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West Coast Ghost [by Wayne H.W Wolfson] My valentine is a Chinese dream. I know, to think of the times she was sad is best. Her red velvet jacket, worn only on special occasions. Eventually it had trapped the scent of my cigar, mixed with my cologne. I once caught her holding it close to her face as if to absorb this ghost.
The orchestra had the week off because of a labor dispute. I now had some free time, but the only clean clothes I had was my dress shirt for work. This heat, I will roll my sleeves up. Hands in motion during playing, no one will notice wrinkles anyways. Lights dim, we would become a synchronized mass of formal whites by the time everyone took their seats, and afterwards, they would be too busy leaving, already onto the next distraction, to notice. She would have been there, in the audience too, red jacket, lone bloom in a field of somber privilege. She crossed herself when ever she saw the long white truck crawl down the street. She always did the same thing when she saw a pregnant woman who looked sad. I had to spend a week doing nothing. Waiting for my neighbors to go to work so that I could practice without the noise bothering anyone. Waiting for her, nothing. Laying in bed, eating canned Okra, washed down with bad whiskey, reading Sophocles, nothing. I am disciplined, but sometimes all the waiting could even get to me. Or was it the days too hot, nights too cold? Was it the weather? Was it wanting something to drive me crazy, not an obligation, but a woman. At times, I can almost see her peripherally from the stage. Now I was buying her drinks just to watch her eat the olives. All on credit, the end of the month was payday, then I would be right back to signing a sheet. The pattern could be broken by hope, no, not the illusion, just a lasting distraction is all I ask for. Her? She just wanted to watch, carry my horn on the walk home. Distraction. “You seem distracted tonight baby.” Distraction. To remain here, now. How long, West Coast ghost? I look at her, our empty glasses, I nod. The sheets, slanted letters leaning towards desire. It is all dead air pushing the wrong notes forward through an alto, bronze body of frost. Of her, the song, there is only a clipped solo, brilliant, unnoticed by the tourists and the destroyed ice in their drinks. Of her, of night, again it will have to wait for me.
To read more from Wayne H.W Wolfson, check out his website at www.waynewolfson.com
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