There’s a dim hole-in-the-wall lit up by a man with a microphone in his hand.
Behind the bar is little Ming, the woman with the big pour to match her personality. The Vodka is lined up, front and center, the Russian’s are first, then the local infused. Ming locks her fingers together and with a turn of the wrist, extends long from elbow to palm, lets the satisfying pop of her knuckles hang in the air before flipping back her hair with a turn of her head.
She begins her martinis, prepared to back up her boasts of best in the west.
The radio guy – a real one, though now retired, once known as Jackson Jax, is jabbing and stabbing at the air with his left hand, unable to quell his YMCA dance moves, those irresistible movements that erupt from the limbs when the sounds of Men at Work pour from speakers flanking the stage into small spaces where faces are turned and tuned in.
Jackson Jax rises up with a half armed Y, a mountain of an M, flings the curve of the C over his head, bends at the knees, to the beat.
He makes no sense in his one-handed writing but the effort is both lost and lauded by the drunks sitting around the fringe and he doesn’t mind that he has only half the dance move flying into the air, because the true focus of his body is on his other hand, which is flipping through the listing of artist and song to fetch the next feature song on request.
The man of the moment, brings his own radio voice, one often put to mischief, put to the ear, to the nape of the neck in a whisper, with a promise to deliver , but never heard over the airwaves. No he is not a radio man at all. Never was. His fine timbre turns on and up a notch in arguments, channels the bass when he needs to be serious, or smooth, or to charm the pants off of some little white-blond, literally.
Mr. Not-a-radio-man-at-all pulls his sultry voice out of his back pocket precisely when he wants to croone a Sinatra or swoon some pretty thing giving him the eye from the back of the dive. And It works.
He can bring the crowd to a giddy frenzy and get the sound sent back in waves, a chorus of voices swell from the rail, from the other side of the place, from the stools, from the low couches, and the response washes over his tall frame to plant itself inside that little space where he keeps his quiet pride.
It sits there, this core of confidence built on quarter notes and timing, sits and waits to be exhaled and reunited with his deep tones; a voice he frees when ever she requests this kind of touch. He obliges, sends this measure of adoration out to find her, strokes his beloved with lyrical rhyme.
And as anyone can tell, and has, and does, and comments quite clearly to her, to him, after he sings the last line, everyone can plainly see, she is the only one he ever sings to in the sea of dancing hearts.
She knows, but ignores the obvious intrusion. It is not only her heart that finds itself stilled, hushed, filled by her radio man’s sweet sound at the local karaoke bar.
For Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. November 19, 2017.