund Sinclair.

I walked through an outside corridor towards room 214, my room. The motel wasadjacent to a pawn shop, a little corner store was on the same block as the motel.

Never in my life did I feel as alone as I did the first night I spent in that sleazy low

rent motel. I sat down, the couch creaked, a roach crawled from the crevice between the

cushions, I didnt bother killing itit didnt bother me. The walls were thin, and brownwater leaked from the pipes, at night you could hear them groan. Some nights you heard

the moans of Johns fucking syphilis infected whores, as wives were waiting at home forcalls. Junkies asking for handouts and whose tracks ran for miles across their riddled AIDSinfested anatomies; syringes were all too common to come across in these burrows, So

were the police sirens which whirred the night through.

That night I strolled down sunset, I took of my jacket the night air felt cool againstmy bare and naked arms. My journeys led me to an all night bistro a couple of blocks out

of the way. It was there I ordered some clam chowder and a cup of Columbias finest.

The place was a little hole in the wall I, and another man, who at the time was

submerged in an old issue ofHalf BeatMagazine in a booth adjacent mine were the onlycustomers in the place. For the while I felt uneasy. I picked up a newspaper and began to

read, sipping at my lukewarm coffee. Just then the man got up.

Wait a second. . . Sir! I said addressing him, I looked towards the booth adjacentmine, I walked towards him with a grin, and with an extended hand I greeted him by name.

Edmund. . .Edmund Eugene Sinclair?

Yes? he said as he sipped his coffee,perplexed as to how this supposed stranger knew who I was.

What brings you here?

Im sorry perhaps you dont remember me, Jesus has it been that long. . . I played the

Sax you played the skins. Christ, dont you remember me?


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He took another sip of his coffee, slowly finishing the cup setting it down with a

plop on the laminate table top.

I dont think I do, although that name does ring a bell.My face went limp with discontent. Disappointed, I walked back to my table.

The man looked not much older than I; a slender man with a broad frame.

Jesus, the man hasnt changed a bit. Hes the same old son of a bitch he was in school.My chowder came I ate, in silence and humiliation.

Well I dont want to bother you. I said, Its getting late. I started towards the

door.

I walked back, back to my cold water pad back to the insanity that awaited me.

Once I got in I took off my jacket and threw it on the couch as it fell to the floor I picked it

up and . . . ah, ha, but what is this?A glimmer caught my eye under the stale light of my motel room. A wad of foil lay

strewn underneath it . . . Could it be . . . My . . . EGAD, IT WAS! I unraveled the foil, and

within lay a clump of cannabis sativa about two grams in weight her rhinestone stippled

anatomy made her exquisite as she lay there as helpless as I.I went to the drawer, searching for my glass pipe; in vein I scoured my motel room,

searching the fissures of the couch in utter disgust; nothing, nothing more than seventy-nine cents in loose change and a used condom. I searched the boxes of my belongings

through the playboys through the . . . . But what is this? Inside the box I found an old copy

of Half Beat with who elses face on the cover but Richard Louis. I laughed amused at mydiscovery.

I thought to myself.

I took some time to reminisce, musing over my high school days the days of

recluse the days of solitude and. . .and . . . I closed my yearbook violently and began to sobquietly upon the piss stench couch.

II.Meandering their way to a table in the back row and sitting down amongst the

onlookers they watched

A crowd of Beats, Jazz heads, and aficionados walked inside, the three men weregreeted by a haze of Marijuana smoke feral jazz, sax, and drums.

The music was avant-garde. The songs were awkwardly named:H, Round12:01,

andBomb, to name a few. Though, in a critical standpoint the music had no substance it

was enjoyed by the tea smokers: black and white disembodied bohemians who missed outon the days of Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie. One song much more linear than the

rest, a piece sung by a woman, was entitled YoursEvermore. She sung like she looked

like an angelshe sung as though she was fed velvet as a child. Someone will strike itlucky with her tonight. one whispered amongst the others.

Yea, me. A slight laugh broke the thick smoke.

After the number by the anonymous woman the band left for intermission Richard

galloped down the flight sweat poured down his collard shirt like rain. Richard was not

alone he brought his entourage with him.


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I searched the clefts between the mattress, and Eh. . . Ah, Ha!

The pipe was a piece of work itself. A Technicolor compose, or rather a day-glowcomposition made the pipe unlike any other, its bowl hung an inch below its stem rather

awkward when smoking or trying to clear smoke from its glass curtail.

I packed the bowl gently . . . gently. . .And their in that dank motel under the stale florescent lights I made love.

Her clouds tasted metallic, against my tongue. Her scent engulfed every diameter of

the room, I opened a window to chase out the smell, a temped breeze quivered in taking mewith it as I soared towards my saxophone and began to play a number by Peter Brotzmann

called Sanity

The night rolled along, unexpectedly there was no apocalypse; I could perhaps deal

with another world war. Something far worse, far more horrific than the genocide ofmillions. . . Genocide, I could perhaps deal with and/or ignore . . . I never thought it could

happen, what I mean is, it happened to me.

Half an hour past, half an hour was all it took to rattle the nerves of a tenant in the

next room.Turn the fucking music down! The voice screamed as thuds belted against the

wall like a jackhammer against the skull. Seconds later. . .Turn that fucking music down god damn it before I call the cops! The voice

belched rudely. This time I pounded the wall telling the anonymous person to fuck off!

That was the moment that was the moment when my whole life changed . . . .LIGHTS OUT!

There was something angelic about her, something I could not describe, but put me

on pins and needles throughout the night. These colors so vivid so vicarious and so

haunting I tread my memories with caution and retell the night to the best of my abilities.I couldtell you that it was just a bad trip, but that would be spoiling the density of

the escapade, or rather the degree of complications which aroused through, and throughout

that night.When I awoke my chest was jumping like a bullfrog, shapes seeded themselves

with no bounds and no limits . . . My eyes were cameras, my memory was the film, and my

thoughts were the projectors.The weird, thing was I never noticed the door connecting those two rooms. The

weird thing was I didnt remember opening the door or the dead woman in room 213.

i chose you

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