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A Pair of Sticks

Mel Waldman

    It was still early in the evening when they arrived at the sleazy Jazz spot. The squat fellow entered first, followed by his pot-bellied swarthy buddy who seemed to be part of another world. Neither man cared at the moment where the other was, however, for each was slinking off into a private, inaccessible domain of brutal fantasy. Each was at that particular fragmentary moment-cut off, so to speak-from the other. But the smaller, lighter-skinned man carried his drum sticks. A subtle gleam covered his pallid face whose only distinctive mark was a tiny moustache perched unobtrusively on a lonely pair of thin lips. This man seemed ready for something, whereas the dark friend projected no special need or emotion. Indeed, as he quietly sauntered into the club, he looked untouched by reality.
    Upon entering the dimly lit underground enclosure which contained a hot, teeming, inconspicuous stage, the shorter fellow, who was called Richie, began speaking to a waiter. The other guy simply paid his admission fee and disappeared into the back room. This chameleon was sometimes addressed as Joe or pal, my friend, a friend, buddy, or old buddy. But tonight, he was called Joe or nothing at all. And apparently, he didn’t mind what Richie called him. He was preoccupied and obsessed with the interminable thoughts that assaulted him on this all-encompassing night.
    For a moment, his glance smoldered as his eyes greedily took in and absorbed the whole scene of avant-garde and obsolete hippies. He observed everything-the fashionable looks and postures and subtle gestures that distinguished the vanguard from the old timers. And no matter what or whom he saw, his distant expression did not change except for the occasional intrusion of that smoldering look. It swept across his dispassionate face for an apocalyptic second when he lost control of whatever it was he was grasping inside. And then it vanished intransigently into the easy going atmosphere of the joint. Once again, the amorphous Joe was hidden from his surroundings and himself.
    And so the evening began in a slow and ordinary manner. Richie was everywhere. He was a ubiquitous figure who mingled with everyone as the life-changing moment approached. His body and mind were spilling over with excitement tinged with self-doubt. Soon he’d get up on the quiet stage and try to create that beautiful high-that ineffable sensation that filled an artist’s soul. Yeah, soon he’d try to create a winner’s performance. That’s what it was all about-those few slinky seconds or minutes when a regular guy had a chance to make himself someone else, someone very special, a somebody people noticed-a star. Perhaps that short interval made existence vital. It transformed every iota of insignificance in every meaningless and trivial moment of life into a real, pulsating experience. In any case, Richie was passionate about the anticipated rendezvous with a pair of sticks. The moment and all its ornate fantasies clutched the little man.
    Joe watched his friend kidding jauntily with strangers and bobbing along in blind ecstasy. Once again, Richie seemed to bask innocently in fantastic moments. And each moment was gradually building up to the ultimate encounter with himself and his dreams. With impassioned concern, he steadily thrust himself forward toward the imaginary union of majestic glory and triumph. With obsession and compulsion, he craved that uncertain success that made men notice an otherwise obscure creature. His desire was insatiable, indeed, and the other man observed him in his lusty quest.
    But while Richie was obsessed, his buddy Joe didn’t cling to any joy or pain. You see, he wasn’t involved. He wasn’t present in any palpable way. He was a dead man with vacant eyes that grabbed you and drew you into their remote domain. Well, Joe wasn’t here or there, but he made you cling to him, without even trying. He made you enter him somehow. And you got in touch with his terrible pain. Then, he was real and more than a quiet observer.

    One day our man Joe got married. Afterwards, his friends called him a happily married fool. Indeed, he believed the lie that he was happily married. Because he had this popular belief instilled into his average, culture-impregnated brain, one day he instantly and magically made his wife pregnant. For that was the proper thing to do. And that, for sure, was the beginning of the end for our boy Joe.
    Shortly after this effulgent event, Joe and his wife were quickly drawn closer together, given their upcoming venture into Parenthood. But despite their splendid dreams of grandeur, their future was ominous. For upon the birth of a strong and healthy boy, both lovers became absolutely serious about the Institution of Marriage. And thus began the breakdown of a very noble pastime.
    First, the lovers were constantly interrupted by the shrill cries of their darling baby, especially late at night and early in the morning when they chose to get laid. Hence, intercourse often became unfinished business and left our joyful couple spent and frustrated.
    Secondly, the lust and insatiable passion that often filled our lovers’ bodies barely reached the young father’s consciousness once Joe became obsessed with becoming a successful artist with glorious shows in the finest Manhattan art galleries. Perhaps, Joe’s art work and obsession were a desperate attempt at sublimation of unfulfilled sexual desires. Who knows?
    In addition, he was writing sci-fi and fantasy novels on weekends and taking expensive voice lessons whenever he had an extra buck. He was gonna be a star no matter what, and if he succeeded in more than one area of endeavor, he’d be bigger than Big. He’d be a Superstar-a Giant. He’d be a real person who wasn’t always empty and seeking the moon without ever arriving. Tomorrow, he’d be rich and famous. And as he thought these maddening thoughts, his brain became cluttered with craziness and a ferocious rage which accompanied his great needs. So how could he think of his woman? He was forgetting her each day as he approached Success.

    Joe almost achieved fame and glory. But he stopped short, you see. He walked away from all his cruel dreams. Before he did, however, he exploded. His rage cried out and demanded recognition. He screamed louder than ever before. And his wife Lisa listened. After she heard his infantile demands for glory and power, she threw herself into a dramatic anxiety attack and almost fainted. But she didn’t. She almost wept interminably. But she stopped. Yet the following morning she ran away from Joe. She took her pretty baby too and left nothing behind.
    From that day on, Joe searched for his missing wife and child. In time, he lost his old fashioned enthusiasm and delusions of grandeur. Transformed into a shy and humble man, he became a really nice guy who never got angry. But he was far away. He had this deadpan expression on his nondescript face. He was this gentle weird fellow who was nowhere people could find him. That’s what people thought when they thought about Joe.

    Yet indirectly, Joe revealed his anguish. Once, the olive-colored man had been a slim, attractive guy. In the distant past, he met Lisa, a tall, slim, blue-eyed blonde. Then, he was brave and loud and self-centered-a pure egotist, an outrageous narcissist. But after the separation, Joe’s face and body changed. He started eating more and more. And the fat covered him. It spread throughout his self-contained body until the old boundaries of his flesh changed. The malicious, insidious feelings grew. Joe wasn’t left unscathed by the critical events that had transpired. He was probably touched by every occurrence, although he never once got angry. But covered in fat, he was far away.
    Wherever he was, he was about to see Richie’s debut. Probably Joe felt a ripple of some faint emotion. But he remained in the backroom and drank his glass of ginger ale. He didn’t feel like drinking or getting high in any fashion at all. Many times before, he had enjoyed the quick highs and the exciting sensations. Today, however, he avoided any loss of control. He preferred being on the outskirts of emotion. All the same, he felt an iota of something about the anticipated performance.

    It wasn’t Joe’s great performance. Not at all. Of course, he had given up that nonsense years ago. His great dream was never gonna be fulfilled. His great moment was never arriving. And thus, he hid in a private place. He was nowhere to be found. But he was a friend, a buddy, Richie’s pal. Much more than a performer, he was a person, observing the buoyant old buddy from a distance. He was whoever he was without wife and son, without dear Lisa who once had worshipped him and called him God. Now, in this very real moment, he wasn’t in the limelight. He never wrote his big novel. He never had a show in a Manhattan art gallery, nor did he thrust his face into a sleek mike and sing, not even one beautiful note. At most, he was a quiet observer. But Richie was getting there today, perhaps for both of them.
    As time approached that infinite interval of uncertainty and excitement, Joe’s eyes became fixed on Richie’s pair of sticks. The sticks were nothing special. But they had a magic, for they were adorned with a subtle beauty. And suddenly, Richie’s regular face took on an extraordinary glow. He looked different just before he left with his sticks and galloped to the stage. Apparently, he was expecting something, maybe something big, and he seemed ready to get it. With his ordinary sticks in his hands, Richie was ready for a glorious encounter, perhaps. Something big might happen to him, and it was touching Joe.
    For a moment, however, Richie faltered. He was no longer linked to his sticks. Now, he was instantly cut off. Suddenly, he was aware of himself, and this lonely awareness made him afraid. He could no longer cope. His great dreams started to slip away. All he knew and felt right now was the need to run away. This panic swaddled him and took control for a few hidden moments. And perhaps someone saw his hands shaking as he lifted his sticks, for Richie’s joy had disappeared in a blinding terror. He was lost in his flimsy separateness. He couldn’t tolerate the isolation and the ultimate helplessness-couldn’t bear this horrible loss. And he couldn’t trust, for he was desperately empty and dead.
    The emptiness gripped him in his secret moments of despair. Then the shaking became more pronounced until he let go of his pride or the ego which demanded he be great. Something big was dying inside, and with this loss and parting, Richie was released.
    It happened. Richie started playing. He took on a distant expression which was, however, unlike the remote look Joe wore most of the time. Richie’s distance was actually a union, or perhaps, a reunion with a higher power. He was far away, but he was in contact with an effulgent force that transformed him. It made him create beautiful sounds with the beating of the drums. He was moving his sticks rhythmically, in concert with a greater spirit. And from wherever this mysterious force originated, he was able to draw strength from its endless, torrential flow. He exploded with joy as his magical sticks pounded ecstatic sounds, and music reverberated in the smoke-filled room.
    Joe’s face lit up now. It was expressive and became a miniature stage of many emotions. The muscles in his face were no longer rigid or controlled. His face quivered and twitched and his entire body trembled. He shook violently as he ejaculated his alien rage again and again. Sporadically, his craziness emerged in frenzied assaults on his alien being and imaginary attacks on the world. Like a raging phallic interloper, his madness was launched forcefully upon existence until the rage ceased-until it changed to something else.
    It couldn’t last, you see. It had to disintegrate since it was no longer trapped. For a long time, this rage had been repressed. But once the great waterfall of fury cascaded down Joe’s body, once it was allowed to dominate and control and destroy, it too was destroyed. And after the rage died, there was a metamorphosis.
    Suddenly, Joe was touched by the unparalleled beauty produced by Richie’s precious sticks. And his being was flooded with love which sporadically expressed itself as a smile, a grin, a smirk, a paroxysm of laughter and the quiet flow of tears. Yeah, Joe was feeling again, and he was filled by Richie’s powerful moment of real passion. And the real feelings gripped Joe. Magically, he had new visions that transcended the older, weather-beaten dreams buried in the deep snow of his wounded psyche. Hopefully, these transitory emotions were genuine and valid. In any case, he felt alive again.

    Richie’s act was almost finished. Earlier on this night of miracles, Joe’s seething emotions came forth relentlessly. A fat smile had covered the murderous face which struggled to find beauty-in one passionate moment-one evening in Greenwich Village. It happened in an out of the way place, in a cheap Jazz spot. An old buddy named Richie achieved a moment of greatness with an ordinary pair of sticks. Another friend found something else.



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