As If She Mean It

Olwyn Supeene

“Lady sing the blues so well
As if she mean it…”
— Regina Spektor, “Lady.”

The first set’s almost over and I’m tired. The piano and I are at odds tonight and I don’t have the energy to press the issue, but the patrons don’t seem to notice or care. Isn’t it always the way, I think as I finish the song. I rise from the bench to brief and scattered applause, and return the absent courtesy with a sketch of a bow before stepping down and winding through the tables to the back exit. I need a cigarette.

The place is only half full, mostly regulars in moderate conversation. Jocelyn’s was originally intended to emulate the speakeasies of the ‘20s, but an overambitious vision executed with an underambitious budget produced something neither here nor there. The décor isn’t much to speak of except for the stained glass behind the bar, which I think might actually be Tiffany, and instead of cabaret or jazz combo, there’s just me. But the drinks are reasonable and the middle-class mid-brows come to pretend they’re high-class, or maybe some come because they know exactly what Jocelyn’s is and what it’s not and they live nearby. And the drinks are reasonable.

The door closes off the voices from inside and I lean back against the wall near the end of the alley, reaching into the pocket of my trousers for cigarette and lighter. Spark and flame and red glow and the smoke settles into my lungs. I let it out slowly, resting my head on the brick behind me.

I’m on my B-game tonight. I know it. The thing that kills me is that no one else does. They drink their cocktails and talk about whatever it is people like them talk about and they applaud, maybe, but their faces have the same vacant enthusiasm for my B-game as for my A-game. Like it’s going right through, like nothing sticks. It’s almost enough to make a girl stop trying.

I used to love this job. Regular bar pianist/singer, six nights a week, sign me up please. You want jazz standards, I know the book inside out. You want to make a request, I can fake it if I’ve heard it. For a while, when I was still writing, I’d use my own material. I have complete creative control, which I’m told is a rarity, and I’ll step outside the box, but I’m no Schönberg. I’m not out to make a statement. I’m just here to make music.

Lately, though, I’ve been wondering if the box even matters in this place. I could probably play a cluster, reach inside the piano and pluck out The Eensy Weensy Spider, and call it art. Someone would applaud. I know they would.

I take another drag. The stars are clear tonight and a fat crescent has just crept into view over to the east, above the park across the street. There’s a cherry tree stealing all the light from the street lamp and it looks like a piece of Faerie in the middle of downtown. The brick behind me is still warm, but the night’s cooled off and there’s a breeze. My smoke dissipates quickly.

The alley door opens and a man steps out. I glance over; it’s one of the regulars. I nod; he nods back. He clears the exit, stepping in the opposite direction from me, and stands away from the wall. His face is illuminated briefly as he lights his own cigarette, then disappears again under the brim of his fedora. He actually wears the hat like he means it; one reason I notice him. He only comes in once a week or so, sits at the end of the bar drinking gin.

We smoke in silence for a few minutes. I’m not really looking forward to going back in.

“You’re off tonight.”

I turn my head. “’Scuse me?”

“You’re off. Like you’re not even trying. What’s the deal?”

I am momentarily speechless, partly from astonishment, partly from anger. It’s one thing for me to know this about myself; in spite of my cogitations of a few moments ago, it’s quite another for someone to call me on it.

“Everybody has off nights,” I eventually mutter, and return my attention to my cigarette.

“But there’s more to it, isn’t there?” he presses. “You never just knuckle under like that.”

That’s it. I drop my cigarette butt and grind it out under my shoe, then turn to face him. I’m six feet in flats, but I still have to look up, and that’s a further aggravation.

“Look,” I snap, “not everybody can be on all the time. You think you know me because you sit and listen to me play every Saturday? I—“

“Yes,” he interrupts.

I’ve had it. “I have a job to do.” My voice is acid. “If you’re that unimpressed, you might want to skip out on the next set.” I leave him in the alley.

The second set is worse than the first. The regular in the fedora hasn’t left. He’s watching me the whole time, but he doesn’t applaud. I don’t blame him.

Some nights I wish I played bass in a punk band. The crowds are so much more honest.

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