Storyville Amber van Dyk In the middle of the night, partygirl black night, raw sore throat but the jittersauce made him go down smooth. Girl watches for changes in her bounce-back reflection, listens to the rush and swirl of run-away water down a drain. Hears something, some chatter-talk slip tongue invitation from down the hall. The door to her room is ajar and the job hazard spiders make their nests in her lacey underthings. Internal tick tells the time, dusk fall full dark, her boots of black lacquer sound like needles on the street. When she walks Freddie Freeloader whistles the same old-fashioned tune. Sounds like trumpets, but the drummer keeps the wrong time. Always the same time, same corner same black lacquer same sound. Her needles on the street earn a hundred bucks a beat. And it's about that time, the right time for the wrong things. Door knob, squeak-creak, she finds his face in the shiny copper and tries to tell herself she made up all the stories about his smile. # Jackson's frown turns upside down but doesn't stick. Dimple-divot young man grows old and wonders where his money went. Pull spin whir in other cities, drink late drunk tank in other towns. Hiss fit sizzle plink wet spit rain and the Greyhound goes nowhere on the blacktop. Better get on home. Hotel motel smelled like freedom, copper knob squeal, oily insides all dried up and he looked for the memory of the weight of her bones in the old leather chairs. Girl was down by law, when she walked across the lobby her black lacquer boots made noises like never-you-mind and slipped their tongues beneath his skin. She'd told him a big time hard line, came anyway, six stars, kissed him twice then told him only the first time was free. He got another room in the same old town, floor up, floor down, still thinks he can hear her playing. Time out, time up, check out gotta go. # Twist snap click, girl drinks until his face is gone, long gone, copper memory tends to forget, but she counts her pennies like they might have Alzheimer's, like they don't remember where they've been, where they came from. Backward rewind, step left retrack; her naked toes leave footprints in the dark carpet. Hot red crimson like her lips when he kissed her and rusted-sunshine beads litter the floor like fools gold. She looks around and thinks she ain't got much worth selling but her hands cover her naked breasts like armour and in the mirror-shine of her black lacquer boots she looks almost indestructible. # Jackson looks up way up like the sky is made of fairytales and wishes upon the only star he can see. Thinks it might be moving, shift wink like her black lashes, like a wave from the window of a train like a light in the corridor, blink blink off. He closes his eyes and the dark inside matches the dark outside and his bones match his skin, tough brittle and if he sees her again it'll be his heart that breaks and he ain't got no glue, no sticky tape, no chewed up peppermint mouthwash smile to pretend it don't matter. If wishes were horses he'd whip their flanks until the dust hit the wind and everything disappeared in a blanket of grit beige but he don't believe in blowing out candles and fountains and shiny new quarters unless they roll into cherries ding ding ding. # Girl stares at the ceiling; counts the tile, scratches at her cheek with a ragged jagged fingernail and tries not to bleed. Purses her lips like they gotta be glossy, gotta be kissed, but notes tingle the tip of her tongue and when she cries she sees Louis, all strong arms and fat winter cheeks. In the corner of the room a case leans at an awkward angle. Coffins for babies he called them and she thinks maybe they'd be better for dreams. He's all wide eye wonder as she wipes black, lamp black can't see nothing but the insides of black cats jet black polish on the outside of her trumpet until it's as flatsuck dark as two a.m. But black boxes got their own memory rewind tales to tell and when they're opened they weep and cry in low, solemn tones. She remembers his name is Jackson. Just like the square. Even with shaking hands the boots go on easy; fit her like old friends or lovers, like old men and fifty dollar bills, like insides, like the wet of licked lips shining gloss under pale glow lamplight. She shimmers all the way down, glitter red leather and barely-there covers her brand new lingerie-store breasts until she's popped like some feature dancer, some girl named Candy Williams about as sweet as an all-day sucker. Hair piled until she's looking down from the top of the mountain and all the boys turn to ants beneath the toes of her black lacquer boots. # If Jackson had places to go he'd start walking, but all of his maps lead to foreign places and all the signs are in a language he can't quite read and all the words, humble jumble you should have might have don't even know her real name. All of the thump thump heart beat and thump thump blood rush and thump thump chicken shit and thump thump what the hell were you thinkings give him a three day hangover headache and even though he's halfway back to her trash-bash corner room before sense catches up with him, he looks up, way up and makes a wish on the only star he can see. # Girl's hand smells like copper and lipstick whale fat, tip of her finger's all red blue bruise-stain like someone's been taking her fingerprints but evidence ain't no good if no one ever asks her real name. She figures she'll end up toe-tag on her back, mouth open and eyes forced shut playing some other sad song that sounds a lot like black-box trumpet and the saints will march on in, waving catcall, because they know girls like her don't belong in heaven but she had white veil puppy dog tulip dreams and it ain't no one's fault that waking ain't the same as sleep no matter Jackson's smile shows up in both places. # Jackson's taken up walking wander, gone to Tarot cards and ghost tours, square's jampacked with tourists and the air smells half like hurricanes. He twitches his nose rabbit late late except he's not waiting for much but sunrise sunset and he's been here so long the concrete's starting to look familiar. Wind picks up, coat rustle nudge tug like the air's trying to tell him something and he looks around, sees the girl, the strange look on her face as her eyes meet his, and she's so rimmed in black she's almost impenetrable, but even though her white picket fences might be wrapped in barbed wire he folds and smiles at her anyway. # Girl stares at the streetlamp, haze glow of old gold, figures she's one season away from going to seed but Jackson just like the square is watching her like she's about to blossom, his teeth all shiny white against the black, and she thinks maybe whatever she made up about his smile might be some kind of true anyway. Some kind of tell-your-mama because daddy's comin' home and she rubs her two front teeth with the tip of her finger, shining up the only parts of her that're still clean, thinks to wait until the light changes, but Jackson's all tapping his toe in five-eight time and she knows sometimes it ain't about falling out but fallin' in, jumpin' in, finger zinger freak lip got all night but there's still no time like the present. # Jackson sees something change, some lip curl smile, some skirt flip heel dig in because Girl's gone and decided something. He watches her, her lips all open like she might be coming in for a kiss but she's still all so far away, across the street might be another town and his insides are itching for something to make the cold chill night a little warmer. He ain't even sure he'd miss her if she was gone, but parts of him are startin' to heat up just fine and when he sees her, toe, heel curb step-off he thinks he can feel the sun rising. Straight into midnight jet black, hour's just right for witches and the Tarot readers warned him of such things, but the box does it's own kind of screaming, its own kind of off-time jive, and the girl's off the curb, head snap too late purse drop, square box's got four wheels and no way to stop the music comes on like cymbals, siss-boom-bah sounds a lot like starburst implode gunfire smash crash. His hands are up but it's too late because black boxes got their own memory rewind tales to tell and when they''re opened they weep and cry in low, solemn tones. He remembered telling her his name was Jackson. Just like the square. ### Copyright: Amber van Dyk. Do not reprint or post without permission.