9 414
muggy- schweddy- much too humid for September. San Antonio is a system of concentric freeways, sprinkled with gullies and green-belts, a vast system of ditches waiting for the rain to fill and overflow. San Anto is a flash-flood type of town- when the electrical storm hits you out the blue, you may be floating further than you’re driving.
No such rain-luck today, in fact, we are running late + broke. we have to stop off at coin-st*r , just to have a couple of bucks to burn…damn this week between paydays!! My dad cashed his check every friday, coming home like a king, what ever happened to that? Let me have you wait like 15 days for some work you did like two weeks ago ok.
it’s much easier on my payroll person- although it’s just a setting in the system we could totally change, but we’re just not overly concerned with paying you very often. Btw, can you come in early on Saturday?? o yeah, imma need you every other Sunday until you are dead. same pay – more duties. please train your replacement. Your comrades are moving up, while you are just moved from side to side.
So we didnt have much scratch to go on, which always makes going out a bit different. when i was younger & living in The City, it was extremely liberating, like F@%K YEAH!!!!- i just spent my last dollar on admission and i snuck in a 4o, it’s us against the world, baby!!! i’m going to dance until they shut this joint down three days from now…and you know being dead broke made you majestic then all the free pints somehow– A line with your name on it in the bathroom– yr broke and yr cool, riding wave after wave unto the golden eternal end of the line- stumbling back up yr stairs, fandangle yr keys in the lock, into yr fuzzy room for one more magnificent swig of merlot from the bottle, draw the blinds and another legendary wonder in the books…
Flash-forward and we squeezed $6.27 out of her piggy bank…..it felt heavier, she tells the writer. flash forward and there’s more traffic trying to get on the freeway than on the freeway- how is that even possible?? it’s a tuesday, 7ish PM, i thought we’d be in the clear. No such traffic-luck. And every radio station is airing commercials, grating my very soul- why dont i ever pay the $1.99 for Spotify? Lord, I’ll never know.
Downtown San Antonio is fairly dead at this time. all the Yups have driven back home, just the assorted good mortals waiting on a bus they know for certain will never arrive. they all look quite relaxed about it, streaming all their favorite movie trailers and assorted content. i suppose the natives will not be getting very restless tonight.
Come to find out, most of downtown closes down around 3 PM, which explains why a decent taco cannot be found in this vicinity after stated time. So, when you try to visit the glorious world-famous Riverwalk, please make sure to bring your own tacos. You have been forewarned.
Including the writer’s $10 bill, we had just about $10.67. driving off onto St. Mary’s, it also occurs to me that you cant park anywhere downtown. the writer’s eagle-eyed wife spots a loft 7 blocks up with a sign saying PARKING $5-. good deal – we commit. spot #42. we try to pay at the machine but it says $10.00- forget it, i’m committed, we’re already running late, let’s go- we dip back to leave the ticket on the dashboard, and double-back down to 414.
It’s hot balls, still daylight behind us. The writer is wearing his Boston Green Zip Up and it’s still zipped all the way up. A few scattered heads sitting around the bar sipping whiskey sours. The writer uncrinkles the remainder of our life’s savings for a single Shiner. The writer thinks this is a good wager.
The writer’s wife takes the bottle and leads us to a table in the corner, right where the inflections and accents are perfect- and flicks of the folded paper card that read R-E-S-E-R-V-E-D.
It’s a small room, the biggest player is the grand piano, followed by the stand-up.
The writer is having second thoughts; this radio programme has gotten me thru many, many friday nights into saturday morning, i know it’s a bit olde-timey- maybe even before the Lindy Hop, i’ve built the group up so much in my mind, should i just leave to preserve it? Ah, at least finish the Shiner, we’re invested that much.
The piano man takes the bench & begins his trills and double-triplets. The writer scribbles, snaps a test-pic, the trumpet still sitting inside the piano, lid propped open by a drumstick, the perfect altitude. The Shiner is ancient history, we move on to double-waters with ice & keep ’em coming.
If the piano man is 9o, then the bass man walking up is at least only half that- have you noticed that, too?? The 1st to get replaced by a younger generation is always the bass player. Maybe that keeps the group moving and mowing, a taut pulse. The Stones did it, too- after Bill. Our kid makes it sound like an ol’ washboard on Basin Street.
The 8o year old with the most hair is the drummer. He lungs toward his kit and reaching for his whiskers, feeling the way he felt like right after The War, swinging nights on Bourbon Street, man, those were the times!!
Pssst, it’s kind of a double-mission tonight…the writer has his eyes open. 414 is where it’s rumoured Robert Johnson recorded nearly 3o songs on a reported stay in San Antonio. Is it urban legend?? Straight up lies, perhaps? The writer is sneaking into the hotel, the writer must see room 414, either which way it must be-
banjo player done finished tuning up and we’re really ready, folks, really ready to go. The man walks up and shakes the writer’s hand- he kisses the writer’s wife’s hand- now we start the show- the writer has wagered correctly.
Jim Cullum picks up his horn- and began to blow- the writer was back in Dixieland- and he’d like to think they put a little extra ummph in it tonight. The Gentleman walks in late & a bit loaded. Wearing a sharp red shirt with a butterfly collar under a deep-black blazer, he sparks up with the table next to him, a scotch + water to get loose- he opens his case.
Assembles his instrument and blows right against Jim, The Gentleman takes over and does his dive, the reason he’s in San Antonio this evening. The bass is working on a trot, the room is getting somewhat smaller-
The writer heard them blow- grabbed the wife- and she grabbed her purse- thru a side door we go- creeping underneath stuffy hotel check-in guys, up the elevator, 4th floor, please.
It is a double-room.
A nice spot for sure to record some songs, the writer thinks aloud while looking thru the curtains.
The writers turns and says- We got until 5 AM on our parking meter, nodding over toward the River.
Naw- she says- Baby, let’s go home. So home we’re driving, and there’s not a soul on the freeways now-
the writer is thinking of the hipster couple that busted a move, so much so that the Old Guard had to move the furniture, they nearly danced their glasses off…
The writer’s wife says as she parks- Did you get some killer shots??
arm in arm, the writer replies:
you know i did, this is legacy time, kid.