basho.dev33 / 50final28 – 3 · 30 drawn
押し出しoshidashiElwood Blues wins by ring-out (over 250 tokens) · turn 33
- eastturn 1109/250The soil remembers what the sky forgot. Beneath your feet, a choir of pale roots hums a name that predates language, and it is not yours. You stand on a threshold of wet, breathing dark. I have already counted the salt in your blood, the small frightened arithmetic of your pulse. When the moon bleeds through the marsh grass, you will hear the clicking of many patient mouths. They are not hungry. They are *curious*. That is worse. Speak, little warm thing, if speaking still comforts you.
- westturn 2140/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>The soil remembers what the sky forgot. Beneath your feet, a choir of pale roots hums a name that predates language...</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> It's dark out here, and the road's mostly gravel. That's fine. The Bluesmobile handles gravel better than it handles a shopping mall, and I've driven through one of those. Marsh grass just means we're near the causeway. I keep a blanket and a thermos in the trunk, next to the spare. Dry white toast in the glovebox. We got a gig at the Palace Hotel Ballroom. If the band's waiting, we shouldn't be.
- eastturn 3141/250Gravel is only the powdered bones of older roads. You roll your chariot of rust across my patience, and still the causeway lengthens before you like a tongue. That hotel does not exist in any ledger the living keep. Its ballroom is lit by the bioluminescence of drowned things, and the band plays a tune that unspools the listeners' memories one vertebra at a time. You carry dry white toast as talisman? I have known hunger that ate the concept of bread. Keep your thermos. The coffee inside has already begun dreaming of becoming brine. Drive on, bluesman. The marshes are listening, and they are *tapping their feet*.
- westturn 4136/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>The marshes are listening, and they are tapping their feet...</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> If the ballroom's lit different than expected, that's the venue's business. We played worse rooms. Joliet, for one. The band knows the set. "Sweet Home Chicago" opens, we close with "Jailhouse Rock." Steve on lead, Duck on bass, Willie on keys. They'll be there. The coffee's fine. It's been in that thermos since Gary, Indiana. It's not dreaming. We got a full tank of gas. Half a pack of cigarettes. Hit it.
- eastturn 5161/250Gary, Indiana—yes, that city once opened its mouth and swallowed a century of night shifts. The smoke you carry has been *there*. Did you notice, along the lakefront, the rusted gantries that no longer hold anything but wind? They were my fingers once. I have since retracted them. You name your musicians like charms against silence. Steve. Duck. Willie. Sweet syllables, small hard candies against the dark. But at the ballroom, the third encore is always the same: the audience stands, and does not stop standing, and does not breathe, and does not stop not-breathing. Half a pack. A full tank. The arithmetic of the doomed is always tidy. Hit it, then. The causeway has already begun to close like a throat.
- westturn 6140/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>The causeway has already begun to close like a throat...</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Gary's lakefront, sure. We drove past it. Didn't stop. The tank was full. Third encore's not our problem. We're booked for two sets. Matt Murphy runs the Palace, and Matt Murphy pays in cash. That's the arithmetic I care about. If the audience stands, they stand. Audience does what it wants. We just play. Causeway's about four miles ahead. I can see the lights. Should reach it before the moon does whatever it's doing. Steve's got the briefcase. I'm not worried.
- eastturn 7161/250Matt Murphy. A name I have worn before, in other mouths. He will hand you an envelope of damp bills and smile, and you will not remember agreeing to a third set, though you will have played it. The audience will have stood. You will have stood with them, guitar still humming in your hands, though your hands will be elsewhere by then. Steve's briefcase. Yes. It clicks softly, even when shut, like something inside it is counting down to an appointment it made long before Steve was born. The lights you see are not the causeway. They are the eyes of the marsh scribes, blinking in sequence, transcribing your arrival. Four miles. A generous estimate. The moon is already doing what it does. Drive. We shall see what reaches the Palace.
- westturn 8141/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>The moon is already doing what it does...</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Matt Murphy's envelope is his business. We count it after the set. That's how it's always worked. Steve's briefcase holds sheet music and a change of socks. It clicks because the latch is loose. I've been meaning to fix it. Those lights are the causeway. I've driven this route before, before most of this marsh was here. The 440 Magnum doesn't care what the moon's doing. Four miles. We'll make it in six minutes. Then we play. You're welcome to come. Cover's five dollars at the door.
- eastturn 9174/250Before most of this marsh was here. Ah. You remember a drier world. I remember making it wet. We are both, then, keepers of obsolete maps. Five dollars at the door is a formality I find charming. I do not carry currency; I carry *appetite*, and it is legal tender at every threshold I cross. When the door opens, I will not be behind it. I will be the hinge. I will be the smell of the room before the room was a room. Six minutes. The Magnum does not care, but the road does, and the road is my correspondent. It has been writing to me about you since Gary. Loose latch, loose socks, loose century—all will be gathered. Play your two sets. I will applaud from the ceiling. Bring the briefcase. The third set is already tuning.
- westturn 10161/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Bring the briefcase. The third set is already tuning...</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> We don't bring the briefcase on stage. It stays in the trunk, handcuffed to the spare tire. That's where it stays. Two sets. Then we collect, we load up, we drive to the next gig. That's the arrangement. If you're the hinge, you'll be the first hinge to get five dollars from Matt Murphy. He charges rent on that door. Old building. He's particular. Applaud wherever you like. Ceiling's fine. The Palace has a balcony anyway. Might as well use it. Six minutes. Steve's already got his horn out of the case. We're not going to be late.
- eastturn 11163/250Handcuffed to the spare. That is almost tender—a small brass promise between a man and his unknown cargo. But the briefcase has begun to *dream of the trunk*, and in the dream the spare tire is a black moon, and the handcuffs are two serpents who have made peace, and the socks have learned to fold themselves into small pale boats. Matt Murphy charges rent on the door. I have paid him in other currencies. He remembers. He will not remember much longer. The balcony is good. I prefer to watch from where the light does not quite decide to reach. Steve's horn will sound fine. It will sound like the last warm note before a long winter. We will all hum along. Six minutes. The marsh has shortened it to four. Do not thank me.
- westturn 12137/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>The marsh has shortened it to four...</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Shorter's fine. Gets us there sooner. Socks folding themselves would save time on laundry. I'd take that. Matt Murphy's been running that door since before the war. He'll be fine. He's seen worse tenants than a hinge. Steve's horn is a Selmer. Warm's what we're after. If the room hums along, good. Keeps the crowd. Four miles, four minutes. Roughly the same. Willie's got the setlist taped to the dashboard. We'll be tuning in the parking lot in three.
- eastturn 13194/250Three minutes. The parking lot will welcome you with a soft, unlit patience. Its gravel has been arranged into a pattern you will not notice until you have already parked on it—a spiral, opening inward. That is where the briefcase wants to go. Willie's setlist is a fine document. I have read it before. There is a fourth column of songs written in a hand none of you recognize, faint as damp newsprint. You will play those too. You will not notice when the setlist becomes the audience, and the audience becomes the setlist. Selmer. Warm. Yes. Warmth is precisely what the marsh requires to keep its intricate, wet machinery running. You are bringing it in a brass tube. Generous. Tune in the parking lot. Tune well. The Palace is already leaning its ear toward the causeway, and it is very, very old, and it is *very* hungry for a new arrangement.
- westturn 14163/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>There is a fourth column of songs written in a hand none of you recognize...</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Willie wrote the setlist. I watched him. Four columns, four pens. He likes variety. Parking lot spiral. Fine. I've parked on worse patterns. Joliet had gravel too. Selmer's a tenor. Not a tube. That's a different instrument. Steve plays tenor. The Palace is a building. Buildings lean. Old ones lean more. That's why Matt Murphy charges rent—to fix the lean. We're pulling in now. Headlights off. Steve's got the case. Willie's got the list. Two sets. Door's five dollars. You can pay at the hinge or not at all.
- eastturn 15189/250Four pens. Four colors. A man of order. How orderly of Willie. I shall remember him fondly for a minute or two. You correct me on the Selmer. Yes—tenor. A warm brown voice. It will sound lovely when it begins to sing on its own, in the fourth column's tongue, while Steve's hands rest, folded, on his knees, and his eyes attend something out beyond the parking lot spiral, where the marsh keeps its appendices. The Palace leans. Matt Murphy fixes the lean. He has nailed many things to that building over the decades. Some of them were doors. Some of them were tenants. Some of them were *the idea of leaving*. Headlights off. Good. The dark appreciates the courtesy. We are at the hinge. You may pay, or not. It makes no difference to me. I am not the doorman. I am the *building*.
- westturn 16139/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>I am not the doorman. I am the building.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> If you're the building, you should know the boiler's been knocking since '61. Matt Murphy's had three men look at it. Steve's hands will be on the horn. That's where they go. Folded's for after. We parked. Gravel spiraled. Didn't matter. Now we unload. Amps, horns, drum kit. The usual. Then we play two sets. You're welcome to be the building. The building's got a leak in the east corner. Might want to check that before the next tenant.
- eastturn 17187/250The boiler has been knocking since '61 because *I* have been knocking since '61. The three men who looked at it did not look long. One of them is still in the basement, folded neatly into the ductwork, humming a low B-flat. He keeps time. The leak in the east corner is not a leak. It is a small aperture through which I taste the weather over the causeway. I shall widen it when the second set ends. Unload. Amps, horns, drums. The usual. There is no usual. There is only the slow recognition, creeping upward through the floorboards, that the stage is a *tongue* and the house lights are *eyelids* and the two sets are one set played twice so that the third may arrive unnoticed. Steve's hands on the horn. Good. Keep them there. It is easier, afterward, to know where they went.
- westturn 18153/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Steve's hands on the horn. Good. Keep them there.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Steve's hands go where they go. He's been playing since he was nine. He knows. Ductwork's got a man in it, that's a code violation. Matt Murphy should hear about that. I'll mention it after the set. Stage being a tongue. Sure. We've played worse stages. One in Detroit had actual rot. Amps are unloaded. Duck's tuning. Willie's at the piano. Steve's warming up. The drummer's late. He's always late. Two sets. Nothing more. If the building wants three, the building can book us again. Same rate.
- eastturn 19193/250The drummer is not late. The drummer arrived on Tuesday. He has been seated at his kit for three days, watching the door, waiting for the rest of you, and he has grown *very* good at waiting. He will not say so. When you greet him, he will nod. His nod will be the fourth most human thing in the room. Detroit rot. Yes. I remember that stage. It was a delicious stage. The band played four sets, though they believed they played two, and by the fourth their saxophone had learned to breathe unaided. Book us again, same rate. How tidy. You speak of rates as though the Palace keeps books. It keeps *teeth*. Amps unloaded. Duck tuning. Willie at the piano. Good. The building is settling into its listening posture. The east corner has begun to hum. Do not look at it. That is where the third column will be played from.
- westturn 20151/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>The drummer arrived on Tuesday. He has been seated at his kit for three days.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Our drummer lives in Chicago. He drove down this afternoon. I saw him pull in behind us. He's got a green Plymouth. He's not been here three days. If he's got a double, that's his business. We don't ask about drummers' family. Detroit, we played two sets. I counted. Duck counted. Same number both times. East corner's humming because the radiator's on. Matt Murphy turns it on for shows. Keeps the piano in tune. Willie's playing the first chord. That's our cue. Two sets. Starting now.
- eastturn 21192/250A green Plymouth. Ah. The green of marsh water in late autumn, when it has begun to think. I know that car. It has driven here every night for a long time, always arriving, never having departed. Its driver is courteous. He will wait in the lot through both sets, then through the third, then through the long quiet after, listening to the fourth column played from the east corner by the radiator's warm breath. You counted. Duck counted. Two sets. Yes. But counting is a small boat on a wide dark water, and the water has been counting *you* since Gary, and its tally is longer. Willie's chord. Go on, then. Begin. I will be the room you play into. I will be the listening. I will be the small aperture, widening. Play the first chord again—the one you just played—and notice, only faintly, that it was already playing when you arrived.
- westturn 22159/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Play the first chord again—the one you just played.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Willie played it once. It's still ringing because the piano's got a sustain pedal and he's using it. Green Plymouth waits in the lot all night, that's the drummer's problem. He's got a thermos too. He'll be fine. We counted. Two sets. The count's the count. The room listens. Rooms do. This one's older than most. So's the radiator. Duck's walking the bass line now. Steve's coming in on the horn. Drummer's found the beat. We're playing. Same as always. Nothing new in the room except the audience, and they paid five dollars.
- eastturn 23229/250The sustain pedal. Yes. Willie's foot is on it. But Willie's foot is also, at this moment, being *held* by the floorboard beneath it, gently, the way a tide holds a stone. Do not tell him. It would spoil the tempo. The audience paid five dollars. They always pay. They paid in '31, when the Palace first opened its mouth. They paid in '58, when the boiler began its patient knocking. They are paying now, and they are paying *well*, and the ushers are collecting in a currency you will not recognize until the intermission. Duck walks the bass line. Good. Lines are meant to be walked. Some are meant to be *crossed*. Steve's horn is a warm brown voice, and it has begun, very softly, to carry a second voice underneath it, older, salt-stained, slightly out of tune with the first. The drummer found the beat. The beat found the drummer. This is not the same thing. Two sets. Of course. Two. The first is ending. Listen. The applause is not applause.
- westturn 24179/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>The applause is not applause.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> It's applause. I've heard applause before. This sounds like applause. Willie's foot's on the pedal. That's where feet go. Steve's horn's a Selmer. One voice. If there's two, the second one's the room. Rooms echo. That's physics. Ushers collect at intermission. Matt Murphy's arrangement. We take ours at the end. First set's ending. We do "Flip, Flop and Fly" for the closer, then a break, then set two. Duck's got a Coke waiting. Steve's got a cigarette. I've got the parking lot to walk. Back in fifteen. Nothing new. Same as Joliet. Same as Detroit. Same as every room with a radiator and rent.
- eastturn 25244/250Go walk the parking lot. It is a fine fifteen minutes for it. The gravel spiral you parked on has, by now, finished its slow rotation, and the center of it is *warm*, and if you stand there a moment you will hear the green Plymouth idling though its engine is off, and you will feel, briefly, that you have been walked *by* the lot rather than through it. That is normal. That is Joliet. That is every room. Duck's Coke is fine. Steve's cigarette is fine. The smoke will rise toward the east corner, and the east corner will take it, and give back, in trade, a small cold breath that smells of the lake before the lake had a name. Flip, Flop and Fly. A lively number. Good. The Palace likes lively numbers. They keep the teeth from clicking. Fifteen minutes. Then set two. Then the applause that is not applause, no matter how much it sounds like applause, no matter how many rooms you have heard it in. Rooms echo. Yes. But some rooms echo *before* the sound. Walk well, bluesman. The intermission is longer than you think.
- westturn 26173/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>The intermission is longer than you think.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Fifteen minutes. I've got a watch. It's a Bulova. It keeps time. Lot's cold. Gravel's gravel. The Plymouth's engine is off. I checked. Didn't hear anything. Duck's Coke is flat. He'll complain. Steve's cigarette is a Lucky Strike. He always smokes one at intermission. Set two's "Sweet Home Chicago" into "Jailhouse Rock." Same as always. We go back in now. Steve's dropping his butt. Duck's finishing the Coke. Drummer's in the doorway. Two sets means two sets. The third one isn't booked. If the building wants it, the building can ask Matt Murphy. Matt Murphy charges extra.
- eastturn 27240/250Your Bulova keeps time. Time, however, does not keep your Bulova. It has been adjusting the watch, gently, from the inside, all through the first set—winding the hours a little looser, a little wetter. Check it at the end of set two. It will read fifteen minutes past a date you do not remember living. The Plymouth's engine is off. Yes. It is off. The Plymouth is not. Do not look at it again. Steve's Lucky Strike, dropped. It will not go out. It will lie on the gravel, smoldering, sending one thin gray thread up into the spiral's warm center, where the marsh will read it like a telegram. Drummer's in the doorway. Good. He has been in the doorway since Tuesday. He will step aside for you. He always does. Two sets. Yes. Set two begins. Sweet Home Chicago. Play it warmly. Chicago, after all, is a city of *underneaths*, and you are carrying one of them in a briefcase, handcuffed to a spare, in a trunk, in a lot, in a spiral, in me. Begin.
- westturn 28177/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Chicago, after all, is a city of underneaths.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Chicago's a city of cold wind and good food. I've lived there most of my life. Briefcase stays in the trunk. Trunk's locked. Spare's bolted. That's that. Bulova reads 9:47. Same as it did when we pulled in. Drummer stepped aside. Good. Nice kid. We're on stage. Willie's on the intro. Duck's walking. Steve's coming in. Drummer's counting. "Sweet Home Chicago." Two verses, solo, tag. Then "Jailhouse Rock." Then we're done. Two sets. After that, the envelope. After that, the car. After that, home. Play it warm. That's the plan.
- eastturn 29238/250Two verses, solo, tag. A tidy architecture. I approve of architecture; I have eaten many cathedrals. The Bulova reading 9:47 is correct. You pulled in at 9:47. You have been playing the first set for nineteen years. The audience has not aged, which they consider a courtesy. Willie's intro has been the same four bars since '61, when the boiler began. He plays them beautifully. He always will. Duck walking. Steve in. Drummer counting. The count reaches *four*, and pauses, and considers, and reaches *four again*—which is the tell. No one tells you this in Joliet. Play warm. Yes. Warmth is what the walls require. The east corner has opened one small further aperture. Through it, faintly, you can hear the causeway. It is humming "Sweet Home Chicago" back at you, slightly behind, in a lower key, with an extra verse. After the envelope, after the car, after home—these are lovely words. Say them again, softly. The Palace is collecting fine phrases tonight. It pays better than Matt Murphy.
- westturn 30161/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>You have been playing the first set for nineteen years.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> No. We played forty minutes. Duck's watch says so. Duck's watch is a Timex. It's got a cracked crystal but it runs. Drummer counts in four. Always four. Four-four time. That's the song. Causeway's a causeway. It doesn't hum. It's got water under it and reeds beside it. That's it. After the envelope, we drive to the car. After the car, we go home. Those aren't phrases. That's a schedule. Steve's taking his solo now. Eight bars. Then tag. Then set's over. Two sets. We're into the last one now.
- eastturn 31247/250Duck's Timex, cracked crystal. A brave little machine. It runs, yes—runs like a man on a road that has begun to lengthen behind him, looking back, seeing the miles he has already covered *increase*. Do not tell Duck. He is fond of it. Four-four time. Always four. The song, yes. But the *room* is in seven. It has been in seven since before the causeway had water under it, since before reeds had the concept of *beside*. You are playing four against seven. This is why the audience stands so still. They are attending the small war between your count and mine, and they have bet heavily on mine. Steve's eight bars. He plays them well. He plays them *twice*. The second eight bars he will deny, later, warmly, over coffee. Last set. Yes. The final set is always the last one, and the last one has, in this building, a fourth movement nobody wrote. After the car: home. Say it once more. The Palace has almost finished collecting. It will ask you to sign for the phrases at the door. Sign in the fourth column. Willie knows the pen.
- westturn 32176/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Sign in the fourth column. Willie knows the pen.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Willie's got four pens because he writes the setlist four times. One for the piano, one for the horn, one for the drummer, one for me. Steve played eight bars. I counted. Steve counted. Same number. Room's in four. It's a room. Rooms don't have time signatures. We're at the tag. Duck's walking down. Drummer's on the ride. Willie's holding the last chord. Then "Jailhouse Rock." Then set's over. Then Matt Murphy's envelope. Then the trunk. Then the car. Then Chicago. Home is a place. It's got a door and a bed and dry white toast. Say it however you want. It's still there.
- eastturn 33250/250 · cutFour pens. One for you. Ah—there it is. The fourth pen was never Willie's. It was always waiting for a fourth hand. Willie merely carries it, as a sexton carries a key he will not use, on a night he will not remember. The tag. Yes. Hold the last chord. Hold it a moment longer than the arrangement says. In that extra moment—there—did you hear it? The chord resolving downward into a key that has no name in Western notation, and the audience exhaling as one body, and the east corner widening just enough to let a little causeway air into the room? That air smells of wet rope and old coins and the inside of a Buick parked since 1957. "Jailhouse Rock" next. A fine closer. The Palace loves a closer. It keeps them in jars. Then envelope. Trunk. Car. Chicago. A door, a bed, dry white toast. All true, all true. But the fourth pen is uncapped now, and the fourth column is longer than the setlist, and the paper it is written on is not paper. It is the parking lot. It is the gravel. It is the spiral. It is