Behind the Bars

by Brittainy Cherry

  I smirked and replied, “Your music is better than yesterday, and yesterday was the best I’ve ever heard you play.”

  I’d made a lot of mistakes in my life, but listening to TJ play his music wasn’t one of them. Every evening he’d sit on a metal chair at the corner of Frenchmen Street with his saxophone, and he’d play his music for the passersby on their way to and from the strip of bars.

  When people stopped to listen, they tossed him a few dollar bills. Some danced in the streets to his sounds, tourists recorded him with their cell phones, and a select few acted as if he and his music were nonexistent.

  I never understood that—how could people walk past music and pretend they hadn’t just seen a glimpse of heaven?

  TJ was in his eighties, and he’d been born with soul. People didn’t learn to play music the way he did—they came into the world with many lifetimes of heart and soul already embedded inside of them. TJ dressed in the best suits and ties, and he seemed to be a legend on Frenchmen Street. He was a staple of the street’s nightlife.

  For several weeks, I wandered out to the corner each day and sat on the curb to listen to him play. He always had the biggest smile on his face and he had such a positive outlook on life. Plus, his jazz music had healing powers. It could make the saddest person find a moment of hope.

  Around seven-thirty each night, TJ took a break, grabbed two water bottles and two hot dogs from Dat Dog on the corner, and then sat beside me on the curb. He’d hand me a hot dog, and we’d eat the meal together.

  “Anything you think I could do better?” he asked me, biting into his food.

  “Yeah, stop buying a girl dinner every night.”

  “Can’t help it. I’m a gentleman.”

  I snickered. “You might be the last one of those left.”

  “I hope that’s not the truth. You need to marry yourself a good gentleman.”

  “I think I’m gonna avoid the whole marriage thing.”

  “Oh no,” he groaned. “Don’t tell me you don’t believe in love.”

  I shrugged. “Depends on the day you ask me.”

  “What do you believe in? Do you believe in God?” he asked.

  “That one’s still up for debate, but I like the idea of him.”

  “Fair enough. What about aliens?”

  “Maybe,” I said, taking a sip of water. “But not like E.T. or anything. I more so believe in aliens who like, take over people’s bodies and control their every action, making them do things they wouldn’t normally do.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mhmm. I’m ninety-nine percent sure my mom was overtaken by an alien.”

  “I’ve known you for weeks now, and that’s the first time you’ve ever mentioned your mom. You talk about your father a lot, but never your mother.”

  “Oops,” I murmured. “A lapse in judgment. It won’t happen again.”

  “Why do you think she was taken over by aliens?”

  I smiled and shifted around on the curb, signaling that I didn’t want to talk about it. TJ picked up on my signal and didn’t dive any deeper. That was one reason I liked him so much—he never pressed for more information about my past. He always told me it was called the past for a reason and there was no need to bring it into the present if it only hurt the person to talk about it.

  “Oh! Guess what!” I exclaimed, clapping my hands together. “I have a gig on Friday.”

  “No way!” TJ said, slapping his leg. “I was waiting for you to get back into the soul music scene.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been practicing on my own. It’s been so long since I’ve sung what I wanted to.” I smiled and nudged him. “You should come see me just in case I suck so at least I’ll have one friend there.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Thanks, TJ.”

  “What about other friends, though?” he asked. “This old fart can’t be your only friend, right?”

  I shrugged. “I never had an easy time making friends. My mom didn’t leave much time for building relationships outside of the studio.”

  “There’s that mom word again.” He nudged me.

  I bit my bottom lip. “Another slip of the tongue. Anyway, the last time I really had a solid friendship was a long time ago, but that’s ancient history.”

  “But history nonetheless.” TJ lowered his eyebrows. “I miss him too, ya know.”

  “It’s weird. It’s been so long, but still… When I met him, I didn’t even know I needed him. When Elliott was my friend, I felt like I was unstoppable, like I was good enough.”

  “He had that effect on everyone. I just wish we could repay him for all he’s done. Anyway, your show—where’s it at?”

  “Eve’s Lounge Friday at six.” I wrinkled my nose. “You might be late to your corner to perform, though.”

  “No worries.” TJ knocked on the concrete. “This corner ain’t going anywhere.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Elliott

  My mother had called me fifteen times in the past week and had left fifteen messages, which was three less than the week before. Each time she sent me a message, I sent her a text telling her I was okay.

  On Wednesday night, I stood in my apartment lifting weights when I heard a knock at my door. When I opened it, Mom was standing there, holding grocery bags in her hands with a bright smile on her face. “Hey, Eli,” she said sweetly.

  I blinked and saw Katie in her eyes.

  “Hi, Mom.” I stepped to the side and she walked inside. “What are you doing here?”

  “You didn’t answer my calls. I was worried.”

  “I texted you back.”

  “I didn’t text you, I called,” she said nonchalantly, placing the bags on the dining room table. “So you should’ve called back.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

  As she started unloading the groceries, I raised an eyebrow. “I went shopping the other day. I have food.”

  “Not homemade food,” she said, pulling out Tupperware. “I bet your fridge is just packed with chicken and broccoli.” She walked over to the refrigerator, opened the door, and then cocked an eyebrow. “And salmon.”

  “I’m trying to tone up some more,” I explained.

  “Yes, well, one day of cake won’t hurt you,” she said, going back to unpacking the bags. She’d brought enough food for an army.

  “Actually, it will. I’m on a sugar cut,” I told her, glancing at my watch. “And I’d love for you to st-stay, but I have to get to work.”

  “That’s funny,” she replied, grabbing two plates from my cabinets and setting them on the table. “Because I stopped by the gym and they said you were fired.”

  “I was going to tell you—”

  Her eyes softened. “Do you need money?” she asked, pulling out her wallet.

  “No, I’m good.”

  “I’ll help with rent,” she said, flipping through her cash.

  “Mom, stop. Really, I’m okay.”

  She shook her head back and forth. “Let me help.”

  “I don’t need it. I actually have to go to an interview I forgot about…”

  “Elliott.” She grimaced. “There’s no interview.”

  “Mom…”

  “Please,” she begged, tossing her hands up in defeat. “Look, I know you don’t want me here. I get that you don’t want to be around anyone, but, sweetheart…” Her voice cracked. “It’s your birthday. And you shouldn’t be alone on your birthday, okay?”

  She was seconds away from tears, and I cleared my throat. “Okay.”

  “Okay. Now sit down.”

  We sat at the table, and I said, “I’m still not eating sugar this week.”

  “That’s fine. I only brought enough cake for me.” She grabbed one of the Tupperware containers and slid it across the table to me. “I made you two turkey legs.”

  A quiet moment passed before she spoke again.

  “I know it’s hard for you each year w
hen I show up to spend your birthday with you, but I’m your mother, Eli, and you’re my son. So, as long as I’m here, you’re never going to spend your birthday alone, okay?”

  I didn’t reply, but she heard me clearly as I ate the meal she’d prepared.

  Okay, Mom.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jasmine

  The night of the show, my stomach was filled with nerves, even though there were only nine people in the entire bar.

  Three of those people were employees.

  I sat at a booth drinking hot tea, my foot tapping the floor ceaselessly as I waited for it to be time for me to perform.

  “If you shake any more, your leg’s gonna fall off,” TJ scolded, walking into the bar and plopping down in the booth across from me. He sat his saxophone case on the table then placed his hat on top of that.

  I smiled. “I was getting nervous you weren’t going to make it.”

  “I always show up, maybe not always on time, but I always show up.” He nudged my shaky hand. “You’re too uptight. Relax.”

  “I can’t,” I replied. “It’s been too long since I’ve performed music for me. It’s terrifying.”

  “It’s just like remembering how to ride a bike,” he told me, squeezing my hand for comfort. “You can’t mess it up.”

  When it was my turn to go on stage, I drew in a cleansing breath and walked over to the microphone. As the bar’s band began to accompany me, I closed my eyes and lost myself to the music. As I sang, I held out every note and gave it my all, losing myself in the moment and feeling my soul heat up as I returned to my favorite world—the world of soul.

  I performed four songs, and TJ stayed the whole time, his eyes glued to my performance.

  When I finished my cover of “Fall for You” by Leela James, I thanked all nine people who’d listened to me sing.

  Hurrying over to TJ, I slid back into the booth, feeling on top of the world. “So,” I said, sipping on my now chilled tea that still sat on the table. “How was it?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve never ridden a bike, have you?”

  My jaw dropped. “What?”

  “That wasn’t good.”

  I narrowed my eyes, bewildered by his comment. “What are you talking about? Everyone in here loved it!”

  “Everyone in here is a complete idiot,” he said, standing up from the booth. “It’s ironic, really, for a soul artist to have no soul.”

  “TJ—”

  “You hit every note you were supposed to,” he told me. “You sang it exactly how you were supposed to, and yes, everyone here loved it, but they love all music here. This is what New Orleans is made of—talent, but you’re more than talent, Jasmine. You’re more than love. You need to be more.” He gave me a gentle grin and tapped his finger against my nose. “You need to be magic.”

  “How do I do that?” I asked. “How does one become magic?”

  He stood up from the booth and placed his hat on his head. “You follow me, and we start your training sessions.”

  “I thought you retired from teaching.”

  “Yes, I did.” He nodded and lifted his saxophone case. “But then I heard your voice. It’s not there yet, but the way you sing…the way your eyes cried to tap into that magic that lives inside of you—that makes me excited. It makes me want to teach again,” he told me, shaking his head back and forth. “I haven’t felt that passion in so long, not since a boy with a stutter performed for me.”

  I inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “When do we start?”

  “Tomorrow at noon.” He grabbed a napkin and a pen, scribbled down his address, and handed it my way.

  “Perfect.”

  “Don’t be late.”

  “I won’t. Do I need to bring anything?”

  “Only a notebook and your deepest, darkest fears,” he said as he walked away. “And, Jasmine?”

  “Yes?”

  “You were never supposed to be a pop artist. This music, this style…this is you. You are the definition of soul.”

  His words meant more to me than he’d ever know, and I couldn’t wait for our first lesson.

  When I pulled up to TJ’s home, I instantly fell in love. It looked exactly like all the stories he’d told me about his house. There were two huge oak trees at the front of his yard, and the leaves were slowly transforming into vibrant reds and sunburnt oranges from autumn’s soft kisses. A few leaves shook from the branches and danced down to the unkempt yard. There was a large wicker fence surrounding the home, and inside it looked like a forest had overtaken it. A stone bench sat in the middle with weeds growing up the sides, and there were three gnome statutes guarding the entrance—one dressed as an alien, one as an angel, and another as Chuck Norris.

  Three perfect reasons why TJ was quickly becoming one of my favorite humans to ever exist.

  “It used to be beautiful,” TJ told me, walking onto his front porch and nodding toward the yard. “When my wife was around, she made sure it was kept. I let it go.”

  “It’s still beautiful in its wild form.” I smiled, walking up the steps.

  He grinned and nodded some. “If only we could perceive everything from that viewpoint. Come on in. I’m making you tea.”

  His house was beautiful, filled with memories and history. There was one wall covered in postcards from places all around the world. I stopped and studied them all, smiling at the display.

  “I promised my wife I’d show her the world, and we saw it,” he told me, walking my way with a mug of hot tea in his hands. His eyes stared at the wall and a small smile found his lips. “But nothing was as special as coming home. Nothing felt as right.”

  “Your wife was beautiful,” I told him, smiling at the pictures on the fireplace. There were dozens of photographs, memories captured in ink, exhibiting the life of Theodore James. It was a gorgeous life, and I felt lucky to even be allowed to peer inside of it. The picture on the edge of the fireplace made my heart jump to my throat. It was a little Elliott holding a saxophone that looked five times too big for his small frame.

  “That was the day he received his first baby,” TJ explained. “That was the moment he fell in love with jazz.”

  Elliott’s face beamed with that love in the photograph. His smile was stretched far, and you could almost feel his excitement shooting through the frame.

  “I miss that smile,” I confessed.

  “We all do,” he agreed. “But we aren’t here to talk about him right now. Today, we focus on you.”

  I took off my jacket and placed it on the arm of his sofa before I sat down with my notebook in my hand. “I did some vocal warm-ups on the way over, if you want to skip that.”

  He narrowed his eyes and leaned against the fireplace. “We’re not going to sing today,” he told me. “We aren’t going to sing for a while.”

  “What?”

  “You have a lot of work to do before you can dive into singing.” He nodded toward the notebook. “Write down the hardest parts.”

  “The hardest parts?”

  “The parts of you that scare you. Your deepest truths—write those down. Write down every demon that ever haunted you at night. Write down the shadows, the fears, the sharpest pains.”

  “What does this have to do with me singing?”

  He sat down in a chair across the way and clasped his hands together. “How well do you know yourself?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What’s your truth?”

  I snickered. “TJ, you know I don’t—”

  “What’s your truth?” he asked again.

  I tensed up. “My life isn’t a sad story,” I told him. “I’m happy.”

  “I know, but what’s your truth?”

  Every time he said that, I cringed a little. I didn’t have a clue what he was getting at, or why he kept asking me that same question, though I did know he wasn’t doing it to be cruel. He had the gentlest look in his eyes, and that was what bothered me the most—how he looked at
me and saw parts I pretended weren’t there.

  “I know you’re happy. You smile all the time, Jasmine, but sometimes I see it…that quiet storm that lives behind your eyes. I see the thunder that’s ripping you up inside as you try your best to pretend you’ve never even felt raindrops. Burying your hurts and your fears isn’t going to keep them from emerging. It’s only going to silence your real voice that’s begging to escape.”

  “I…” My voice trembled, and I shook my head back and forth, looking down at my notebook. “I don’t think this is what I want to do, TJ. I don’t want to dig that deep.”

  He studied me for a moment before giving me his soft smile. “One can’t truly heal if they pretend the cracks don’t exist.”

  I gave him a tight smile and nodded once but didn’t say a word.

  He let out a defeated sigh and nodded. “Okay, then let’s do some vocal warm-ups.”

  The following weeks began and ended the same. I rehearsed with TJ, I went to work, and listened to TJ perform, and I’d always end the night sitting behind the bars, reminding myself to breathe. TJ did his best to work with me, but it was hard. I made it hard.

  There was a wall around me that I’d built up, and I hadn’t known it existed until he’d tried to push it down.

  I was happy.

  I knew I was—I’d fought to feel that way. I had earned my happiness.

  But he was right. On my journey to making it home, I’d hit a few bumps and gained a few bruises. The bruises I thought I had healed, TJ could still see. That scared me. What scared me even more was the idea of diving deep inside of myself, asking myself what those bruises meant, remembering what had caused them. I liked to hover over my emotions, touching them a bit but keeping the majority locked away.

  If I hadn’t fallen apart in front of TJ the first day I met him, he probably wouldn’t have known about the rainclouds that sometimes danced over me each day. If I hadn’t shown him that side of me, maybe he would’ve believed I was okay.

  My music did suffer from me not opening up more, though I’d never really noticed how much I held back until TJ made me aware.