Chapter Six: Vibration

Vibration: dullness draws energy, decreasing vibration; radiance releases energy, increasing vibration…think positive, receive lovely parting gifts!

Jake declines bartender Dee’s offer of the usual post-gig free beer. “Not tonight, dear,” says Jake, twinkling as he sashays to the bathroom. “I have a date with my beautiful wife.” Thank you, Jesus, for a weekend gig, Jake thinks, as he washes his face and hands. Jake strides straight to his car after bidding a quick goodnight to his surprised band mates. The usual after-closing Jake-centered conversation is on hold until tomorrow. The band starts the jive before Jake’s out the door. “His woman came out tonight, all sweet and tightened up. He’s gonna dip in the honey pot when he gets home. That’s the only reason he’d leave us.” Dee rips off a line guaranteed to keep the topic of Jake’s early exit hot. “How he could choose his wife over you bunch of hairy derelicts is beyond my comprehension, honey pot or no honey pot.”
“Hey, Dee, Jake just lives in that house. He’s really married to us,” Melvin, the trumpet player says. He grins and points to Jake’s keyboard. “See that Roland over there? That’s his real wife. He makes love to her every night. Watch his face when he plays and you’ll know what I mean.” Melvin pours himself a cup of old coffee, and lowers his voice. “What’s going on with the club?”
“The new owners are coming in next week,” Dee states as she loads the dishwasher. She has the complete attention of Melvin and the band, all of whom are ready for a second round – compliments of the house. Dee sets them up, although nobody asks – they don’t have to – and turns back to her closing routine. “George really sold the place.” Melvin shakes his head, and his expression is dismal. “I can’t believe it. Have you met them?”
“No,” Dee answers, “but George says we’ll like them.” Dee is a doe-eyed Pollyanna with more heartbreak stories than a True Confessions magazine. She hasn’t had a serious date in six years, nor is she looking.
“Do they like jazz?”
“I don’t know, Melvin. I swear, I know nothing about them. We all have interviews next Wednesday. I’ll call you after it’s over and give you the low-down.”
“You mean you might not have a job?” Melvin and the boys are incredulous. “That’s not right. I mean, how can they come in here and rip everything apart? Damn, man.” Dee gathers empties from the bar counter and dumps them in the trash. “That’s the deal. They don’t have to keep any of us if they don’t want to.” The register clicks out a yard of receipt, and Dee looks at the bottom line. Not bad for a Friday. “I think about it this way,” she says, looking at the dejected faces across the bar. “You guys like me, the customers like me, George likes me, and these people – whoever they are – will like me, too.” Dee’s feet hurt. She’s ready to go home, and the tone of her voice would send a stranger out the door. But the boys in the band are hip to the drill and know Dee has a good forty-five minutes of work in her. There’s time for at least two more free beers each, and if they clear the tables for her, it could be three. The party’s just getting started for everyone but Dee.
Melvin folds his bar-nap, and tears it to shreds. “I’m not diggin’ what I’m feelin’ right now,” he says. “Why did George sell this place? It’s perfect just the way it is. He doesn’t need the money. Hell, I should have asked him to sell it to me for a dollar.”
“I don’t know why he sold it, Melvin, but he did,” retorts Dee. She opens the dishwasher and removes a rack of clean wine glasses. She examines each glass for long-lasting lipstick smudges, violently wipes the offenders, and stretches on tiptoe as she hangs them in the overhead rack. Dee’s compressed back begins to loosen, and her nightly headache subsides. “Here’s my theory,” she says. “George has better things to do. He travels constantly - stays gone for weeks at a time. I think it’s business-related; he's into big business now, not small restaurant potatoes.”
Dee picks up a clean bar towel and wipes the back bar. “It’s better for George to get out if he can’t keep his finger on the pulse. Those two morons running the show are worthless.” Melvin laughs and nods his head. “That’s a fact.”
“You know he’s never here anymore unless it’s to impress his latest date. When’s the last time you saw him?”
Melvin shakes his head. “I think it’s over, Dee. The salad days are over for The Dragon. What’s gonna happen upstairs? Are those kids out on the street, too?” Melvin sings the blues, day in and day out. He looks for reasons to sing the blues. He makes up the blues just to say he has them. And he’s on his way to making Dee blue, too. “We’ll know soon enough, won’t we?” she says, shrugging and throwing the bar towel on the floor. She cleans a slick spot with her foot, lifts the towel with the toe of her shoe, and flings it into the dirty linen bag. “All I know is tomorrow night after we close this place down, we’re gonna mix up a batch of hairy buffalo and have a wake.” She turns to Melvin. “See this liquor? The new owners can’t serve anything that’s open. All this Remy and all this Jack and all this Johnny will be poured down the drain unless it’s consumed by close on Saturday. I consider it community service to make sure every drop finds a proper home.”
Melvin doubles over in laughter. “Damn, Dee, don’t tell the band that until late. Let us get through the gig first. I have enough trouble keeping Thomas sober through the second act.”
“Our little secret,” smiles Dee. She’s done. “Hey, guys! We’re locking up. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. “Yeah, yeah,” says Thomas, the guitarist. “Can we all come to your house?” The band loves Dee like a little sister; there’s something about her end-of-night demeanor that lets them know they’re all special. “Only if you stop by the store for Tampax, bacon, and eggs, Thomas. And be willing to listen to me whine about menstrual cramps, cook my breakfast, wash my dishes, clean my bathroom, and rub my feet until I fall asleep.”
“Guess we’ll go on home, then,” chuckles Thomas.
“Yeah, I thought the foot massage might discourage you.” Dee hugs them all goodnight, turns off the lights, and sets the alarm. Melvin escorts her to her car; in blissful silence, she drives the back roads home.

…

Mimi loves flying under the radar. She loves the element of a good surprise, especially one with staying power – and most especially when she’s on the giving end. Mimi and Sam invite a friend’s teenage son to join them for dinner. Eighteen-year-old Mark has heard of The Firedrake and The Dragon; one of his schoolmates washed dishes at The Firedrake last summer. Mark's been inside the restaurant once with his parents; his dad thinks the calzone is pretty good and worth the price. They always leave before things start hopping in the bar, though. "I hear it’s pretty cool. My friend drank beer down there a few times." Sam cuts his eyes at Mark. "Ha!" Sam says. "That'll stop."
Mimi plays I Spy. As soon as they pull in, Mimi spies trash in the gravel parking lot and three kitchen employees smoking something behind the dumpster and a well-dressed couple walking toward the front door and a cat stalking something in the tall grass and an aluminum gutter in the tall grass and pallets – lots of pallets – in the tall grass. A dead body could be hidden in the grass, Mimi thinks.
The upstairs patio is open for dining, but one has to be cold-natured to enjoy the thick Southern humidity on this hot August evening. Mimi follows Sam and Mark through the curtained front door, but not before noting an absence of movement outside; stillness in the trees, stillness in the dark, hollow eyes of a solitary waitress who reluctantly awaits the arrival of her first table. The music isn’t right in here, Mimi thinks, as Led Zeppelin’s Heartbreaker screams through fuzzy speakers. The front dining room is empty of people, but full of static. An unsmiling, very tan young man wearing a starched canary yellow Ralph Lauren shirt, black suspenders, and pressed blue jeans walks toward them. He detours and yells at the dishwasher in an obnoxious show of power. His curly blond hair is slicked back from his forehead and forced into a short ponytail ending at the hard edge of his upturned collar. “Three? Follow me.” A perfunctory welcome at best. He leads them to the back room, to a table in the corner; Mimi chooses the chair against the wall. “Thank you,” says Mimi, to no reply.

I Spy: Mimi spies crumbs in chairs, dirty flower water, and chunks of something that looks like cheesecake on the floor. A waitress, her high cleavage wrestling a low-cut Firedrake tee shirt, chews gum in the wait station behind the wall to Mimi’s left. Her boyfriend – Mimi hopes he’s a familiar – walks through the front door of The Firedrake without pausing, strides into the wait station, grabs a squeeze of booby cake and a Foster from the cooler, and turns and walks downstairs. Does he work here, or just steal from here, Mimi wonders? Sam and Mark discuss the menu. No cheeseburgers, Mark. Sorry to disappoint you.
It’s a funky old building with ghosts in the corners, Mimi muses. Feels like a cheap breakfast diner – greasy with fingerprints, but no working hands. Matchbooks steady the uneven tables, or is it the floor that’s out of plumb? The décor is cheap, tired. Even the napkins smell used. But something must be right. It’s early, and the place is rocking.
The waitress with the empty eyes approaches their table emitting a subtle sigh. Her posture is suggestive of a window-dressed mannequin. “Hi, my name is Jenny and I’ll be your server tonight. What can I bring you to drink?” Sam takes the lead. “A glass of Pinot Grigio for my bride, a coke for my assistant here, and I’d like a non-alcoholic beer. What are my choices?”
“I’ll check. Our special appetizer tonight is New Zealand mussels in a light, spicy tomato comfit served with crusty French bread for dipping.”
“Bring one of those, please, and your crab dip.”
“Yes sir. I’ll be right back with your drinks.” Unsmiling, she turns away.
“She seems competent enough, Mimi, don’t you think?”
“Sure, but short-term.”
“Why do you say that? She seems okay to me.”
“She’s totally burnt out. I bet she won’t show up on Wednesday. Shh, here she comes.” Mimi looks at her and smiles. Jenny’s eyes are on Sam. “Sir, I’m sorry, but we ran out of non-alcoholic beer last night.”
“That’s okay; I’ll have iced tea, please.” The tired waitron disappears, only this time there’s a trace of recognition in her weak smile. She knows Bill, Sam thinks, as he scans the room. "What about that one over there, Mimi? I bet she makes big tits – I mean tips – sorry, Mark.” Mark’s totally engrossed by the wrestling match. The cleavage is putting a take-down on the tee shirt.
“She’s cute, but very loud. A little too much for upstairs. Maybe she’ll fit as a cocktail waitress in the club, though. I don’t know. Check out that waiter,” Mimi says with a nod to the right.
“Who? The Fabio-looking dude?”
“Yeah, he’s got it going on. He connected with the man first. That’s one smart player. He’s the business and psychology combo platter.” Jenny winds her way through traffic, easily balancing their steaming appetizers. The joint is tight and getting tighter. “Mussels here, and crab dip. What else can I bring you?”
“We’re set,” says Sam, flashing a big smile at Jenny. “Smells good, thank you.” Jenny turns her attention to Mimi. “How are you on time? I can take your entrée order if you’re ready.”
“We’re in no hurry.”
“Fine, then. I’ll check on you in a bit. Enjoy.”
Sam digs in. “Here, Mark, try a mussel.”
“No way, man. Those things look weird. What’s a mussel, anyway?”
“It’s a bivalve, like an oyster. Do you like oysters?”
Mark snorts. “Yeah, right. Do you like snot?”
Sam grins. “Just taste it. Mussels are sweeter and a bit firmer than oysters. These critters are one of New Zealand’s claims to fame – maybe the only one I know of.”
Mimi chews a small bite of bread dipped in the tomato comfit, and swoons. She wipes her mouth and adds her tiny New Zealand factoid to the conversation. “It’s famous for its horses, too. Remember that little black mare in the Olympics a few years ago? Mark Todd rode her to a medal. What a beauty!”
Sam and Mark look at her blankly. “What’s your point?” Sam asks. “We were talking about mussels." Mimi shrugs. “Well, you said you didn’t know but one thing…never mind. How about passing that bowl over here?” Mimi bites into a perfectly cooked mussel and feels something hard in her mouth. She works it to her lips and carefully spits a small orb into her hand. “What the heck is this? Look, Sam, a pearl! I can’t believe I didn’t swallow it.”
Sam shakes his head. “It can’t be a pearl. It’s probably a rock. Let me see.” Mimi rolls the little gemstone into his hand. “Sure looks like a pearl.” Mark, intrigued by anything that could cause pain, reaches out his hand. “Let me hold it, Sam. Wow, Mimi. This thing’s hard. You’re lucky you didn’t break a tooth.” He looks at her. “Can I keep it?”
Mimi grins at Mark. “Sure. You keep it in a special place, but you have to take it out from time to time and make three wishes: one for you, one for me, and one for Sam. Deal?” Mark carefully places it in his shirt pocket, but forgets to remove it before throwing the shirt in the dirty clothes later that night. If wishes are pearls, washing machines are oceans.
“How’s that crab dip, Mark?”
“Great. Here, taste it.”
“Thought you’d never ask.” Mimi takes a bite and frowns.
“You don’t like it?”
“It’s bland. Needs capers. Too much cream cheese. And imitation crab. I hate that stuff. It’s slimy in my mouth.” She turns to Mark. “Have you ever heard of truth in advertising?”
“What’s that have to do with crab dip, Mimi? Leave the boy alone.” Sam’s picking through the mussels like a monkey picking nits. Mimi ignores Sam and continues. “They lied about this crab dip.”
Mark stuffs a wad of dip in his mouth before Mimi ruins it for him. “What do you mean?” Mark asks, swallowing without chewing as he reaches for another bite.
“If a restaurant uses imitation crab meat, the menu should state that. Then I’d know not to buy it.”
“Arghhhhh.” Sam’s groan is a welcome diversion for Mark. He’s tired of the lecture, and couldn’t care less whether his food is real, as long as it tastes good and goes down whole. Sam is simultaneously mouth breathing and gagging. He turns around and with a hackkkk, spits a putrid lump of mussel into his napkin.
Mark’s excited. “Are you gonna puke? I knew I didn’t want to eat one of those things. What’s it taste like?”
Sam drains his tea and reaches for Mimi’s water. “It tastes like road-kill left in the sun too long smells. Hand me a piece of that bread, please.” Sam takes a bite of the supposed crusty French bread to clear his palate and becomes even more agitated. “God, what’s this shit they’re serving? This ain’t bread, it’s rat food. Good, here comes our waitress." Sam takes another gulp of water, and checks his temper.
“Oh, no, are you alright?” Jenny says this like she means it.
“Please tell your chef that he has some bad mussels mixed in with the good ones.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ll tell the kitchen right away.” She removes Sam’s napkin, places it in the juice-laden bowl, and straight-arms her way through the crowded dining room. Jenny finally has a mission, a reason to step up her game.
In short order, Jerrod, the round, baby-faced head chef, personally delivers a fresh order of mussels and places them gracefully in front of Sam. “I have picked through them myself, sir, and I promise, they are all fresh,” Jarrod says confidently. “Bless you,” Sam says to Jarrod. Mark stares in awe as Sam attacks the double order of mussels with gusto. Sam looks at Mark and states, “Always trust an honest chef, son. Always trust an honest chef; maybe not with your sister, maybe not with your mother, but always, always with your food.”
Next course: a soggy salad for the table. And more stale, dry bread, both waitress mistakes. The entrees, however, are fabulous, and the desserts are made with love – divine, and visually stimulating. All in all, not a bad start. Sam crunches numbers, mentally adding and subtracting items from the menu.

Mark aches to go downstairs. “Let’s go!” he says, fidgeting. “The band’s coming on.”
Mark hears the warm-up beat, picks up two spoons, and turns the table into a drum kit. Mimi snaps her fingers in time with Mark’s moves, and begins to sway. Sam frowns, puts seventy-five cash on the table, and stands up. He leads, the rhythm section follows. Sam has no interest in the groove.
The first set is underway and the band is playing to an inattentive, but polite crowd. Melvin, center stage with his horn in one hand and a coffee mug in the other, doesn’t notice Sam, but he can’t miss Mimi and Mark. He catches Mimi’s eye and smiles; she smiles back, moving in tandem with Mark. Melvin turns to Jake and grins. “It’s gonna be a good night,” he says. “There’s the sign.” There’s always a sign that sets the tone for the gig. Melvin doesn’t know he just made a connection with the new owner.
Sam looks at the fully stocked bar and silently recites the Serenity Prayer. He says it again. After the third take – his liver is laughing at him – he must go. He must go now, although Mimi orders coffee. It sits on the bar, untouched, and Melvin watches his sign make a quick exit. Mimi subtly nods goodbye and politely clears a path for Mark and Sam through the gathering crowd. The Dragon is awake and beginning a long, slow stretch before belching a raging blaze of fire that doesn’t burn out until the wee hours of the morning. Melvin’s next sign is the one he runs into at three a.m. after doing his part to give Johnny Walker a home.