The Eyes of a Fighter: A Serial Novel

Chapter 6

Ed was well into his 5th drink when he decided to go for a walk. He had been sitting there in his living room listening to records for a few hours. After he Listened to Miles Davis on Kind of Blue, he felt like something a little faster. He put on the fast and lively Charlie Parker. When the needle hit "Cheryl" on The Bird Returns record, his mood instantly lifted.

The smooth saxophone melodies soothed him and made him feel like dancing. He thought back to his college days when he and his friends would go to smokey jazz clubs over on the north side of the city. There had been a string of them along Atwood Street. The Trebel was their favorite.

Smoke used to hang in the air and the bartender poured with a heavy hand. A quartet would play requests and he loved to call out songs with women's names just to make the band laugh.

"Cheryl" bounced along out of his small speakers attached to the record player in his dimly lit living room. He lit another cigarette and hummed along with the silly xylophone part of the song that his wife had always said sounded like a circus.

The mellow sound of a saxophone put him in the mood for Blue Train by John Coltrane. The record was scratched in places from decades of listening. The paper album cover was worn at the corners and faded.

"Old Fashioned" played slowly in the background while he made himself another drink. He swayed his hips and walked slowly back to the living room. The drag of the slow drums made him tap his feet.

When the slow muted trumpet takes a solo, Ed was reminded of having long dinners with his wife Carmen and a little place he knew of that his friend from high school owned.

They would stay late into the night, long after their meal was finished, and just talk and look into each other's eyes. It had been a long time since he'd savored a meal like that. Neither of them had wanted those dinners to end. Sometimes they were the last people left, and it felt like the jazz on the jukebox played only for them.

They would leave laughing and step out into the night. He'd be doing some bad impersonation and Carmen would be laughing at him. They smoked back then. Everyone did. They'd stroll the streets slowly, neither of them wanting to end the night and go home.

As it was now, Ed was alone. Carmen had passed away slowly from brain cancer. He'd been living alone for a year now. the anniversary had passed by a month or so ago. It hadn't been easy, but he endured it just like he would endure this: alone, at home, drunk, and listening to records.

It wasn't the best, or the healthiest, strategy he had for dealing with pain, but it worked for him so far. The emptiness that surrounded him after Carmen died had been unbearable. He dove into his work. Sometimes he wouldn't leave school and would sleep in his office. He just didn't want to face the empty house.

Moving into his own place had helped. Diving into work had not. It seemed like the harder he worked, the less control he had. His personal life had been shattered. His professional life at school was no better. Still, work was really all he had at this point, so he got up and went in and did his best with a bad situation.

He'd managed to get to the one-year anniversary, something he wasn't sure he could do, and then now he was still standing and working. He had to find the small victories where he could.

The needle had come to a stop on Blue Train and he hadn't even noticed. He was so lost in his thoughts. He reached across the table for a cigarette and the pack was empty. He shook it and then crushed it in his hand. He tossed it over his shoulder and didn't care where it landed.

He stood up and decided to make the walk down to the corner store for more. He was riding this one out. Smokes were needed.

He threw a jacket on, grabbed his keys and wallet, and headed out into the cold night. His breath formed wispy clouds in the night air. He sniffed and it smelled like winter. The cold air was bracing and felt good. He wasn't moving fast but he could keep up an ok pace under the liquor. The walk was one he'd made a hundred times before.