In One Moment [Page 12] by Tobin Cheung
“I’m sorry?”
“That’s her name,” she says nodding her head at the girl on stage.
“Oh, thanks. Yeah, she’s…… fantastic,” I say, pronouncing fantastic as a hush.
“Yes she is. You can have this if you want,” she says handing me the program. “I’ve got another in my purse.”
“Thanks.”
I quickly thumb to the page Calina is mentioned, anxious to read what little information is printed. There is nothing, just the names and instruments corresponding to each band member. There isn’t even a website address. A one inch by one inch black and white portrait of her is the only thing that consoles my disappointment. I will treasure it. I will keep it with my collection of jazz CDs.
“She’s pretty. They really don’t say much about her do they?” the mommy smiles, trying to sympathize with me.
I must be as transparent as air.
“Her contact number is on the back page, though,” she says with a smirk.
I twist the pamphlet over to be greeted by a pizza ad and am stupid enough to check the second last page. I give the naughty mommy a sideways glare. She gives me a warm ear to ear grin.
“Let me see your hand, I’ll tell you if Calina is the one for you.” she says grabbing my arm. “I can read palms.”
I don’t believe in those things but I know better than to contradict a pregnant mommy. She unfolds my fingers and begins to study the creases of my skin.
“You can be rather technical. You work with numbers but have an inherent creative pursuit. You are shy but a great lover.”
Feeling embarrassed, I instinctively curl my fingers.
“Wait,” she purrs. “Don’t you want to know?”
“Not really, the dream is always better.”
She does not hear me. “The woman who falls in love with you admires you for your musical talent.”
“But I don’t have any musical talents,” I exclaim feeling confused.
Suddenly, out of know where, pushing her way down the isles of seats is Liz. And she looks mad. “I’ve been waiting over at that stupid hot dog stand for like ten minutes. I thought you said you would keep an eye on it.”
“Sshhh, Liz sit down, you’re blocking people’s view,” I beg her hoping she would not cause a scene. The trendy girls to my left are giving me a snooty glare while the pregnant woman is annoyed with my girlfriend for taking up space she can’t afford to give up.
“Didn’t you see me standing there?” she insists not even noticing the pregnant mommy.
“No, sorry, I,..I,....got too caught up with the performance.”
She arches her neck to take a gander at the stage. The third song is well on its way and I was missing it.
[To be continued...]
Showing posts with label In One Moment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label In One Moment. Show all posts
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Short Story : In One Moment [Page 11]
In One Moment [Page 11] by Tobin Cheung
My heart beats chaotically and the blood drains from my brain. I am overcome with a light headedness. Those hips, those jeans, those curves, I think I’ve just sold my soul.
She squeezes out another piercing cry, her veins straining down her neck and her eyes squinted tightly together, it is only the beginning, merely the first song. Already she has astonished the masses causing them to wonder what she has planned to follow. Now that the instruments are warmed, fingers are loosened and the mood set, she can take the audience anywhere.
The song climaxes and the slow return home begins by winding through to the chorus. The melody dissipates; everyone stands and the waterfront is filled with the sound of hands brought together in applause. A sweet succulent smell is in the air. I raise my nose to the wind and smell the aroma of ice cream waffles. Summer is in full swing.
The band barely pauses before the drummer kicks in with an up beat tempo. Gone is the haunting melody, replaced by a groove akin to an R&B rhythm. I can feel the baseline bounce through to my pinky toe. It’s a sea of bobbling heads. On stage, the girl has stopped playing, allowing the music to course through her. She stands motionless staring blankly across the audience. She neither notices the sound crew or the camera crew hustling about. Not even the shimmering lake illuminated by the city lights snares her attention.
I wish I were a musician so I could experience that kind of total abandonment of oneself, to be engulfed by an absolute love, a love for music. Creating music is like calling upon a spirit to communicate beyond all boundaries. Watching her, it is obvious that she has left this reality and has entered a dimension not of this earth. The band plays on powerful and strong, patiently awaiting her return. She remains still as a statue with her trumpet dangling at her side. The tattoo on her inner forearm is almost, but not quite legible. It is not a butterfly. From this angle it appears to be a segment of a composition.
She licks around her mouth with her tongue and nibbles at her bottom lip. I wonder if they become numb from all the continuous playing. I wonder if they ever get too tender to kiss. Pouting her mouth, she presses her lips against the mouth piece and I wish it was I whom those lips were kissing.
Pointing the trumpet to the floor, she joins the base player in a rhythmic pulse. The punchy pattern is occasionally interrupted with a toot. Every few beats her bobbing head lifts to reveal her face. I find myself leaning forward trying to catch a glimpse of her features before it is shrouded by hair. The prologue gives way to the guitarist, a veteran in this form of music. Like all great guitarists he is in the habit of mouthing his notes and in constant need of fidgeting with the knobs on his guitar. I follow his phrasing and soon become awed at the talent she keeps. Her band is made up of more than one notable player, heavy in the jazz scene. These guys are innovators and play as if they were talking. Just like a group of friends in a coffee house chatting with slang terminology and street vibe, they play whatever feels right for that moment.
Her band is in essence foretelling her future. Musicians are always the first to recognize another’s gift. It is not something that can be bluntly pointed out. It is in the way she blows two bars that is somehow different than the way many others blow the same two bars. And so, they surround themselves around her and wait patiently for the unveiling. Everyone has a melody that defines them, a tune that describes their very nature, but only the truly precocious musicians can weave such honesty into a string of notes audible in this reality.
The pregnant woman next to me flips through her program. I should have picked one up. I must have passed the information desk at least a dozen times, walking back and forth looking for Liz. Who knew I would be so intrigued by a performance, shocked by a trumpet player, stunned by an incredibly talented girl. I never caught the name of the woman on stage and I needed to know. It is not a matter of infatuation. It is more to do with being obsessed or possessed. I wanted to know everything about her. What does she do after a concert? Is she electrified with excitement or is she tired? Does she go to an after hour party? Does she return to her hotel alone? Does she have a late dinner?
I try to steal a look at the program resting on the belly of the pregnant mommy. Not wanting to be rude, I try to be as inconspicuous as I can as I follow her fingers leaf through the pages.
“Calina Adderly,” the mommy says without looking up.
“I’m sorry?”
[To be continued...]
My heart beats chaotically and the blood drains from my brain. I am overcome with a light headedness. Those hips, those jeans, those curves, I think I’ve just sold my soul.
She squeezes out another piercing cry, her veins straining down her neck and her eyes squinted tightly together, it is only the beginning, merely the first song. Already she has astonished the masses causing them to wonder what she has planned to follow. Now that the instruments are warmed, fingers are loosened and the mood set, she can take the audience anywhere.
The song climaxes and the slow return home begins by winding through to the chorus. The melody dissipates; everyone stands and the waterfront is filled with the sound of hands brought together in applause. A sweet succulent smell is in the air. I raise my nose to the wind and smell the aroma of ice cream waffles. Summer is in full swing.
The band barely pauses before the drummer kicks in with an up beat tempo. Gone is the haunting melody, replaced by a groove akin to an R&B rhythm. I can feel the baseline bounce through to my pinky toe. It’s a sea of bobbling heads. On stage, the girl has stopped playing, allowing the music to course through her. She stands motionless staring blankly across the audience. She neither notices the sound crew or the camera crew hustling about. Not even the shimmering lake illuminated by the city lights snares her attention.
I wish I were a musician so I could experience that kind of total abandonment of oneself, to be engulfed by an absolute love, a love for music. Creating music is like calling upon a spirit to communicate beyond all boundaries. Watching her, it is obvious that she has left this reality and has entered a dimension not of this earth. The band plays on powerful and strong, patiently awaiting her return. She remains still as a statue with her trumpet dangling at her side. The tattoo on her inner forearm is almost, but not quite legible. It is not a butterfly. From this angle it appears to be a segment of a composition.
She licks around her mouth with her tongue and nibbles at her bottom lip. I wonder if they become numb from all the continuous playing. I wonder if they ever get too tender to kiss. Pouting her mouth, she presses her lips against the mouth piece and I wish it was I whom those lips were kissing.
Pointing the trumpet to the floor, she joins the base player in a rhythmic pulse. The punchy pattern is occasionally interrupted with a toot. Every few beats her bobbing head lifts to reveal her face. I find myself leaning forward trying to catch a glimpse of her features before it is shrouded by hair. The prologue gives way to the guitarist, a veteran in this form of music. Like all great guitarists he is in the habit of mouthing his notes and in constant need of fidgeting with the knobs on his guitar. I follow his phrasing and soon become awed at the talent she keeps. Her band is made up of more than one notable player, heavy in the jazz scene. These guys are innovators and play as if they were talking. Just like a group of friends in a coffee house chatting with slang terminology and street vibe, they play whatever feels right for that moment.
Her band is in essence foretelling her future. Musicians are always the first to recognize another’s gift. It is not something that can be bluntly pointed out. It is in the way she blows two bars that is somehow different than the way many others blow the same two bars. And so, they surround themselves around her and wait patiently for the unveiling. Everyone has a melody that defines them, a tune that describes their very nature, but only the truly precocious musicians can weave such honesty into a string of notes audible in this reality.
The pregnant woman next to me flips through her program. I should have picked one up. I must have passed the information desk at least a dozen times, walking back and forth looking for Liz. Who knew I would be so intrigued by a performance, shocked by a trumpet player, stunned by an incredibly talented girl. I never caught the name of the woman on stage and I needed to know. It is not a matter of infatuation. It is more to do with being obsessed or possessed. I wanted to know everything about her. What does she do after a concert? Is she electrified with excitement or is she tired? Does she go to an after hour party? Does she return to her hotel alone? Does she have a late dinner?
I try to steal a look at the program resting on the belly of the pregnant mommy. Not wanting to be rude, I try to be as inconspicuous as I can as I follow her fingers leaf through the pages.
“Calina Adderly,” the mommy says without looking up.
“I’m sorry?”
[To be continued...]
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Short Story : In One Moment [Page 10]
In One Moment [Page 10] by Tobin Cheung
However, one has a sharp piercing voice; the other a low and raspy voice while the third simply has an odd way of articulating.
“Check out the way she’s dressed,” exclaims the sassy girl to one of her friends, “It looks like she just got off the subway.”
“Yeah, she looks like the girl who works at the Second Cup around my corner, the one with black hair and no makeup other than black eyeliner.”
“You mean the Goth, lesbian, punk thing. Totally. I’m surprised they let her on stage. Isn’t this supposed to be the jazz festival?”
“This doesn’t sound like jazz, it’s dark and choppy. It’s not smooth at all. There’s no way you can dance to this.”
“I know, it’s like the Alterative subcategory of Jazz,” laughs one girl.
“An alternative chic playing jazz, talk about fusion, she should glamour up a bit and pick a color. What’s with the low rise hip hugger jeans?”
“And that second hand store, two sizes too small t-shirt?”
“That armlet around her bicep.”
“She’s muscular.”
“She needs to tame that hair,” one chime’s and all three giggle.
The man in front glances over his shoulder and a forced cough is heard from behind.
“Artists and musicians are all the same, they’re weird,” whispers her friend.
Perception is such a peculiar thing. It’s as boundless as ones imagination. To me; she’s alluring, captivating and absolutely enchanting. Her heel worn runners, the tattoo, the little scraps of paper sticking out her back pocket are all clues into her personal life, each begging for a story to be told.
Anyone keen enough to notice these things will be fraught with curiosity. I know I am. Are those bits of paper airline stubs, hotel receipts, or a composition in progress? How many stages, how many bars; how many downtown sidewalks have those worn shoes danced across?
Her performance is honest and real. She doesn’t hide behind a stage persona. She is a straight forward no games kind of gal. The type that would know which one of the many anonymous pizza bars found in and around the city serves the best gourmet pizza. She is the kind of person that cannot be fooled by presentation alone. Gourmet food can be purchased by the slice. The single aisle of chairs, the uneven floors and the deafening drone of the air conditioner is all part of the charm. These are the sort of characteristics that help flavor her music.
A slice of pepperoni and cheese will not suffice, not a chance, not for this girl. However long it takes, the wait for a freshly baked pizza is worth every bite. Topped with feta cheese, chicken, spinach, sweet onions and green olives, it’s like eating exotic food for the price of fast food. Two slices and a Pepsi please, she would ask.
After washing down the last few bites, she bursts out of the doors. She is late and running down the street. With the sugary liquid sticking to her throat she pushes through in time to meet the third beat. Gasping for breath she ascends the final step to greet the audience. No burning incense, drinking blood or any other superstitious rituals before a show. The knowledge of being true to her music, gives her all the confidence she needs.
My imagination comes to a halt as she dances across to the far side of the stage. A pivot, slide, double step, and tap. My eyes follow her sway. I am surprised at my sudden attraction to this strange girl. My heart beats chaotically and the blood drains from my...
[To Be Continued...]
However, one has a sharp piercing voice; the other a low and raspy voice while the third simply has an odd way of articulating.
“Check out the way she’s dressed,” exclaims the sassy girl to one of her friends, “It looks like she just got off the subway.”
“Yeah, she looks like the girl who works at the Second Cup around my corner, the one with black hair and no makeup other than black eyeliner.”
“You mean the Goth, lesbian, punk thing. Totally. I’m surprised they let her on stage. Isn’t this supposed to be the jazz festival?”
“This doesn’t sound like jazz, it’s dark and choppy. It’s not smooth at all. There’s no way you can dance to this.”
“I know, it’s like the Alterative subcategory of Jazz,” laughs one girl.
“An alternative chic playing jazz, talk about fusion, she should glamour up a bit and pick a color. What’s with the low rise hip hugger jeans?”
“And that second hand store, two sizes too small t-shirt?”
“That armlet around her bicep.”
“She’s muscular.”
“She needs to tame that hair,” one chime’s and all three giggle.
The man in front glances over his shoulder and a forced cough is heard from behind.
“Artists and musicians are all the same, they’re weird,” whispers her friend.
Perception is such a peculiar thing. It’s as boundless as ones imagination. To me; she’s alluring, captivating and absolutely enchanting. Her heel worn runners, the tattoo, the little scraps of paper sticking out her back pocket are all clues into her personal life, each begging for a story to be told.
Anyone keen enough to notice these things will be fraught with curiosity. I know I am. Are those bits of paper airline stubs, hotel receipts, or a composition in progress? How many stages, how many bars; how many downtown sidewalks have those worn shoes danced across?
Her performance is honest and real. She doesn’t hide behind a stage persona. She is a straight forward no games kind of gal. The type that would know which one of the many anonymous pizza bars found in and around the city serves the best gourmet pizza. She is the kind of person that cannot be fooled by presentation alone. Gourmet food can be purchased by the slice. The single aisle of chairs, the uneven floors and the deafening drone of the air conditioner is all part of the charm. These are the sort of characteristics that help flavor her music.
A slice of pepperoni and cheese will not suffice, not a chance, not for this girl. However long it takes, the wait for a freshly baked pizza is worth every bite. Topped with feta cheese, chicken, spinach, sweet onions and green olives, it’s like eating exotic food for the price of fast food. Two slices and a Pepsi please, she would ask.
After washing down the last few bites, she bursts out of the doors. She is late and running down the street. With the sugary liquid sticking to her throat she pushes through in time to meet the third beat. Gasping for breath she ascends the final step to greet the audience. No burning incense, drinking blood or any other superstitious rituals before a show. The knowledge of being true to her music, gives her all the confidence she needs.
My imagination comes to a halt as she dances across to the far side of the stage. A pivot, slide, double step, and tap. My eyes follow her sway. I am surprised at my sudden attraction to this strange girl. My heart beats chaotically and the blood drains from my...
[To Be Continued...]
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Short Story : In One Moment [Page 9]
IN ONE MOMENT [Page 9] by Tobin Cheung
Occasionally the scent of sausages grilling on the barbeque wafts across the venue to stir everyone’s appetite.
The sound of a quadruple tap and double thump, pumps into our chests. The monotonous drone of mindless chattering dissipates to silence. The beat continues unaccompanied. Soon our head and feet unconsciously move to its syncopated rhythm. Once everyone’s ears have been tempted, the bass player inlays a melody to produce a haunting prelude. Together with the drummer, they set the mood for the audience. I am certain the crisp tinny tsk, tsk, tssssk of the cymbals can be heard echoing throughout the city as it ricochets off windows lining all the skyscrapers. When the guitarist shuffles in with his chords, the ambience becomes complete. A dark eerie vibe is established through minor keys while the timing of each note asserts an inherent groove. It’s as though we were in a back alley club of a shady foreign city. I feel of both excitement and nervousness.
A gust blows in from across the lake foretelling an arrival. The band continues with their groove. Goose bumps form on my arm and magically the soloist appears center stage as if she had always been there. She stands erect, cool and confident.
In one blow, she commences by spurting out an electric sequence of notes, catching the attention of many. She seems young, not young and pretty, but young to be an accomplished trumpet player.
The chorus is gently executed, allowing us the pleasure of savoring the tune. With each pass, she makes slight variations to the melody giving it an added touch. It is also an indication that she is ready to break free, itching to unveil a monologue. The band members can sense her restlessness and the tempo is taken to the next notch. All eyes are on her.
Drawn by curiosity, flocks of people continue to gather along the perimeter. They are captivated with anticipation, anxious to see what a female trumpet player can do. I hold my breath hoping she would meet the expectations of true jazz aficionados. She does not. The fact is, great trumpet players have always been men. Everyone has heard of Miles, Dizzy and Faddis, but very few people can give name to a female player. The trumpet is an instrument that is gender bias. Subsequently, the young lady on stage will not be judged in accordance with the standards applied to men. Jazz critics already have a bell curve in mind and the audience is ready to cheer her on regardless of the technical elements in her performance.
This girl of mid thirties does not perform to our projected level. She is here to put the best of the best to shame. Once she was set free of the chorus, her talents took flight. Within the first three bars she was immediately recognized as a soloist and not a smooth jazz player. A gasp is heard from the people around me, not from being surprised but from being shocked. Jazz enthusiasts straighten in their seats. I am caught in mid-motion, forgetting why I extended my arm. Whatever the reason, it no longer matters. After a moments pause, my arm lowers on its’ own.
Her arpeggios flow undetectable and work together with her phrasing in harmony. She is a fluid player achieving an unrehearsed and impromptu feel. What she plays tells a story, what she does not play makes a statement. Musicians graced at birth with natural ability do not play notes. They make noises, a screech, a wail, a squawk that become notes. She has that magic and I am under her spell. Caught up in her performance, I relish in every sound, until the girls seated to my left broke out in a loud and opinionated conversation. Hoping to ignore them I pretend not to hear.
[To be continued...]
Occasionally the scent of sausages grilling on the barbeque wafts across the venue to stir everyone’s appetite.
The sound of a quadruple tap and double thump, pumps into our chests. The monotonous drone of mindless chattering dissipates to silence. The beat continues unaccompanied. Soon our head and feet unconsciously move to its syncopated rhythm. Once everyone’s ears have been tempted, the bass player inlays a melody to produce a haunting prelude. Together with the drummer, they set the mood for the audience. I am certain the crisp tinny tsk, tsk, tssssk of the cymbals can be heard echoing throughout the city as it ricochets off windows lining all the skyscrapers. When the guitarist shuffles in with his chords, the ambience becomes complete. A dark eerie vibe is established through minor keys while the timing of each note asserts an inherent groove. It’s as though we were in a back alley club of a shady foreign city. I feel of both excitement and nervousness.
A gust blows in from across the lake foretelling an arrival. The band continues with their groove. Goose bumps form on my arm and magically the soloist appears center stage as if she had always been there. She stands erect, cool and confident.
In one blow, she commences by spurting out an electric sequence of notes, catching the attention of many. She seems young, not young and pretty, but young to be an accomplished trumpet player.
The chorus is gently executed, allowing us the pleasure of savoring the tune. With each pass, she makes slight variations to the melody giving it an added touch. It is also an indication that she is ready to break free, itching to unveil a monologue. The band members can sense her restlessness and the tempo is taken to the next notch. All eyes are on her.
Drawn by curiosity, flocks of people continue to gather along the perimeter. They are captivated with anticipation, anxious to see what a female trumpet player can do. I hold my breath hoping she would meet the expectations of true jazz aficionados. She does not. The fact is, great trumpet players have always been men. Everyone has heard of Miles, Dizzy and Faddis, but very few people can give name to a female player. The trumpet is an instrument that is gender bias. Subsequently, the young lady on stage will not be judged in accordance with the standards applied to men. Jazz critics already have a bell curve in mind and the audience is ready to cheer her on regardless of the technical elements in her performance.
This girl of mid thirties does not perform to our projected level. She is here to put the best of the best to shame. Once she was set free of the chorus, her talents took flight. Within the first three bars she was immediately recognized as a soloist and not a smooth jazz player. A gasp is heard from the people around me, not from being surprised but from being shocked. Jazz enthusiasts straighten in their seats. I am caught in mid-motion, forgetting why I extended my arm. Whatever the reason, it no longer matters. After a moments pause, my arm lowers on its’ own.
Her arpeggios flow undetectable and work together with her phrasing in harmony. She is a fluid player achieving an unrehearsed and impromptu feel. What she plays tells a story, what she does not play makes a statement. Musicians graced at birth with natural ability do not play notes. They make noises, a screech, a wail, a squawk that become notes. She has that magic and I am under her spell. Caught up in her performance, I relish in every sound, until the girls seated to my left broke out in a loud and opinionated conversation. Hoping to ignore them I pretend not to hear.
[To be continued...]
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Short Story : In One Moment [Page 8]
SHORT STORY : IN ONE MOMENT [Page 8] by Tobin Cheung
Since the invention of cell phones everyone is always in contact but no one is actually together.
Realizing that I am alone, I plop myself down by creating space between strangers set aside for personal comfort. The girl to my right is expecting. She’s indifferent to my presence, used to having her space infringed. She’s a mommy and about to give birth to her third baby, I can tell. Mommies can be distinguished from Mothers. Mommies have a certain appearance that set them apart. They are open, easygoing and can express the joys and laughter that only a child is thought able to show. A Mother, on the other hand, usually has one child. This particular evening, the Mommy seated next to me, is having a girl’s night out, a break from the duties of motherhood and wife. Her single friends, having missed her, are happy to be in her company.
The girl seated to my left is in her prime. She has a mid-twenties prettiness, a post-graduate education and an ego to match. With a drive that worships capitalism and a claim to serve humanity, she is complicated. I made the mistake of giving her a smile before I sat down, forgetting that I was alone. I got no response. She automatically assumes that I purposely squeezed beside her and am about to make an absolute nuisance of myself. Her body language is immediately on the defensive, the clutch of the purse, the crossing of the legs, and the not-so-slight tilt of the shoulder as she sways towards her girlfriends. Her voice becomes noticeably louder. She begins laughing more frequently, displaying her sassiness with witty anecdotes. I’m way too much for you to handle is what she’s saying. I agree completely. Her good looks are easily achieved at her age and require very little refinement. And so, she believes herself to be a low maintenance carefree gal. Don’t get me wrong, it is fabulous to be in the company of such women, so long as you don’t expect them to stick around for very long. There are simply too many men promising them everything under the sun.
“Do you know when the band comes on?” I ask, attempting to strike up a conversation with the Mommy to alleviate the tension building between the girl and me.
“They should start in five minutes but don’t hold your breath, they never set up on time. It’s all part of the master plan,” she taunts. “The longer you wait the better they sound.”
I watch her make a comical smile and raise an eyebrow as if to say that it’s all in good fun. Attitude free, she is open to some friendly banter.
“Isn’t this the perfect night for an open air concert? With the city as a backdrop and the lake behind us, it’s like we’re at a Gatsby’s party.”
She laughs.
“Oh definitely, it is the most perfect warm summer evening for live jazz. I just wish I could toast it with a glass of wine,” she says patting her little protruding belly.
“…..and we would like to thank everyone for coming out to enjoy an evening of music. Jazz is an evolutionary style of composing, incorporating blues, rock, flamenco and many other genres into its compositions. It is music for everyone. Please welcome tonight’s first band, Azzuries.”
As if on cue, the sun dips below the horizon and the sky glows a final red and orange. If we are lucky, the moon will shine through and become a spotlight for the stage. City lights begin to come on, little sparkles here and there acting as man-made stars. Behind us, the rumble of a cigarette boat idles by bringing with it a sample of the snappy lake air.
[To be continued...]
Since the invention of cell phones everyone is always in contact but no one is actually together.
Realizing that I am alone, I plop myself down by creating space between strangers set aside for personal comfort. The girl to my right is expecting. She’s indifferent to my presence, used to having her space infringed. She’s a mommy and about to give birth to her third baby, I can tell. Mommies can be distinguished from Mothers. Mommies have a certain appearance that set them apart. They are open, easygoing and can express the joys and laughter that only a child is thought able to show. A Mother, on the other hand, usually has one child. This particular evening, the Mommy seated next to me, is having a girl’s night out, a break from the duties of motherhood and wife. Her single friends, having missed her, are happy to be in her company.
The girl seated to my left is in her prime. She has a mid-twenties prettiness, a post-graduate education and an ego to match. With a drive that worships capitalism and a claim to serve humanity, she is complicated. I made the mistake of giving her a smile before I sat down, forgetting that I was alone. I got no response. She automatically assumes that I purposely squeezed beside her and am about to make an absolute nuisance of myself. Her body language is immediately on the defensive, the clutch of the purse, the crossing of the legs, and the not-so-slight tilt of the shoulder as she sways towards her girlfriends. Her voice becomes noticeably louder. She begins laughing more frequently, displaying her sassiness with witty anecdotes. I’m way too much for you to handle is what she’s saying. I agree completely. Her good looks are easily achieved at her age and require very little refinement. And so, she believes herself to be a low maintenance carefree gal. Don’t get me wrong, it is fabulous to be in the company of such women, so long as you don’t expect them to stick around for very long. There are simply too many men promising them everything under the sun.
“Do you know when the band comes on?” I ask, attempting to strike up a conversation with the Mommy to alleviate the tension building between the girl and me.
“They should start in five minutes but don’t hold your breath, they never set up on time. It’s all part of the master plan,” she taunts. “The longer you wait the better they sound.”
I watch her make a comical smile and raise an eyebrow as if to say that it’s all in good fun. Attitude free, she is open to some friendly banter.
“Isn’t this the perfect night for an open air concert? With the city as a backdrop and the lake behind us, it’s like we’re at a Gatsby’s party.”
She laughs.
“Oh definitely, it is the most perfect warm summer evening for live jazz. I just wish I could toast it with a glass of wine,” she says patting her little protruding belly.
“…..and we would like to thank everyone for coming out to enjoy an evening of music. Jazz is an evolutionary style of composing, incorporating blues, rock, flamenco and many other genres into its compositions. It is music for everyone. Please welcome tonight’s first band, Azzuries.”
As if on cue, the sun dips below the horizon and the sky glows a final red and orange. If we are lucky, the moon will shine through and become a spotlight for the stage. City lights begin to come on, little sparkles here and there acting as man-made stars. Behind us, the rumble of a cigarette boat idles by bringing with it a sample of the snappy lake air.
[To be continued...]
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Short Story : In One Moment [Page 7]
IN ONE MOMENT [Page 7] by Tobin Cheung
My waving arm goes unnoticed. She has her blinders on again.
I stand off the main path, curious to see what will proceed, wanting to learn how a man’s man makes his opening moves. I’m rather shy when it comes to picking up women. In fact, Liz was the one who picked me up one autumn night in an underground jazz club. In my zone, oblivious to the dingy surroundings, I was grooving, swaying and jiving to a “lady” down from New Orleans. He was blowing funk so smelly that my body parts were jerking and jolting without consent. He had flair, the kind that told you that jazz was his birth right and not a learned skill.
That autumn night under the red and gold lights, alone and unencumbered, I drowned myself in the music. Perhaps, that is what captured Liz’s attention, my uninhibited dancing, my movement of pure freedom; my lapse from reality. That night, I was feeling euphoric, even dazed. She took me by surprise, when she grabbed my arm and asked my name. I was in a trance. My state of consciousness was engulfed in the music, leaving no one in charge of reality. Needless to say, I don’t remember much.
“Thank-you and welcome to the 25th Annual Jazz festival. Tonight’s lineup will feature the legends of tomorrow. You will hear the influences of the greats: Duke, Dizzy, and Davis, all playing their part in tonight’s repertoire of performances. And I must say; these are the most precocious kennel of cats I’ve seen gathered in one place. First a few words from our sponsors.”
A mob of colours begin shuffling towards the main stage. It is a fashion show, the "artsy" and "sexy" have arrived. These types of events always seem to attract the very hip. One of the things I like to admire among the crowd of people is all the designer eyewear everyone is sporting. It is a trend that has been flourishing more and more over the past few years. I must have counted at least twenty pairs go by.
Tiptoeing on the curb, I peer over the jumble of heads towards the direction I last saw Liz. She’s gone. Without thinking, I drop my heels, and step into a blur, instantly causing a bang. My hand goes down and I manage to keep from crashing into the ground. After regaining my orientation, I search around in a daze, trying to determine how I ended up on the tracks of an incoming express train. Several meters away among the marching crowd is the person who literally ran over me.
“Hey, why are you running like an idiot for!!” I scream in his direction. Raising my hand to curse him out, I suddenly take notice of the ponytail looped high through the official jazz festival cap.
It’s a girl, yep, that’s a girl, didn’t feel like a girl. “Sorry, didn’t see you there, you know, with the crowd of people and all.” I mumble waving at her. She didn’t appear to be damaged at all. Why would she be, traveling at warp speed? I, however, was beginning to feel a pain in my shoulder.
After a moments’ hesitation, she turns and quickly vanishes.
“And we would like to remind you that for the next week, these talented bands will be grooving in one of the many great bars this city has to offer. So, get yourselves a festival schedule and find out where you need to be.”
Straightening out, I fall in with the one way traffic and bump my way to the stage. All the benches beneath the canopy are already taken by sporadically placed individuals.
[To be continued...]
My waving arm goes unnoticed. She has her blinders on again.
I stand off the main path, curious to see what will proceed, wanting to learn how a man’s man makes his opening moves. I’m rather shy when it comes to picking up women. In fact, Liz was the one who picked me up one autumn night in an underground jazz club. In my zone, oblivious to the dingy surroundings, I was grooving, swaying and jiving to a “lady” down from New Orleans. He was blowing funk so smelly that my body parts were jerking and jolting without consent. He had flair, the kind that told you that jazz was his birth right and not a learned skill.
That autumn night under the red and gold lights, alone and unencumbered, I drowned myself in the music. Perhaps, that is what captured Liz’s attention, my uninhibited dancing, my movement of pure freedom; my lapse from reality. That night, I was feeling euphoric, even dazed. She took me by surprise, when she grabbed my arm and asked my name. I was in a trance. My state of consciousness was engulfed in the music, leaving no one in charge of reality. Needless to say, I don’t remember much.
“Thank-you and welcome to the 25th Annual Jazz festival. Tonight’s lineup will feature the legends of tomorrow. You will hear the influences of the greats: Duke, Dizzy, and Davis, all playing their part in tonight’s repertoire of performances. And I must say; these are the most precocious kennel of cats I’ve seen gathered in one place. First a few words from our sponsors.”
A mob of colours begin shuffling towards the main stage. It is a fashion show, the "artsy" and "sexy" have arrived. These types of events always seem to attract the very hip. One of the things I like to admire among the crowd of people is all the designer eyewear everyone is sporting. It is a trend that has been flourishing more and more over the past few years. I must have counted at least twenty pairs go by.
Tiptoeing on the curb, I peer over the jumble of heads towards the direction I last saw Liz. She’s gone. Without thinking, I drop my heels, and step into a blur, instantly causing a bang. My hand goes down and I manage to keep from crashing into the ground. After regaining my orientation, I search around in a daze, trying to determine how I ended up on the tracks of an incoming express train. Several meters away among the marching crowd is the person who literally ran over me.
“Hey, why are you running like an idiot for!!” I scream in his direction. Raising my hand to curse him out, I suddenly take notice of the ponytail looped high through the official jazz festival cap.
It’s a girl, yep, that’s a girl, didn’t feel like a girl. “Sorry, didn’t see you there, you know, with the crowd of people and all.” I mumble waving at her. She didn’t appear to be damaged at all. Why would she be, traveling at warp speed? I, however, was beginning to feel a pain in my shoulder.
After a moments’ hesitation, she turns and quickly vanishes.
“And we would like to remind you that for the next week, these talented bands will be grooving in one of the many great bars this city has to offer. So, get yourselves a festival schedule and find out where you need to be.”
Straightening out, I fall in with the one way traffic and bump my way to the stage. All the benches beneath the canopy are already taken by sporadically placed individuals.
[To be continued...]
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Short Story : In One Moment [Page 6]
IN ONE MOMENT [Page 6] by Tobin Cheung
I’m not saying that this woman is the "One". I’m not saying that she isn’t either. It’s just that I feel a strange, perhaps lustful desire for her. Her charm is that she appears both strong and personable. At first glance, she looks like management material in her designer eyewear
and pulled back hair. By the way she continually twirls a ring around her finger, idling is not one of her strong points. She gives off a take charge, no fuss image with a self assured poise.
After a more in depth look, one can easily see that the hard lines is a mirage for a girl in a pair of jogging pants
lounging around on a lazy Sunday morning enjoying the softness of her pillow and the warmth of the sun while listening to her favorite tunes.
A sudden feeling of discouragement rushes through me, causing me to check for a wedding band
. This is of vital importance and utmost necessary if the fantasy is to continue and remain plausible. Unable to see past the two siblings feuding not long ago, now dancing about, I raise my attention to find management looking right at me. It was one of those situations when a stare becomes a form of telepathic communication, where the victim feels the invasion and turns to find the cause. In this case, I am the cause. Caught off guard, my face defaults to a child’s "Oops, I’ve been a bad boy" expression. She does not look away and I fear that I may be in trouble. Gathering my senses I wield a poker face, then a look of innocence, followed by an "I didn’t do it" to complete the sequence.
She remains expressionless. The only other thing left for me to do is to give her my best smile. To my surprise, she smiles back. And I am put on the spot to interpret the gesture. I wanted it to be suggestive to something more promising, but if I believed that, I would be lying to myself. Realistically, it could be nothing more than a courtesy smile, just meaningless niceness. No, not from her, I couldn’t see her bothering with pointless pleasantries, so I waited. Just as she turns away, she gives me one last look. And I catch the smirk behind those lips. She approves or at least finds me amusing. Regardless, I escape with my ego intact.
“Check, one two, can we have the brass section run through sound check.”
The heat is at last becoming bearable as the evening's breeze slowly begins to infiltrate the grounds. Tonight’s talents are preparing to go on stage. These are the artists of twilight. Performing only under diffused lights
, they play homage to the minor tones underlying the voice of jazz
. Eyes closed to the audience, concentrating only on the music so that every note is as vital as every breath, the magic they stew is something worth treasuring.
I absentmindedly flip the empty pop can into the garbage. My attention is in the direction of the vendors. I am curious to see if I can spot Liz. It turns out she is in plain view standing on recently manicured grass trying on a pink cowboy hat with an unlit cigarette jetting out between her fingers. The center of attention until she needs to be found, then she is as inconspicuous as an ant.
Posing in front of her is a victim of modern day advertising, a muscular man in full body athletic attire with matching runners. He is holding a light, a flame out for her. She tilts her head and sucks back on the cigarette, blowing smoke out the corner of her mouth. He is not her type, especially with his bald head and ample facial hair. Hair on his face does not offset the lack of hair on his scalp. Jocks never manage to keep her entertained. They pay too much attention to their own bodies and not enough on hers. I try waving my arm to get her attention.
[To be continued...]
I’m not saying that this woman is the "One". I’m not saying that she isn’t either. It’s just that I feel a strange, perhaps lustful desire for her. Her charm is that she appears both strong and personable. At first glance, she looks like management material in her designer eyewear
and pulled back hair. By the way she continually twirls a ring around her finger, idling is not one of her strong points. She gives off a take charge, no fuss image with a self assured poise. After a more in depth look, one can easily see that the hard lines is a mirage for a girl in a pair of jogging pants
lounging around on a lazy Sunday morning enjoying the softness of her pillow and the warmth of the sun while listening to her favorite tunes. A sudden feeling of discouragement rushes through me, causing me to check for a wedding band
. This is of vital importance and utmost necessary if the fantasy is to continue and remain plausible. Unable to see past the two siblings feuding not long ago, now dancing about, I raise my attention to find management looking right at me. It was one of those situations when a stare becomes a form of telepathic communication, where the victim feels the invasion and turns to find the cause. In this case, I am the cause. Caught off guard, my face defaults to a child’s "Oops, I’ve been a bad boy" expression. She does not look away and I fear that I may be in trouble. Gathering my senses I wield a poker face, then a look of innocence, followed by an "I didn’t do it" to complete the sequence.She remains expressionless. The only other thing left for me to do is to give her my best smile. To my surprise, she smiles back. And I am put on the spot to interpret the gesture. I wanted it to be suggestive to something more promising, but if I believed that, I would be lying to myself. Realistically, it could be nothing more than a courtesy smile, just meaningless niceness. No, not from her, I couldn’t see her bothering with pointless pleasantries, so I waited. Just as she turns away, she gives me one last look. And I catch the smirk behind those lips. She approves or at least finds me amusing. Regardless, I escape with my ego intact.
“Check, one two, can we have the brass section run through sound check.”
The heat is at last becoming bearable as the evening's breeze slowly begins to infiltrate the grounds. Tonight’s talents are preparing to go on stage. These are the artists of twilight. Performing only under diffused lights
, they play homage to the minor tones underlying the voice of jazz. Eyes closed to the audience, concentrating only on the music so that every note is as vital as every breath, the magic they stew is something worth treasuring.I absentmindedly flip the empty pop can into the garbage. My attention is in the direction of the vendors. I am curious to see if I can spot Liz. It turns out she is in plain view standing on recently manicured grass trying on a pink cowboy hat
with an unlit cigarette jetting out between her fingers. The center of attention until she needs to be found, then she is as inconspicuous as an ant.Posing in front of her is a victim of modern day advertising, a muscular man in full body athletic attire with matching runners. He is holding a light, a flame out for her. She tilts her head and sucks back on the cigarette, blowing smoke out the corner of her mouth. He is not her type, especially with his bald head and ample facial hair. Hair on his face does not offset the lack of hair on his scalp. Jocks never manage to keep her entertained. They pay too much attention to their own bodies and not enough on hers. I try waving my arm to get her attention.
[To be continued...]
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Short Story : In One Moment [Page 3]
IN ONE MOMENT by Tobin Cheung [Page 3]
A brunette, with no make-up, wearing a summer dress
and runners, literally bounces down each step to a group of waiting friends. They are laughing, dancing and ready to tug at her arms. Without the complications of boys, this group of girlfriends are ready to have a swinging evening of jazz
. In and around the lake front, between the pop tent stages and on the patches of manicured grass, they plan to dance through the night.
“More volume on the stage monitors. A little less feedback on the center stage speakers.”
I used to have friends to party with, but we lost touch ever since I started seeing Liz. At first it wasn’t noticeable, then one day I see them, roaring with laughter on a hot summer day in a trendy uptown patio sharing a pitcher of beer. At that moment, I realize how fast time has escaped me. Liz refers to them as delayed pubescent teenagers. My friends and I are in our late twenties. Liz is 31 but doesn’t look a day over twenty five. We’ve been together almost nine months. Over that period we’ve completed all the dating rituals, from art galleries to Indy car races. She comes from a good family and still has her original set of parents under the same roof. I can not say the same. She has a decent job and is content to climb the corporate ladder one rung at a time. As an onlooker, I would say she is content with her life.
“Hey, you ready?” She reappears out of nowhere.
“Yeah, just let me go pee.”
“What were you doing all this time? Why didn’t you go when I went?”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out, suddenly my logic seemed stupid.
“Well, hurry up, I’ll be over there,” she said pointing to an array of vendors, kiosks and street merchants.”
“Just wait, I’m not going to take long.” I exclaim, not wanting to go chasing her through knock off purses, one-of-a-kind crafts, hippie clothing, and inner healing jewelry.
She shoos me off while giving me an annoyed look. When I return, I find her conversing with a fashionable European man. He must be five or six inches taller than me, which means he absolutely towers over her. They appear to know each other. She sees me from the corner of her eye and finishes the conversation in the usual swanky manner a girl does when she’s flirting.
“Who’s that?”
“He’s my ex-boyfriends roommate.”
Enough said, I wasn’t interested to hear anymore.
“He quit his job to be a photographer. I’ve seen some of his work and it’s amazing. He has his first showing next week. I can’t even imagine what he’s feeling, I mean, how exciting is that, I would be so nervous!”
“Wow,” I say unconvincingly. “Not too many people can chase after their dream. I know I couldn’t. Security can be over-rated. So much of life is sacrificed for little bits of stability. I hope it works out for him.” My best politically correct answer with a personal touch.
Liz’s attention is outside. She hasn’t heard a word I’ve said. There are rows of vendors pushing merchandise trying to make their money at the event. This is the big night, Saturday night. All profits and losses are determined in the next few hours. Liz heads towards the commotion drawn by all the bustling. I am expected to follow.
“Lizzy” I gently call out to her, nipping at her elbow with my hand. She pulls her arm away. She’s not a cuddly girl. When we sleep we are at opposite edges of the bed.
[To Be Continued...]
A brunette, with no make-up, wearing a summer dress
and runners, literally bounces down each step to a group of waiting friends. They are laughing, dancing and ready to tug at her arms. Without the complications of boys, this group of girlfriends are ready to have a swinging evening of jazz. In and around the lake front, between the pop tent stages and on the patches of manicured grass, they plan to dance through the night.“More volume on the stage monitors. A little less feedback on the center stage speakers.”
I used to have friends to party with, but we lost touch ever since I started seeing Liz. At first it wasn’t noticeable, then one day I see them, roaring with laughter on a hot summer day in a trendy uptown patio sharing a pitcher of beer. At that moment, I realize how fast time has escaped me. Liz refers to them as delayed pubescent teenagers. My friends and I are in our late twenties. Liz is 31 but doesn’t look a day over twenty five. We’ve been together almost nine months. Over that period we’ve completed all the dating rituals, from art galleries to Indy car races. She comes from a good family and still has her original set of parents under the same roof. I can not say the same. She has a decent job and is content to climb the corporate ladder one rung at a time. As an onlooker, I would say she is content with her life.
“Hey, you ready?” She reappears out of nowhere.
“Yeah, just let me go pee.”
“What were you doing all this time? Why didn’t you go when I went?”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out, suddenly my logic seemed stupid.
“Well, hurry up, I’ll be over there,” she said pointing to an array of vendors, kiosks and street merchants.”
“Just wait, I’m not going to take long.” I exclaim, not wanting to go chasing her through knock off purses, one-of-a-kind crafts, hippie clothing, and inner healing jewelry.
She shoos me off while giving me an annoyed look. When I return, I find her conversing with a fashionable European man. He must be five or six inches taller than me, which means he absolutely towers over her. They appear to know each other. She sees me from the corner of her eye and finishes the conversation in the usual swanky manner a girl does when she’s flirting.
“Who’s that?”
“He’s my ex-boyfriends roommate.”
Enough said, I wasn’t interested to hear anymore.
“He quit his job to be a photographer. I’ve seen some of his work and it’s amazing. He has his first showing next week. I can’t even imagine what he’s feeling, I mean, how exciting is that, I would be so nervous!”
“Wow,” I say unconvincingly. “Not too many people can chase after their dream. I know I couldn’t. Security can be over-rated. So much of life is sacrificed for little bits of stability. I hope it works out for him.” My best politically correct answer with a personal touch.
Liz’s attention is outside. She hasn’t heard a word I’ve said. There are rows of vendors pushing merchandise trying to make their money at the event. This is the big night, Saturday night. All profits and losses are determined in the next few hours. Liz heads towards the commotion drawn by all the bustling. I am expected to follow.
“Lizzy” I gently call out to her, nipping at her elbow with my hand. She pulls her arm away. She’s not a cuddly girl. When we sleep we are at opposite edges of the bed.
[To Be Continued...]
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