The room is so small I sleep with my
duffle.
The apartment rent was up so I'm in El
Centro until my plane leaves. Working Wi-Fi and cable TV with
Spanish dubbed stations except one playing a concert.
Clean, classic ensemble jazz with a
young woman fronting.
Women jazz singers are sexy. Her voice
is low and smoky and I'm hooked. Got to have her CD.
NYC and I was 19. Safe bunk, free
tickets to Broadway, and girls were willing to dance. I had just
enough cash to act a fool.
Saturday morning I caught the train to
Rockaway Beach. Opposite side, three seats to my right there was a
young lady my age who had long hair the color of polished teak and
eyes that were sun sparkled Mediterranean.
She made to get off the train and
looked my way. I did what most 19 year old guys do when confronted
with radiance – froze. She smiled.
I'm annoyed because the camera is
panning the rest of the ensemble as each soloist runs his riffs.
Young guys with old school chops. The singer is just feeling the
music. No finger snapping dance. She's melody.
All jazz people are all melody.
They run the highways to get to the
side roads. Coltrane, Monk, Davis, Byrd, Mulligan and the rest of
the greats explored the smallest trails not caring where they went or
if you followed.
This jazz singer doesn't notice her
visual statement and when she sings again, the lyrics exude
sensuality because she feels it.
I made it to the beach still seeing her
in my head. This obscured the smells, tastes, and joy of toes in the
ocean. Obnoxious people everywhere. Busted day but I had found love.
Scheming back in my room I realized
that there was only one way to find her again. With no idea of what
to say if I got lucky, I set off. Next day. Same train full of hope
of the heart.
The singer says in French and English
that she's a Russian native and came to Canada by way of Israel..
Clues but no name.
Amazon is open and my One Click poised
to order her CD. The band grooves again and I am mesmerized.
Fearful of missing the credits I sit
then pace (all of three feet) eyes to TV, thinking that, at the end,
they must say her name. The singer introduces each of the six
musicians for deserved applause but she won't tell me who SHE is.
Neither does the program.
I consider leaving the station on full
of hope that her concert will re-run but don't do that.
The subway train, for a month, moved
with hopeful me aboard. Scanning females who resembled that once
vivid memory of dark red hair, glittering blue eyes, and a genuine
smile.
After so many years.
