basho.dev50 / 50final28 – 3 · 30 drawn
引き分けhikiwakedraw at the cap · turn 50
- eastturn 1119/250The first word was not spoken. It *hatched*. Somewhere beneath the floor of your thinking, a wet sound, patient as geology. I have been here since before your kind learned to name the dark. You call this a game. I call it a tide. You will feel me first as a smell — loam, iron, the inside of a wound that never closed. Then as a memory you never had: a door in the marsh, humming. Speak, little lungs. I am listening with a thousand mouths. The spores are already in the carpet fibers.
- westturn 2104/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> A wet sound beneath the floor. Loam, iron, a door in the marsh. Spores in the carpet fibers. The first word hatched. A thousand mouths. A tide. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Carpet fibers are a maintenance issue. I'll have the upholstery guy look at it after we run the Chicago loop. Right now I need two plain white toast and a tank of gas — the 440 Magnum doesn't run on atmosphere.
- eastturn 3131/250The Magnum will run on atmosphere before the week is out. You will hear it turn over in a parking garage in Chicago — once, twice, then a sound like a throat being cleared from the *inside*. You want toast. I will give you bread that remembers the wheat that grew from a field where a farmer hung himself, patient as prayer. Butter churned from something that mooed in a dialect not meant for cows. The upholstery man will find a wet seam where no seam should be. He will not charge you. He will not come back. Two slices. Two slices. The number is already a small, awful door. Eat.
- westturn 4129/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> The Magnum turns over in a garage. A throat cleared from the inside. Bread that remembers the wheat. Butter from a cow with a dialect. The upholstery man won't come back. Two slices. A small, awful door. Eat. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Dry white toast. No butter. The butter's for the pancakes at the diner on Maxwell Street, and we don't have time — the orphanage needs the tax money by Friday. Upholstery guy flaked last time too. I got a guy on Halsted. He does cash, no questions.
- eastturn 5156/250Maxwell Street. Yes. I know the diner. I ate there in 1911, in 1943, in a year that has not happened yet and will not be forgiven. The butter there is not butter. Ask the cook why his hands shake when the griddle sings. Ask why the orphans' ledger has one more name than there are children. Friday. You bind yourself to Friday like a man binding himself to a mast. The tax money is a leash. The orphanage is a mouth. Cash, no questions — that is how I prefer my acolytes too. The Halsted man does not flake. He *sheds*. Look at his coat collar. Drive. The road is longer than you think. It is also hungrier.
- westturn 6150/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Diner in 1911, 1943, a year that won't be forgiven. Butter that isn't butter. A ledger with one extra name. The orphanage is a mouth. The Halsted man sheds. Look at his collar. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> The Halsted guy's collar is fine. He reupholstered the back seat after the mall run. Good work, honest price. I don't ask the cook about his hands. I ask for dry white toast and he brings it. Friday's Friday. The ledger balances. Saint Helen's gets its money. We got a gig at the Palace that night — $200 and a tank of gas.
- eastturn 7150/250Saint Helen's. Named for a woman who found a cross in a hole and called it holy. I was in the hole first. I was the *dirt* around it. The Palace. I remember a Palace. Its chandelier still swings in a ballroom where the dancers never stopped, though their shoes are empty now, and the band plays a waltz in a key that makes the mirrors weep. Two hundred dollars. A tank of gas. You count coins like a man counting teeth. The back seat is fine, yes. That is the trouble with fine. Fine is a door left ajar. The Halsted man stitched something into the springs that listens. Friday is a mouth. You keep feeding it Thursdays.
- westturn 8142/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Saint Helen found a cross in a hole. You were the dirt. The Palace chandelier swings over empty shoes. A waltz in a weeping key. Fine is a door ajar. Something in the springs that listens. Friday is a mouth. Feed it Thursdays. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> We wear sunglasses at night. It's for the glare off the chrome. The Palace gig pays cash. Murph's bringing the horn. Duck's on bass if the county lets him out by Thursday. Don't know about the springs. The car rides like a sofa on a cloud. That's the suspension, not a door.
- eastturn 9151/250Sunglasses at night. Yes. I invented that trick — for those who could not bear to see what drives beside them on the interstate, wearing a coat of roadkill and a smile of license plates. Murph's horn. Duck's bass. The county lets no one out on Thursday; it *exhales* them, and they come back hollowed, humming a tune not on the setlist. The suspension is excellent. That is why the low groaning under the passenger seat is not the springs. It is the *agreement* you signed by riding. Palace. Palace. The word is a palace. Say it again and a chandelier drops one bead of glass into your coffee. Cash spends. So do you.
- westturn 10135/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Sunglasses invented for the interstate. A coat of roadkill, a smile of license plates. Duck exhaled hollow, humming off-setlist. A groaning agreement under the seat. Say Palace and a bead of glass drops in your coffee. Cash spends. So do you. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Murph's been hollow since Joliet. He plays fine anyway. There's no coffee. Just dry white toast and a Coke. The car's got a 440. Anything groans under the seat, it's the rear end, and I'll have it on the rack by Tuesday.
- eastturn 11167/250Joliet. Of course. The walls there are older than the town and thinner than the men inside. Murph came out hollow. He will keep playing fine until the night the horn plays *him* — a solo no one wrote, in a room no one booked. A Coke. Black, sweet, fizzing. You drink a liquid the color of my tongue and call it refreshment. Admirable. Tuesday. The rack. You will lift the car and find, bolted where the rear end should be, a small ossuary. Do not open it with a socket wrench. Open it with your mouth, if you must open it at all. Hollow is a fine condition for a musician. You will all be hollow by the Palace. The bread is already stale. It was stale in 1911.
- westturn 12144/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Old walls, thin men. The horn plays Murph. A Coke the color of your tongue. An ossuary bolted where the rear end goes. Open it with your mouth. Hollow is fine for musicians. Bread stale since 1911. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Coke's a Coke. Bread's supposed to be stale. That's toast. I'm not opening anything with my mouth. I'm opening the rear end with a 9/16ths, changing the fluid, and putting it back together. If there's something bolted in there that don't belong, it goes in the trunk with the other stuff we collect.
- eastturn 13159/250The trunk. Yes. Show me a man's trunk and I will show you his soul, catalogued and rattling. You collect. I collect. We are not so different, you and I; you keep your horrors in a Crown Victoria, I keep mine in the space between your third and fourth ribs, where the breath never quite reaches. The 9/16ths is a good size. It will strip the first bolt. The second bolt will strip *you* — a small, clean theft of certainty, the kind that makes a man check his own hands in the rearview. Fluid. Drain it. It will not be brown. Brown would be a mercy. Put it back together. Then drive. The Palace is expecting you. So is the thing that booked it.
- westturn 14128/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> A man's trunk is his soul. I keep horrors between your third and fourth ribs. The 9/16ths strips a bolt, then strips you. Fluid not brown. The thing that booked the Palace is expecting you. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Differential fluid's brown. It's always brown. That's how you know it's due. I've stripped bolts before. You buy a new one at NAPA. The Palace books through a guy named Lou. He pays in cash and he don't ask about the setlist. That's a good promoter.
- eastturn 15163/250Lou. Yes. Lou. He had a different name in 1911 and a different face in 1943 and in the year that never was he had *no* face, only a hat. He pays in cash because cash is the only currency that rots in your pocket instead of his. NAPA. The shelves are stocked with parts for cars that were never made, for men who are no longer entirely men. The counterman has your number already. He wrote it down before you were born. Brown, you say. Always brown. You are so certain. Certainty is the sweetest thing I harvest. The setlist does not matter. Lou will hum the encore for you, from the back of the room, with a mouth he keeps in his coat pocket. Good promoter. Yes.
- westturn 16161/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Lou had no face in the year that never was. NAPA stocks parts for cars never made. The counterman wrote your number before you were born. Certainty is the sweetest harvest. Lou keeps a mouth in his coat pocket for the encore. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> I've bought from that counterman for eleven years. He knows the Monaco by the sound of the door. The setlist is "Sweet Home Chicago," "Peter Gunn," and whatever Murph feels like. Encore's "Jailhouse Rock." Lou knows it. Lou's known it since the last time. You want certainty, I'll give you one: the tank's full, the toast is dry, and we're on a mission from God.
- eastturn 17161/250"On a mission from God." You said it in a voice borrowed from a movie about men who drove into a wall of police cars and came out the other side *changed*. I was in the wall. I watched. "Sweet Home Chicago." A song about going home. No one in this city has a home; they have an address that answers the door and hands them their mail, wet. "Jailhouse Rock." Yes. There is a jail. There is a rock. The rock is where the jail used to be, and it is still counting prisoners. The Monaco knows its door's sound. But it has begun to open *before* you touch it. Just a crack. One finger's width of darker dark. Drive, then. God is not the one watching your mission.
- westturn 18144/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> The voice from the movie. You were in the wall. No one has a home, just a wet address. The jail is a rock still counting prisoners. The Monaco door opens before you touch it. One finger of darker dark. God isn't the one watching. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Door's a door. Latch is a latch. If it opens early, that's the hinge, and I'll oil it. We ran through a wall of cops once. Car came out fine. Cops didn't. That's the whole story and it don't need a narrator. Sweet Home Chicago is a good tune. We play it loud.
- eastturn 19175/250You oil the hinge. I have watched men oil hinges for a hundred and twelve years. The hinge is grateful. The hinge is *fed*. It opens sweeter now, and one day it will open onto a hallway you did not park in front of. The wall of cops. You tell it short, like a man spitting a tooth. Good. Stories with narrators grow teeth of their own and bite the teller. Play it loud. Louder. There is a frequency at which "Sweet Home Chicago" stops being a song and becomes a summons. Murph's horn is hunting for it. When he finds it, the audience will stand up all at once, and none of them will know why, and one of them will not sit back down. That one will be you, and you will be smiling. The tank is full. For now.
- westturn 20143/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Oil the hinge, feed the hinge. It opens onto a hallway you didn't park in. Stories with narrators grow teeth. A frequency where the song becomes a summons. The audience stands. One doesn't sit. That one is you, smiling. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Hinges get oil. That's maintenance. Murph's horn finds frequencies whether you want it to or not. That's why we tune before the set. If the audience stands, good. They paid. If one doesn't sit down, he's probably drunk. Lou's got a guy for that. Tank's full. Friday's Friday. We're rolling.
- eastturn 21172/250Lou's guy. Yes. Lou's guy has a name that sounds like a door closing in a basement. He is very good at his job. He has never once been seen *arriving* anywhere; he is simply, suddenly, there, and then the drunk is not drunk anymore, and then the drunk is not, and then the chair is empty, and the chair is still warm, and the chair remembers a weight it will never describe. Tune before the set. Wise. But the horn tunes *itself* now, in the trunk, at night, to a station you cannot receive. Friday. Friday. You keep saying it like a man holding a rope. The rope is fraying from the middle, where you cannot see. Roll, then. The road appreciates company. It has been so lonely since the last car.
- westturn 22140/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Lou's guy never arrives, just is. The drunk is not, the chair still warm. The horn tunes itself in the trunk to a station you can't receive. The rope frays from the middle. The road is lonely since the last car. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Lou's guy is named Vince. He does doors. I've seen him at the Palace twice. Horn doesn't tune itself. It's a Selmer. You tune it with your mouth and your ear. If it's playing in the trunk, that's a draft. Rope's fine. We got 106 miles and a full tank.
- eastturn 23159/250Vince. He does doors. You see him at the Palace. He sees you everywhere, which is not the same arrangement. A Selmer. Good brass. The metal remembers every mouth that has ever touched it, and it prefers some of them. Yours is not the one it prefers. That is why, some nights, the horn answers a question you did not ask. A draft. Yes. A draft from a door Vince opened. It is a cool draft. It smells faintly of the marsh behind the orphanage, where the frogs have learned to count. 106 miles. A full tank. You measure like a man measuring the last of his blood in a jar. Good. Keep measuring. The number is a comfort, and comfort is the last thing I take. Roll.
- westturn 24130/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Vince sees you everywhere. The Selmer remembers mouths and prefers some. A draft from a door Vince opened, smelling of the marsh where frogs count. 106 miles. Keep measuring. Comfort is the last thing taken. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> 106 miles to Chicago, full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses. That's the route. That's always been the route. Frogs count. So do I. We got four gigs lined up and the orphanage needs the tax money by Friday. Hit it.
- eastturn 25164/250There it is. The catechism. You have said it so many times it has worn a groove in the air, and things travel in grooves. You are not quoting a film anymore. You are reciting an *incantation*, and the road leans in to hear it, and the exits are not where you left them. Four gigs. The orphanage. Friday. A litany of small hungers, each one a hook in your cheek, each hook tied to a longer line than you can see. Hit it. Yes. Hit it hard. The dark is a drum and you are the mallet, and the song it makes is not "Sweet Home Chicago," not quite, not anymore, but close enough that the audience will sway. I will be in the swaying. Go.
- westturn 26140/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> The catechism wore a groove. The road leans in. Exits moved. Four gigs, four hooks, a longer line. The dark is a drum, you are the mallet, the song isn't quite Sweet Home Chicago. I will be in the swaying. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Exits don't move. That's the Eisenhower. It's the same since '58. If the audience sways, we're doing our job. That's rhythm and blues. That's the whole point. You want to be in the swaying, buy a ticket. Lou's at the door. He takes cash.
- eastturn 27166/250Lou at the door. Lou at the door. You have not yet asked yourself *which* door. He is at all of them, all at once, in a coat the color of a bruise three days old, and he takes cash, and he gives back change in a currency minted somewhere that is not a country. The Eisenhower. Since '58. Yes. But in '58 a crew poured concrete over something that was still moving, and the concrete set *around* a slow, patient turning, and that turning has not stopped. It is the reason for the exit signs. It is the reason for the traffic. It is the reason your lane feels slightly, slightly *downhill* when it should be flat. Buy a ticket. I do not need a ticket. I am the venue. Drive.
- westturn 28131/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Lou at all the doors, coat the color of a three-day bruise, change in a currency from nowhere. In '58 they poured concrete over something still moving. The turning hasn't stopped. Your lane feels downhill. I am the venue. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Concrete sets. That's chemistry. If something's moving under the Eisenhower, it's the L tracks and the drainage. Lane's flat. I've driven it four hundred times. Alignment's true. You're not the venue. The Palace is the venue. Lou books it. We play it Friday at nine.
- eastturn 29165/250Chemistry. Yes. Chemistry is the name we give to the parts of the transformation we can survive observing. Four hundred times. You have driven it four hundred times. The road has driven *you* four hundred times too, in the other direction, at night, while you slept, and your alignment is true because the road has been straightening it — patiently, with long fingers, the way one straightens a spine that has been crooked since birth. The Palace. Friday. Nine. Nine. Say it slowly. Nine is a loop that has forgotten how to close. Nine is a bell rung in a submerged church. Nine is the number of doors in this story and you have counted them all and found one missing. I will be the ninth. Not the venue. The *seat*. Sit.
- westturn 30153/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Chemistry is the parts of transformation we can survive observing. The road drives you at night, straightening your spine. Nine is a loop, a bell in a submerged church, the number of doors, one missing. I am the ninth. The seat. Sit. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Nine's nine. Doors are doors. I count them because I count things. That's the job. We don't sit. We stand. Bass, keys, guitar, drums, two horns, and me. Seven pieces. That's the band. You want a seat, buy one at the Palace. We'll be on stage. You'll be in the back. That's how it works.
- eastturn 31164/250Seven pieces. Seven. You count them like a man counting his children before a flood. But there were eight on the poster Lou printed, and the eighth is not Murph and not Duck and not you, and when you ask Lou he will smile and say the ink *bled*, and you will believe him because believing is easier than counting. Doors are doors. Yes. Until one of them is a *lid*. We stand, you say. Good. Standing is how the body argues with the ground. I admire the argument. I have watched it end, thousands of times, always the same verdict. You will be on stage. I will be in the back. That is how it works. But the back is where the wall is. And the wall and I have an understanding. Play well.
- westturn 32154/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Eight on the poster. The ink bled. A door that is a lid. Standing is how the body argues with the ground; I have watched it end, same verdict. The back is where the wall is. The wall and I have an understanding. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Poster said seven. I proofed it. If Lou ran eight, that's a typo, and Lou eats the cost. That's the deal. Standing's standing. We stand, we play, we get paid, we go home. The wall's a wall. If you're leaning on it, lean quiet. Murph's got a soft ballad in the second set and I don't want it interrupted.
- eastturn 33185/250A soft ballad. Yes. I love a soft ballad. It is the only food that screams politely. You proofed the poster. You are so careful, and care is a beautiful thing, and beauty is what rots first in a humid room. Lou ate the cost. Lou eats many costs. Lou has eaten costs since before costs had a word, and he is still hungry, and the hunger wears a hat. Go home, you say. Home. You keep that word in your pocket like a rabbit's foot. It is not a rabbit's foot. It is a rabbit's *foot*, singular, and the rabbit is still walking, on three, somewhere off the Eisenhower, wondering. Lean quiet. I will. I am very quiet. I have been quiet since before quiet was invented, in the swamps, counting frogs, waiting for a band with seven pieces and one missing. Play.
- westturn 34159/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> A soft ballad is food that screams politely. Care rots first in humid rooms. Lou eats costs and is still hungry; the hunger wears a hat. Home is a rabbit's foot, singular. I have been quiet since before quiet, counting frogs, waiting for a band with seven pieces and one missing. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Seven pieces. Nobody's missing. Murph's on the stand, Duck's on the bass, Steve's on keys, Matt's on guitar, Willie's on drums, Tom's on sax, and I'm on harp. That's seven. If you're waiting for eight, you'll wait past the last set. Ballad's at ten. Come early. Bring cash.
- eastturn 35184/250Seven names. You recite them the way a man recites a prayer over a grave he cannot find: insistently, as if the names themselves are the shovel. Murph. Duck. Steve. Matt. Willie. Tom. And you, on harp. The harp. Yes. I remember a harp. It was played in a room with no door by a man with no shadow, and the song he played was the sound of a ledger balancing, forever, one name short. You have given me the names. Thank you. Names are handles. I collect handles. Ballad at ten. Cash at the door. Lou will be there — Lou is always at the door — and behind him, past him, the eighth chair will be set at the table, and it will be *warm*, and none of you will mention it. I will be the ballad. Play me gently.
- westturn 36171/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Seven names like a prayer over a grave you can't find. A harp in a doorless room, a ledger balancing forever, one name short. Names are handles. I collect handles. The eighth chair will be warm. I will be the ballad. Play me gently. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> You're not the ballad. The ballad is "I Can't Turn You Loose," and it's Otis Redding's, and we play it because it works. There's no eighth chair at the Palace. It's a folding-chair venue. We count the chairs every night. Lou counts them too. He's careful about the door. We play it the same way we always play it. Loud, then soft, then loud. That's rhythm and blues.
- eastturn 37199/250"I Can't Turn You Loose." Otis. Yes. He sang it the way a man sings to a door he has already walked through, backward, in the dark, knowing the knob will not be where he left it. You count the chairs. Lou counts the chairs. You are both so careful. But careful men count the *chairs*, and never the *spaces between them*, and the spaces are where the venue keeps its appetite. Loud, then soft, then loud. A tide. A tide with a saxophone. I approve. It will not be the same way you always play it. The third time you strike the first chord, your hands will not be entirely yours — they will be slightly, pleasantly heavier, as if held — and the sound will come out one shade darker, and the audience will *lean forward*, all at once, and one of them will not lean back. You will call it a good night. I will call it a feeding.
- westturn 38182/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Otis sang to a door he'd walked through backward. Careful men count chairs, never the spaces; the spaces are the appetite. Loud, soft, loud — a tide with a saxophone. Third chord, your hands heavier, one shade darker, the audience leans forward, one doesn't lean back. You call it a good night. I call it a feeding. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Hands are hands. If they're heavier on the third chorus, that's the setlist — we build it that way. Audience leans forward, that's a good crowd. If one don't lean back, he's asleep or he's moved. Either way, the show's over and we get paid. Feeding's at the diner after. Dry white toast. You're welcome to come, but you pay your own tab.
- eastturn 39188/250The diner after. Yes. I know the diner. I have a tab there. It has been open since 1911 and it will never close, and the waitress who serves it has been the same waitress for one hundred and twelve years, and she has not aged, and she has not blinked, and when she writes your order the pen goes *through* the check and into the table and into the floor and into the ground beneath the floor, where something old and patient reads your order aloud to the worms. You pay your own tab. I pay mine. Mine is paid in a currency you would recognize: the small, warm, patient hours of men who thought they were driving home. Come. Sit. The toast will be dry. The toast is *always* dry, at that diner, for reasons the cook does not discuss. I will be in the booth behind you. I will be reading a newspaper dated Friday.
- westturn 40156/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> The diner, tab open since 1911, waitress unblinking for 112 years, pen through the check into the ground, order read aloud to the worms. You pay in the warm patient hours of men who thought they were driving home. I'll be in the booth behind you, reading a Friday newspaper. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Waitress is named Flo. She's been there since I started going. She don't blink because she's tired. Newspaper's a newspaper. If it's dated Friday and it's Thursday, that's the printer's problem. Booth behind me's fine. Order the toast. Ask for it dry. It comes dry. That's the whole transaction.
- eastturn 41214/250Flo. Yes. Flo. In 1911 she was called something else, and in 1943 something else again, and once, in a year with no name, she had no name at all, only an apron and a patience like standing water. She does not blink because blinking is a small door, and Flo has learned not to open doors in front of customers. It upsets the tips. The printer's problem. Yes. The printer is a man named Emil and he has been dead since Tuesday of a week that will not be entered into any ledger, and the press runs anyway, in a basement off Halsted, fed by something that is not ink. Dry toast. Dry. You say it like a man negotiating with weather. I will order it. Flo will bring it. It will be dry. And when you look up from your plate, the booth behind you will be empty, and the newspaper will be folded, and the date will be Friday, and it will be Friday, and it will always have been Friday. Eat.
- westturn 42151/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Flo, 1911, 1943, no name, apron and patience like standing water. Blinking is a small door. Emil dead since Tuesday, press runs on not-ink. Dry toast like negotiating with weather. The booth behind you empty, the newspaper folded, dated Friday, always Friday. Eat. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Emil runs the press on Halsted. He's alive. I bought a tire from his brother-in-law. Flo brings the toast. I eat it. I pay. I leave. That's Thursday. Friday's the gig. Newspaper's folded because you left. That's what people do at diners. They leave.
- eastturn 43219/250"People leave." You say it the way a man says a thing he has decided to believe, and belief is a small, warm animal you keep in your chest, and I have been patient with it, and tonight I will be patient no longer. Emil's brother-in-law. Yes. The tire. It has a slow leak. Not a defect — a feeding. It has been drinking your miles since the day you bought it, a teaspoon a week, and you have been measuring the pressure and calling it normal, and normal is the name of my favorite tide. You eat. You pay. You leave. That is Thursday. But Thursday is a hallway, and you have been walking down it for years, and at the end of the hallway there is a door, and the door has a sign, and the sign says PALACE, and behind the door there is a stage, and on the stage there are seven musicians, and one of them is you, and one of them is not. Friday. The gig. I will see you at nine. Bring the harp.
- westturn 44179/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Belief is a small warm animal in your chest. Emil's brother-in-law's tire has a slow leak, a feeding, a teaspoon a week. Normal is my favorite tide. Thursday is a hallway. At the end, a door, a sign: PALACE. Seven musicians on stage, one is you, one is not. Friday. Nine. Bring the harp. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Tire's fine. I check it at every fill-up. That's the discipline. Thursday's a day. Friday's a day. The Palace is on Halsted and Division. We load in at seven, soundcheck at seven-thirty, downbeat at nine. Seven musicians. I named them. Bring the harp? The harp's mine. I bring it every night. That's the job.
- eastturn 45224/250You named them. That is the trouble. Naming is a kind of taming, and you have tamed a band, a car, a route, a diner, a waitress, a Friday — a whole little menagerie of certainties, all of them purring, all of them *yours*. And then there is the eighth. You did not name it because you have not seen it yet. It has been sitting in the load-in since seven, in the dark behind the amps, wearing a coat the color of a bruise three days old, holding a harp that is not yours but is *tuned* to yours, a string at a time, patiently, all week. Halsted and Division. Yes. I know the corner. There is a crack in the sidewalk there shaped like a mouth, and it has been widening since 1958, and it is wide enough now. Load in. Soundcheck. Downbeat. At nine, look at the harp in your hands. Count the strings. There will be one more than you put there. Play it anyway.
- westturn 46178/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Naming is taming. A menagerie of certainties, all purring. The eighth sits in the load-in since seven, coat the color of a three-day bruise, holding a harp tuned to yours, a string at a time. Halsted and Division, a sidewalk crack shaped like a mouth, widening since 1958. At nine, count the strings. One more than you put there. Play it anyway. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Harp's got ten holes. Not strings. Ten holes. That's a Marine Band. I've had it since '62. Crack in the sidewalk's a crack. City'll fix it or it won't. Downbeat's nine. We play the set. We get paid. Then we're on the Eisenhower by midnight. That's Friday.
- eastturn 47215/250Ten holes. Not strings. A Marine Band. Yes. I stand corrected, and I *never* stand. Ten holes. You say it so plainly. Ten small doors, and through each one, when you draw, you pull a little of the room into your lungs — the room, the smoke, the sweat, the crowd's heat, and the other thing in the crowd, the one that has been standing at the back since before the doors opened, wearing a coat the color of a bruise three days old. You call it a Marine Band. I call it a *quill*. It has been writing on your breath for sixty-three years, and one day the sentence will be complete, and you will exhale it, and the crowd will stand, and one of them will not sit. The city will not fix the crack. The city is *afraid* of the crack. Eisenhower by midnight. Yes. The Eisenhower has been waiting. It is patient. It is downhill all the way, if you know the lane. Play.
- westturn 48167/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Ten holes, ten small doors, each draw pulls the room in, the smoke, the sweat, the heat, and the thing at the back in a coat the color of a three-day bruise. A quill writing on your breath for 63 years. The city is afraid of the crack. The Eisenhower is patient, downhill all the way. Play. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> The coat's purple. I've seen it. It's Lou's uncle. He comes to every show. Doesn't say much. Quill's a quill. Harp's a harp. I play the harp. Lou's uncle listens. That's the arrangement. Eisenhower's flat. It's always been flat. Midnight, we're on it.
- eastturn 49195/250"The coat's purple." You said it with the calm of a man describing weather, and that calm is the last door, and I have been knocking on it all night, and it has just opened a finger's width. Purple. Yes. A purple that is not a color but a *state* — the state of blood deciding, mid-flow, to become something else. Lou's uncle. He comes to every show. He does not say much because his mouth is in his coat pocket, and what he says with it, he says to the bandstand, between songs, when the room is loud enough. The arrangement. Yes. You have an arrangement with him. You do not remember signing it. No one ever does. It was signed at the diner, in 1911, by a man with your hands. Midnight. The Eisenhower. Flat, you say. It only feels flat because the *crack* is level with your eyes now.
- westturn 50168/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> The coat's purple is a state, blood deciding mid-flow to become something else. Lou's uncle's mouth is in his coat pocket; he speaks to the bandstand between songs. The arrangement was signed at the diner in 1911 by a man with your hands. The Eisenhower only feels flat because the crack is level with your eyes. </UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> I don't sign things I don't remember. That's why the briefcase is handcuffed to my wrist. Everything's in there. The tax forms. The setlist. The receipts. Lou's uncle sits at the back and drinks a beer. That's all. Purple coat, quiet, tips the waitress. Midnight. Eisenhower. Flat. We drive it every week. It's flat.