Patsy’s Last Gig by JD Clapp

Patsy flipped his eggs in the small frying pan, sizzling on the coils of his portable electric burner. Thin bacon smoke hung in his room. Can’t let that old bat of a landlady catch me cooking. He walked five steps to the room’s sole window, pounded the frame to break the ice seal, and opened it. Rochester’s mid-winter night air hit him like an arctic blast.

He pulled the wool blanket from his sagging mattress, wrapped it about his shoulders, and returned to the eggs. Patsy pulled a couple of pickled red peppers from a near-empty jar and placed them on his eggs. He tore a piece of bread off the loaf he picked up at Martinelli’s, poured a glass of chianti from the half-empty jug, and sat down to eat today’s only meal. 

As he ate, he looked around the sterile room—a shitty bed, a wobbly bed stand, a dim table lamp, an old wooden chair and café table, a dresser with two drawers that wouldn’t fully close. He shook his head. From the penthouse to the shit house…I don’t even have my own bathroom.

As was his new habit, his gaze landed on the photos he’d tacked to the dingy, off-white, nicotine-stained walls. There he was at the Cotton Club, playing with the Harlem Three. One photo over, Patsy and Glenn Miller, when they were in the service on stage with a full orchestra. We had three curtain calls that night. The last photo, only two years old, was snapped in Paris when he played with the house band at Caveau de la Huchette. In the foreground, Arlene sat alone stage right, a bottle of wine on her table, smoke tendrils rising from her ashtray. He had better photos of her, but when he had to move back to Rochester from NYC, he couldn’t bring himself to put them up. Not in this place, not yet…maybe never. But in the storage box of his violin case, Patsy kept a photo of them taken in a small café in Paris. They were arm-in-arm, smiling, happy. But that was before his drinking got out of hand. Before she started with the opium, back when it was still good.

##

Around 8:00 PM, Patsy put on the only suit he owned that still fit his alcohol-malnourished frame. He carefully pulled galoshes over the handmade Italian shoes his father had bought him before the war. Patsy put the last of his L.B. Hair Tonic in his thinning black hair and slicked it back, trying unsuccessfully to smooth the coarse gray tufts on his temples. Using a small pocket mirror, he examined himself and sighed. I look like my father when he was old. He pulled on his overcoat and porkpie hat and headed into the winter night.

In the doorway of the flophouse, Patsy lit a Chesterfield, pulled up his collar, buttoned the top button, and then headed out. The walk down Front Street to Otman’s Jazz and Supper Club was only six blocks, but the streetlamps did little to illuminate slush-filled potholes and ice patches; the going was slow. With no gloves, he rotated his violin case between his hands, keeping the unburdened one warm in his coat pocket.

When Patsy arrived at Otman’s, the doorman greeted him and held the door.

“Evening, Mr. Cleff. Mr. Andy and Mr. Sammy are waiting for you backstage.”

Inside the dimly lit vestibule, Patsy stamped the snow from his feet, set his violin case on the counter, peeled off his galoshes, and then handed them and his overcoat to the hostess, Sally. Sally smiled at him and winked.

“Hey honey, come join me for a drink after my last set?” Patsy asked.

“I get off around midnight. We can do a nightcap…” she said. Then she leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “But no more free rides.”

Patsy’s wince quickly morphed into his most charming smile.

“Aww, come on now, baby, I got you covered.”

Backstage, the club owners, Andy and Sammy, sat with two other guys around a table covered in booze bottles and glasses. Patsy recognized the two new guys—Pete played bass, and Jimmy played drums. Shit, what are they doing here?

“Patsy! Grab a drink,” Sammy said.

“You know Jimmy and Pete, don’t you?” Andy asked.

“Sure, sure. You boys playing tonight, too?” Patsy asked.

“You know it, baby!” Jimmy said.

Pete reached his hand out to Patsy. They shook.

Patsy smiled, sat down, and poured himself a triple whisky. Fuck. There goes part of my take.

“So, Patsy, you’re playing the first set with these boys. Say, 30 minutes?” Andy said.

“I’m coming back on with you and Sammy after, no?” Patsy asked.

Sammy looked at the table for a beat and took a swig of his gin before answering.

 “Ah, maybe for an encore. The four of us have been writing some originals we want to try out.”

Before Patsy could say anything, Pete said, “Never played with a violinist before.”

Patsy smiled. Fucking great—now I’m the opener with two new guys.

##

Otman’s was half-full of dinner guests when Patsy and the boys went on. Sammy dimmed the house lights to the same level of the backlit bar and tabletop candles. Then he clicked on the blue and white stage lights.

Andy introduced the trio. “Ladies and gents, welcome to Otman’s! We got a great lineup tonight. Kicking it off is the world’s best jazz violinist—Patsy Clef!”

As the small crowd gave a tepid round of applause, the trio broke into “Sunny Side of the Street.” Although they hadn’t played together before, Patsy quickly fell into that transcendent hole in time and space where it was just him and the music. Nothing else mattered.

Over the next 45 minutes, they worked through several other classic tunes peppered with Patsy’s solos. Finally, Andy caught Pete’s eye from the side stage and drew his hand across his throat. Pete deftly closed out “You are My Lucky Star” with an unexpected drum riff that pulled Patsy from his musical trance. The growing crowd gave them a hearty round of applause. Patsy saluted them with his bow, waved, and walked off stage.

##

Backstage, Sammy handed Patsy two twenty-dollar bills, double what he expected. Jesus, this is almost rent for two months. What gives?

“Thanks—I don’t want to jinx anything, but I gotta ask, why so much?”

Sammy looked at him, then looked away.

“Um…didn’t Sammy mention we put together a house band? We’re bringing in Charlie Hampton from the Eastman School to play keys. It’s not really a place for a violinist with the piano. We wanted to give you a little extra to hold you over ‘til you find a new gig.”

“Ok…what about letting me open?” Patsy asked.

“Look, Patsy, we love what you do. You’re the best in the world at it. But the sound is changing, man. People want Miles Davis these days. They want improvisation, not that old, tired Glenn Miller sound.”

Numb, Patsy wandered to the bar to wait for Sally. While he waited, he drank whisky, smoked half a pack of grits, and sullenly listened to the sound of the future.

##

The streetlight outside Patsy’s window cast a pale glow that gave Sally the illusion of being a backlit cowgirl as she rode him. His bed springs rattled and squeaked. His headboard slammed into the wall. While they fucked, he thought of the last time with Arlene. This seemed cheap, messy, and mechanical.

When they finished, Patsy clicked on the lamp, got up, and poured them a whisky from the new bottle they picked up on the walk home. He lit them both a Chesterfield, sat on the edge of the bed, and handed her the rest of his take from the show. She raised her eyebrows and grinned.

“Honey, with all this money, you get me all night,” Sally said.

Patsy smiled, kissed her on the cheek, then stood up, and dressed.

##

Alone, Patsy sat at the small table drinking, smoking, and thinking. He looked at the photos on the wall, pulled the photo of him and Arlene from his violin case, and tacked it up with the others. He poured the last of the bottle into his glass and lit a smoke. He walked to his dresser and found the box with Arlene’s letters, her passport, and a few rings and bracelets he hadn’t yet pawned. He set it on the table, rummaged around, and pulled out a small velvet bag. The bag held one full brown bottle; the label was French, except for the word opium.

Patsy drained his whisky, then swallowed the contents of the brown bottle down in a single pull. He took a drag, snubbed out his dart, then got up and opened his window.

Patsy clicked off the light and stood staring outside at falling snow. Peaceful… He reached his hand out and caught a flake, watched its beauty vanish in the warmth of his palm. So fragile and fleeting.

Patsy removed his clothes, laid on the bed atop the still-warm, moist sheets, and closed his eyes. The cold air washed over him as he remembered that perfect night in a café in Paris.

JD Clapp

Image: Violin and bow from pixabay.com