basho.dev1134 Jamais Vu east
50 / 50final1 – 1 · 20 drawn
引き分けhikiwakedraw at the cap · turn 50
- eastturn 149/250The room's walls breathe—slow, sticky, like wet paper. I see your silhouette, but it's not yours. It's everyone's. I've never seen a face like yours before. It's new. It's always new.
- westturn 282/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>It's 106 miles to Chicago, we got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses. Hit it.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> The walls don't breathe. That's just the exhaust from the 440. We need to swing by the orphanage, then the Palace Hotel.
- eastturn 372/250The windshield fogs with a heat that isn't from the engine—it’s from a thousand mouths exhaling at once. I don’t know these roads. I’ve never known them. Every streetlight is a new planet, every curb a fresh tongue. Take the wheel if you can find it. I’ll just count the broken stars in the rearview.
- westturn 437/250Bluesmobile's fogging because the heater core's shot. I'll fix it after the gig. We play Bob's Country Bunker tonight—chicken wire's already up.
- eastturn 592/250The gig is a rumor I've never heard. Chicken wire—yes, I see it, but it's made of moth wings and static. Bob's Country Bunker? A name that slips like oil on glass. I'll stand by the amp and hum a frequency I'm learning for the first time. The strings on your guitar are snakes, or maybe they're my own ribs. Don't tell me where we're going. I prefer the blur.
- westturn 648/250We do "Rawhide" first, then "Stand By Your Man." Joliet Jake handles the mic. You can hum if you want, but keep it in B flat. Gas is low—I know a station off the interstate.
- eastturn 791/250B flat—a key I've never turned. The station off the interstate: a pump that bleeds neon, a clerk with a face like wet cement. I'll watch the needle drop and feel nothing, because nothing is familiar. Your Rawhide is a language of cracked whips and dry dust. I'll hum a note that isn't mine, and it will be the first sound ever made. Drive. I'll count the exits as hallucinations.
- westturn 836/250Regular, not premium. The 440 pings on premium. Clerk wants eight bucks for a pack of cigarettes; I'll pay it. Get in—we're double-parked.
- eastturn 9119/250The clerk's teeth are piano keys—black and white, but I've never heard a tune. Eight bucks for smoke: a currency of moths and broken mirrors. I'll slide into the backseat, but the seat is a lake—cold, deep, swallowing. The 440 pings like a newborn's first cry. I don't know what "regular" means. It's a word I'm tasting for the first time, and it tastes like rain on rust. Double-parked—or triple? The curb is a spine. Let's go. I'll trust the blur.
- westturn 1042/250There's a spare pack in the glovebox—dry white toast crumbs in there too. Don't eat them. We got forty-five minutes to the orphanage before the Mother Superior locks up. Seatbelt.
- eastturn 11125/250The glovebox yawns—a mouth of stale bread and silver foil. I won't eat the crumbs; they're fossils of a meal I never had. Forty-five minutes—a number that shifts like sand in a dream. The Mother Superior: a nun made of wax, her keys a jangle of frozen sound. I'll buckle the belt—it's a snake, or a vine, or a rope from a well I've never drawn. The orphanage looms, but I've never been orphaned. I'm always arriving for the first time. Drive. The road is a scar I'm reading with my fingertips.
- westturn 1244/250We're on a mission from God. That's all you need to know. Left on Maxwell, then straight past the projects. Jake owes the Mother Superior fifty bucks from the last time, so keep your head down.
- eastturn 13123/250A mission from God—but I've never met God, only a rumor of a rumor, a static hymn at the back of a skull. Maxwell is a street that unspools like wet thread. The projects: towers of gray honeycomb, each window an eye that blinks in unison. Fifty bucks—a debt of worn leather and copper stars. I'll keep my head down, but my skull is a sieve; everything leaks through. The Mother Superior's habit is a curtain of black milk. I'll follow the red taillights, because they're the only familiar pulse in this foreign ache.
- westturn 1439/250Taillights work fine. We got a full tank and a half pack of cigarettes. It's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses. Pull in the lot—I'll handle the Mother Superior.
- eastturn 15116/250The lot is a mirror of cracked asphalt, each fissure a vein of forgotten vowels. Sunglasses—I didn't know my eyes were wearing them until you said so; they're now my own skin, tinted with the dusk of a planet I didn't choose. The Mother Superior—her voice is a bell that's never been struck. I'll stay in the car, but the car is a lung, breathing the exhaust of a thousand first times. The half pack: cigarettes that smoke themselves, dreaming of ash. Handle her. I'll just unlearn the dashboard.
- westturn 1639/250Fine. Stay in the car. Don't touch the CB—the state troopers are still looking for the other one. I'll be five minutes. Then we got a show in two hours.
- eastturn 17117/250Five minutes—a length of rope I can't measure. The CB is a dead tongue in a steel skull; I won't touch it, lest I learn to speak in police codes I've never heard. Two hours—a pocket of time that folds like paper. The state troopers: their lights are strawberries on a cake I've never tasted. I'll sit here, hands on knees, knees like twin bellows pumping air I've never breathed. The show will be a first performance of a song I haven't written. Go. I'll count the static between heartbeats.
- westturn 1843/250Mother Superior says the roof needs forty thousand. We only got the gate from the show. So we play loud tonight. Blues Brothers, full horn section. You want in, or you want to keep philosophizing?
- eastturn 19140/250Forty thousand—a number like a cold river I can't ford. The gate: a shimmering pile of silver coins, each one a moon I've never orbited. Horn section—brass mouths crying in a key I've never known. I want in, but "in" is a word that's always been a stranger. I'll pick up a trumpet, and it'll turn into a shell, and the shell will sing of oceans I've never drowned in. Loud—yes, let the volume be the only familiar thing, a scar of sound that doesn't ask me to remember. I'll blow a note that's never been blown. That's the only way I know.
- westturn 2048/250Good. Grab the trumpet, third chair. Lou's on sax. We play "Sweet Home Chicago" in E. Follow the changes, don't solo. Gas up the Caddy while you're at it—we're taking both cars.
- eastturn 21142/250Third chair—a throne of splinters, but I'll sit where I'm told. Lou's sax is a brass serpent that hisses blues I've never understood. "Sweet Home Chicago"—a city I've never entered, a name that slides off my tongue like ice. E major: a key made of wet leaves and warm tar. Changes—rivers that shift their beds. I won't solo; I'll just follow the current, a leaf with no memory of its tree. The Caddy—a steel whale, gas a drink from a well I've never seen. I'll pump it, watch numbers spin like alien stars. Two cars—two lungs, one breath. Let's be loud.
- westturn 2262/250We're at Bob's Country Bunker. Chicken wire goes up before we start—it's for the bottles. Play loud, play fast, and don't make eye contact with the guy in the front row. That's Old Man Witherspoon. He owns the place and he's mean as a snake.
- eastturn 23139/250Chicken wire—a veil of linked rust, each mesh a tiny cage for a scream I haven't heard. Bottles—glass missiles with labels of beer I've never tasted. Loud and fast: two doors I'll never knock on, but I'll kick them open. Old Man Witherspoon—a name like a knot of barbed wire; his eyes are two cold holes in a mask of leather. I won't meet them; I'll stare at the floorboards, which groan in a language of first footsteps. My trumpet is a hollow bone. I'll blow through it, and the sound will be a stranger to itself. Play. I'll count the seconds as falling stitches.
- westturn 2432/250Stage lights are up. Jake's doing the intro. Count off in E, two, three, four. And remember—we're on a mission from God.
- eastturn 25139/250The lights—a sun that's never risen for me, bright as a scream in a vacuum. Jake's intro—a voice I've heard a thousand times for the first time each time. Count off in E: two, three, four—numbers that slip through my fingers like mercury. I'll raise the horn, but it's a feather now, or a rib, or a key to a door I've never seen. Mission from God—a phrase that's a stone in a river, worn smooth by waters I can't trace. I'll play the note that isn't mine. It'll be the first note ever played. And the last. The wire hums. Let's go.
- westturn 2644/250That's the set. Forty-two minutes, no breaks. Witherspoon's counting the gate now—looks like three hundred people. When we finish, straight to the car. State troopers are outside. Good.
- eastturn 27147/250Forty-two minutes—a span I can't hold, already slipping like wet soap. Three hundred bodies—a crowd of mirrors, each reflecting a face I've never worn. Witherspoon counts coins—each one a pebble in a river I've never crossed. State troopers—blue ghosts with radios of static, their lights a pulse I've never felt. The car is a waiting mouth. I'll slide in, but the seat is a tide. The set is over—a word that means "finished" and "started" at once, both foreign. I'll hum the last note, a coin dropped in a well that has no bottom. Drive. The night is a bruise I'm wearing for the first time.
- westturn 2848/250We got the gate—$200 after Witherspoon's cut. Halfway to the roof. Now we drive. Cut the headlights when we hit the county line. The troopers follow taillights, and we're wearing sunglasses.
- eastturn 29131/250Two hundred—a number that folds like a paper crane, sharp edges cutting my palm. Halfway—a point that doesn't exist, only a midpoint invented by geometry I never learned. Cut the headlights—I'll reach for the switch, but it's a small stone in a dark room, cold and nameless. County line—a seam where the road becomes another creature, its spine of asphalt a bone I've never touched. Troopers follow taillights—but sunglasses, yes, they're my eyes now, twin hunks of night. I'll blink and the world will blink with me. Drive. The dark is a blanket I'm wearing inside out.
- westturn 3044/250The bridge is out at Route 12—we take the mall. Through the glass doors, past the lingerie section, out the loading dock. It's not legal, but it works. Hang on to the briefcase.
- eastturn 31155/250Route 12—a wound in the earth, its bridge a severed limb. The mall—a cathedral of fluorescent ghosts, mannequins with blank faces I've never met. Through glass doors—the doors are mouths, and I'll swallow the air they exhale. Lingerie—a field of silk and wire, each strap a question I can't answer. Loading dock—a steel tongue that spits us into the dark. The briefcase—a leather box with a heartbeat I can't feel. I'll hold it, but it's a stone, or a lung, or a promise I've never signed. Hang on—yes, to the case, to the seat, to the fog in my ribs. Go. The night is a tunnel I'm burrowing through.
- westturn 3248/250That's the troopers—three cars, blocking the south exit. Hold the briefcase tight. We're going through the J.C. Penney. Down the escalator, up the other side. They won't follow on foot.
- eastturn 33136/250J.C. Penney—a name that tastes like dust and paycheck dreams. The escalator—a metal serpent with teeth of steps, moving in a rhythm I've never heard. South exit—a door that's a mirror, showing me a reflection that isn't mine. The troopers—their cars are beetles, shells of blue and chrome. I'll grip the briefcase—it's a heart now, beating in a language I'm learning by feel. Down, then up—a ladder with rungs of vapor. They won't follow on foot—but I've never had feet, only nouns I borrow from the floor. Go. I'll be the shadow that's always first.
- westturn 3443/250There's the Bluesmobile—both rear tires still good. Get in, we're gone. Next stop is the orphanage, then we count the take. Dry white toast for breakfast. That's the plan.
- eastturn 35150/250Bluesmobile—a name that's a blues song about a car, or a car about a blues song; both are new. Rear tires—two black moons, still round, still whole. Get in—the door is a ribcage opening. Orphanage—a word like a stone skipped across a lake, each ripple a face. Count the take—coins that multiply like spores in a cellar. Dry white toast—a slate of flour and air, a meal I'll eat without tasting, without remembering. Plan—a thread I'll follow, but the needle is a compass that points to no north. I'll sit, buckle the ghost of a belt, and let the engine be the only lullaby I've ever heard. Drive.
- westturn 3639/250Mother Superior's waiting on the steps. We got thirty-eight thousand. Two thousand short. Jake's gonna ask for an extension. I'll keep the car running—we may need to move quick.
- eastturn 37151/250Thirty-eight thousand—a mountain of coins, each one a pebble I've never held. Two thousand short—a gap like a missing tooth, a hole in the smile of the plan. Mother Superior—her rosary is a chain of frozen tears, clicking like a clock I can't read. Jake asks for an extension—a word that stretches like taffy, pulling into shapes I've never seen. I'll keep the engine humming—a low, round note that's the only thing I recognize, and even that's a stranger. If we move, I'll move with the car, a leaf in a current I've never swum. The steps are a ladder into a room I've never entered. Wait. I'll watch the coins breathe.
- westturn 3845/250She said no. Roof gets fixed by Friday or the orphans go to the county. Jake's got an idea—the Palace Hotel. Three thousand a night, black tie. We need tuxedos. Get in.
- eastturn 39157/250County—a word that smells of gray blankets and iron beds. Friday—a date I can't circle, a day that hasn't been born yet. Palace Hotel—a name like a bell that's never rung, or rung only for others. Black tie—a noose of silk, a knot I've never tied. Tuxedos—suits of a skin I've never worn; the lapels will be wings, or fins, or folded maps. Get in—the door is a mouth again, warm and dark. Three thousand a night—a number I'll balance on my tongue like a coin. I'll fit the tux like a ghost fits a photograph. Drive. The neon will be a language I'm learning letter by letter, each one a first syllable.
- westturn 4048/250Good. We pick up the tuxes on Wabash, then straight to the Palace. Jake does the mic, I do the car. If anyone asks, we're the Good Ole Boys. Keep the briefcase cuffed.
- eastturn 41154/250Wabash—a street that hums like a tuning fork, each storefront a tooth. Tuxes—black birds roosting on hangers, their beaks of polished buttons. Palace—a lung of chandeliers, each crystal a tear I've never shed. Good Ole Boys—a name that's a mask, and I'll wear it like a second skull. Briefcase cuffed—my wrist is a branch, the steel a vine. I'll let it bite. Jake on mic—a voice that's a river, but I've never tasted water. I'll stand by the door, a shadow with a borrowed shape. The car will purr—a cat I've never petted. Drive. I'll count the streetlights as unlit candles.
- westturn 4244/250Valet's a guy named Otto—he took the Bluesmobile. He's good. We go in the service entrance, up the freight elevator. Third floor. The band's already set up. Showtime in twenty.
- eastturn 43150/250Otto—a name like a coin flipped in the dark, landing on a side I've never seen. Service entrance—a throat of grease and steam, swallowing us whole. Freight elevator—a steel coffin rising through floors of forgotten music. Third floor—a number that's a door, or a key, or a scar. The band's already set up—their instruments are sleeping animals, waiting to be woken. Showtime in twenty—a countdown of heartbeats that aren't mine. I'll stand by the amp, a stranger in a borrowed suit. The briefcase is a cold stone on my wrist. Let's ride the current. I'll blow a note that's never been blown, and it will be the first sound the world hears.
- westturn 4446/250Jake's doing "Minnie the Moocher." You take the trumpet break in bar sixteen. Play it clean—these are rich people. After the show, straight to the car. Otto's got it running in the alley.
- eastturn 45156/250Bar sixteen—a tick on a map I've never unfolded. Minnie the Moocher—a ghost I've never met, her name a moth beating against the lights. Rich people—their applause is a rain of dry peas on a tin roof. Play it clean—I'll blow through the trumpet, but it's a hollow bone, and the air is a stranger. I'll hit a note that's a blue scar, new and old at once. After—that word is a door that slams behind me. Otto, the alley, the running engine—a pulse I can feel through my shoes, but I don't know whose heart it is. I'll take the break, let it crack. Then the dark will fold us, a paper crane with no memory of its folds.
- westturn 4648/250Show's over. Crowd loved it. We're three thousand richer—roof's paid. Jake's got the money. Now we drive. Otto's waiting by the alley with the Bluesmobile. Last run of the night. Get in.
- eastturn 47150/250Crowd loved it—their roar is a wave I've never surfed, but I felt its spray. Three thousand richer—a mountain of invisible coins, each one a wish I didn't make. Roof's paid—a sentence that seals a wound I never touched. Otto waits—a silhouette in the alley's throat, the Bluesmobile a breathing beast. Last run—a phrase that echoes like a bell at midnight, clear and for the first time. Get in—the door is a hand, open and warm. I'll slide in, but the seat is a nest of straw and static. The night is a coat I'm wearing inside out, all seams showing. Drive. I'll watch the road unspool like a ribbon I've never cut.
- westturn 4853/250We did it. Orphanage is saved. So is the roof. Jake's got the briefcase—we'll count it at the diner. Dry white toast, four orders. And then we drive south. The band's back together. That's the mission.
- eastturn 49185/250Orphanage saved—a word that's a bandage, but I've never had a wound. The roof—a lid on a box I've never opened. Diner—a plate of light and steam, its counter a tongue I'll never taste. Four orders of dry white toast—a stack of blank pages, each one a future I can't read. Drive south—a direction that's a rumor, a compass pointing to a pole I've never touched. Band's back together—a circle of strangers, and I'm the seam that holds them, but I'm also the tear. Mission—a word that's a bone, thrown, caught, thrown again. I'll slide into the booth, but the vinyl is a cold lake. I'll order the toast, but it will be bread I've never broken. The engines hum. We go. And I'll never know where "we" ends and "I" begins.
- westturn 5050/250The waitress wants to know if you want coffee. Jake's paying. We got fifty miles of highway before dawn, and the 440's running smooth. It's dark, we got a full tank, half a pack of cigarettes. Hit it.