Broken Hands

 

The band played to the smoky dark of The Baskin Shark Bar and Grill. A double bass swung round in the hands of a man who danced his instrument like a woman. The drummer kept a steady beat, crashing out the moments between movements. The guitarist hung in there with pain, barely keeping up. A tall woman dressed in red sung a sorrowful harmony which seduced the ears of the bar. Rose was magnificent for the first three numbers, then she began to fade. Her vocals had been weakened by the tragedy of living. It was the pianist who drew the crowd. He fell over the keys with a stylish ferocity. He turned his average band into talent. He brought forth all their oppressed ability, his hands awoke in them the hidden music they had buried.

            When Rose’s voice faltered, George sang along with her, and took over for a few numbers allowing her to break mid set. Then he burned a fire of harmony under her and she returned to the stage with power, her chords could bring the hardest knuckled man to tears.                                               Together they injected the room with narcotic soul blues, elevating the listeners beyond their inebriation or lack of. They played for an hour. During their set people danced away their pain. Others just came to listen and left with a soft smile. There were some who needed the music. The lost, the sufferers, dancers wound up by drudgery. Their music attracted the rich who grew tired of stuffy country club orgies. The bar was flooded with poor young fools in need of life. The older people liked to see the young enjoying the night. The landlord let them in even though they put no money behind the bar.

            The band was hot, and it drew in a gang of men who ran the rackets the police hadn’t the time to investigate. They sat in a private booth. Even the most vicious of the gang found themselves tapping their feet along with the drum. The gangsters let the power of the music melt through them. For an hour every Saturday their guards were dropped.

 

After the set the drummer went home to his wife. The bassist stood at the bar caught between two women, and looked like he might take both of them home. The guitarist packed up his guitar in a stiff little case, then walked home with a spent contentment in his heart. Rose sat at the bar with a man she knew too well wrapped in his arms. That left George the pianist. He still felt like playing. After a short break, in which he urinated and took a swig of his iced rum and lemonade, he sat back on his stool to sooth those who remained at the bar.

            He tinkled softly to a seated crowd. One by one they left for home, until he sat alone. When the punters had gone, he played Chopin for the staff as they cleaned up. He noticed a lone woman sat in the dark. She smoked and listened to him. She had watched him closely all night. For George it was nothing new. He had taken home hundreds of women, and even a couple of men. His passion for love was as intense as his passion for music. He didn’t recognize her but he was intrigued. He sung her a love song he wrote, the one that never failed. She knew he sung it for her. She drifted across the floor like a pall of purple smoke. The lights came on and the barman said ‘Lock up when you’re done.’ He threw George a set of keys, which he caught with his right hand, while continuing to play with his left. On the final bar of the song he held the last note and waited as the piano faded to silence. She hid a bruised eye under her fringe. He pretended not to see it.

            ‘Can I get you a drink?’

            ‘It’s you I want, but you knew that.’

He took her into his arms. She kissed his ear. She pulled him across the floor and down onto the cushion of the booth. 

He slipped his hand below her waist and they joined together in love.                                                                                                                                              

They left the bar at dawn. She never told him her name, he preferred it that way. He walked her to the edge of her street and said goodnight. The houses were big and gated. He wandered home to his one room board, with the shared bathroom, and shared kitchen. He pulled up his blanket and fell into an easy sleep.

 

George owned a few rags of clothing, one smart outfit for Saturday, and a cup, spoon, and pot. His only luxury was an electric piano. Which he played in the afternoons. His neighbors never complained. He slept through to the afternoon. The landlord dropped in to pick up the keys. George woke to the knock at the door. The landlord was wet with sweat. The weather baked the streets below.

            ‘You want coffee Bob?’

Bob nodded. George went down to the café below and brought up two fresh expressos. Then he rolled a joint and puffed. He passed it to Bob who took a deep drag then handed it back. They left it on the ash tray. Both of them sipped their coffee.

            ‘D’you take her home last night?’

            ‘She wasn’t going to take no.’

            ‘Do you know who she was?’

George shook his head.

            ‘She’s Pickaxe’s wife.’

            ‘Jimmy the Pick…Pickaxe?’

Bob nodded.

The unshakable calm that George was famous for, disappeared from his face, but only for a moment.

            ‘She won’t tell him,’ said George.

            ‘She might, she might keep it secret. But what if someone else tells him.’

            ‘You were the last one to see us, you wouldn’t tell.’

            ‘And lose my main attraction, course I wouldn’t. you are my friend, not to mention you make me rich. All I am saying is watch yourself. Do you know what happened to the last man who slept with his wife?’

George knew.

 

George carried on without wasting a minute on the danger he may or may not be in. It didn’t help to ponder the wrath of Jimmy the Pick. He arrived at the bar and stoked up the room. The band followed as if a fire burned beneath them. All the joy in their souls came fourth. They played longer than usual. Rose blew out her lungs and could sing no more. Instead of sitting at the bar. She joined the dancers. She whipped up a sensual storm which spread across the bar. People who didn’t dance got up and joined in. The young danced so hard they had to beg ice water from the bar. They downed their water and returned to the floor renewed. George hammered out a controlled frenzy. He sung each song as if it was his last breath, feeling each note. His energy spread through the band and into the crowd. The stiff guitarist loosened up and all his repressed music burst out of him. The rest of the band stopped to let him take the stage. He strummed and licked and picked with a style that lay dormant before. When the guitarist returned to earth the rest of the band began to follow. They moved with him. The guitarist was composing a new song he had lived in on the night. George followed him and began to sing lyrics ad lib. He told the story of lovers forced to meet in secret. When the song ended some of the dancers were in tears. The band decided that was a good place to cease. The room felt a collective release as if they had let their sorrow ring out with the last notes of music. They had danced away their pain. Some sat quietly sipping the last of their drinks. People smiled and were glad to be alive. All they had to do was walk home and lay down to sleep. They would sleep well knowing they had lived properly that night. Their endless servitude conquered and forgotten for one blissful night.

 

The mysterious woman waited like before. George pretended to not to see her. His fingers burnt from exertion and he felt no need to play on. The fuel of his music turned to smolders. She came over to him. When they were alone she began to undress.

            ‘Put your clothes back on.’

He saw her spirit crush before his eyes.

            ‘Don’t you want me?’

            ‘Of course I want you, but I know who you are. I don’t want to get on the wrong side of Jimmy.’

            ‘He won’t find out.’

            ‘That’s a risk I can’t afford. Do you know what he did to the last man who slept with his wife?’

She nodded.

            ‘Then you know the danger I’m in if we continue this.’

She cried, slow at first, then she began to weep.

            ‘He doesn’t look at me anymore. He has other girls. But he won’t let me go.’

            ‘That is cruel, but I can’t be the one. I still have life to live. I don’t want to end up at the bottom of the river. If you were a free woman, I would take you in to my arms.’ He kissed her on the lips and walked away.

            ‘Are you coming? I’ve got to lock up.’

She pushed past him and ran into the night.  She ran all the way home and woke her husband. In anger she told him that George had raped her.  Pickaxe rose from his alco-slumber and called his men.

 

When George left the bar he was spent. He put his blood into the performance. He knew he had shortened his life by a couple of years. He considered it a worthy trade. The people that danced would remember. He gave them everything and barely had enough energy to walk home. The sky above was cloudless. He looked at the stars. The endless rest came over him, to die or to rise into the stars with the worlds lost musicians and play out for eternity. He lit another joint. The street was silent. No birds, no cars, just heat rising from the baked concrete. He heard a car creep up and growl behind him. The car stopped. Four men got out. George carried on walking.

            ‘Is that him?’ said a voice.

            ‘That’s George.’ Said another.

George knew the danger. He ran with the last of his energy. His lungs were weak. He stopped exhausted, and the men caught him and dragged him to the car. He tried to fight but failed. They stuffed him into the hot darkness of the boot. The car drove out of town and into the dark of the country. When they opened up the boot they pulled him out and tied him to the pillar of a hay barn.

            ‘Do you know why we brought you here?’ Said Pickaxe.

            ‘I fucked your wife.’ Pickaxe hit George in the teeth. He spat blood out his mouth.

            ‘You raped her.’

George shook his head. Pickaxe hit him again.

            ‘She came on to me, if I’d have known she was married I would…’

Pickaxe hit him again.

            ‘She’s pregnant with your child.’

            ‘How do you know it’s mine?’ said George.

            ‘Cos, I haven’t fucked her since last Christmas. She will be having an abortion,’

Pickaxe hit him again.

            ‘Just kill me,’ said George through a mouthful of blood.

            ‘Oh no, we aint gonna kill you, we are going to send a message to those who think they can rape a man’s wife.’

            ‘I didn’t rape her.’

Pickaxe grabbed a pickaxe. ‘You’re going to find out why they came me jimmy the pick.’ They taped Georges hands to a thick piece of wood and laid it across his knees. Pickaxe hit the back of his hands with the large side of the pick. Then he hit his fingers. He repeated the action turned George’s hands into a blooded pulp. They injected him with adrenaline to keep him from dying from shock. When Pickaxe was done he lifted up Georges head and stared into his eyes.

            ‘You’ll never play piano again.’

The other men laughed. They didn’t see the loss. George’s hands were magical. When linked with his heart and brain he made music that soothed people. He could make them dance, he could relax them, he could return them to a state of contentment lost in childhood. His hands were all he had. He held back his tears. They took the only thing he had. The only thing that kept him alive. They stole his music. They cut him loose and drove away. When he was sure they were gone George screamed into the night. A primal pain at the loss of his soul. He roared and then the tears fell. And he cried alone in the barn until sleep took him.

 

After the horror in the Barn George stopped playing piano. His hands were broken. He sang a few numbers, but without his fingers the band lacked power. The bassist disappeared to another town and carried on. The guitarist got a job he grew to hate. The drummer found another band. That left rose. Without Georges accompaniment her vocals went unmatched. Her skills needed a skilled accompaniment. The people tried but failed to match her. She took to drink. Without Rose and George, the people stopped coming. Bob struggled to keep the bar going. More people came to fight than to dance. Bob tried to hire another band but it failed. The bar died shortly after Georges band.  The police were called too many times and Bob’s license was revoked.  A week later the windows were boarded up. Without the income from the band George lost his flat. He sold his piano and moved to the streets. His broken hands seized up and he could only manage a basic grip.

            Some nights Georges voice sung from the alley where he slept. He sung sad songs in between swigs of whisky. Pickaxe was murdered by a rival boss. Nobody cried. His ex-wife, the one who had lied about George heard his voice one night. She knew it was George by his slow melodious growl. It was dark and she was too scared to go and talk to him, all hairy and ragged. The next day she went to the music shop and bought a harmonica. It was wrapped in paper inside a little card box. She found him asleep next to an empty bottle of cheap red sherry. She didn’t wake him. She left it where he would see it as he woke. When George woke he found his present. He unwrapped it, picked it up with difficulty, put the harmonica to his mouth, and blew out a long note in the key of Gee.