Tag: jazz

To Be Seen

Rachel Hsu

I committed my first crime yesterday

to the sound of an old New Yorker

leaving dumplings atop the bar counter

for improvised piano and a shared smile

with the bassist on stage at midnight.

They’ve both got nice smiles, the music men;

I almost wonder if that’s a requirement

for show business.

 

It’s a loaded word, isn’t it? Show.

Tell me something that sounds more naked, looks more bare

despite the rehearsal,

the hair gel, banter, tired fingers

strung together, packaged as glamor.

Raw and stripped

despite tight collared shirts, stage curtains, and entrance fees.

Tell me something more oxymoronic than grinning cheeks,

how they confess

and in so doing

undo the elaborate surprise

yet hoodwink the eyes by disguising

any hurt or worry in photographs.

 

I had first heard the phrase in a news segment

about security cameras in China:

“It makes you feel like a transparent person.”

Not transparent like you were invisible and couldn’t be seen, but rather

like in looking past you, anyone could see everything in and about you.

The gravity of eyes watching,

like it could crush you.

 

It’s a one-way mirror, isn’t it? Show business.

Even if

I had tapped my foot in rhythm more perfectly

than perfect

there would be no sapphic spotlight

to flash on my corner seat. If I had snapped off-beat

to every single song,

nobody would have paid me any mind,

me in my wooden stool at the front of the audience

(the keyword being audience) because

it is simple: everyone comes

to see the show.

Everyone comes to become invisible.

 

And it is easy enough to believe that we are:

when the bartender scans the room for waving hands

without locking eyes with any one customer,

when the woman at the table next to me

knocks my lamp down with the tail-end of her coat

on her way to the restroom and does not even realize.

And still, we are not.

 

So, when the bassist begins a song I had mentioned liking the night before

and smiles in my direction, I begin to learn

that I am wrong—

that the opposite of show is audience

but the meaning of audience cannot be

invisible

because later that night, I am in a rush to go home.

In my haste, I forget to pay for my ginger ale, though

by the time I realize, I have already closed my front door.

 

I know I am wrong about invisibility

because the bartender thinks to call me,

ask me if I left the venue without paying,

and the bassist has to cover my drink.

Then, I know I am wrong about show business

because the bassist laughs at me

like I am there.

Scientifically speaking,

there isn’t really such thing as a one-way mirror.

The gravity of eyes watching,

like it could show you something.

Could show you a thing or two

about show business.

Only One in Amsterdam

Rachel Hsu

Gelled-up and sleep-deprived, the bass-player takes an empty seat

next to me.

He has just finished his set; he says

he’s the only one from my high school attending college in Amsterdam.

 

We are parallel-parked, two armchairs facing the stage

(now empty),

with the stage lights down,

instruments tucked in for the night,

and, now, me trying to figure out

where to put my hands

because I forget how to talk to people sometimes.

 

“It’s nice being the only one,” he breathes out loud, and I can almost

agree with him.

He had started the conversation with

“You here alone tonight?” and I couldn’t give a straight answer

even then. The stage lights jog a memory,

so, the second time he speaks,

I rewind a soundtrack in my head.

Not the jazz music from tonight or the statement about Amsterdam

but my name in another’s voice,

one who spoke it into reality—

she had given me a nickname three years ago.

It’s the only one I’ve ever gotten

that stuck.

 

I’ve tried not to count these kinds of things,

but it’s been nine months, almost ten, since the last time I

thought to give her a call.

I didn’t think

I’d be thinking today,

which, really, was the reason I came alone.

I came alone to listen to jazz today:

listen is a word I repeat a lot

when I talk about her.

The stage lights jog a memory, but

my hands still have not found the right place to go.

 

The bass-player, sincere and over-worked, tells me

improvisation in jazz is about harmonies.

I listen as an act of conversation:

my thoughts do not match the tune

of his words. He is leaning back into the armchair,

parallel-parked and tucked into the high of performance.

I came alone to listen to jazz today, but the stage lights

jog a memory.

I am comfy, parallel-parked, I am thankful

for the gift of music, and he has had a wonderful night,

so I cannot tell him about this.

 

I can’t tell him about how

the last time I was with her,

we talked about Amsterdam.

 

How we said, “I should probably

head home” about four times

then each time

went somewhere new together instead.

I can’t tell him about the dreams I’ve had since then,

the flashes of spotlight or bruises or legs, and me,

me, breathless, knocked-over microphone stand, each time

I thought about seeing her again,

alive.

The stage lights jog a memory, parallel-parked,

me sitting, face warm with spotlight

and laughter from sitting next to her. It’s been so long.

 

I can’t tell him about how

he was not the only one from my high school in Amsterdam.

But I know better than to ad-lib here,

know better than to improvise off-key, interject that

there was another,

the girl who bought mango ice with me,

shared hugs and bus rides with me,

sat, skated, and danced with me.

 

So, instead, I join his instruments

and quiet down for the night. I say,

“It is nice to be alone sometimes.

I know what that feels like too.”