The Sound of Jazz

A Short Story

The sound of jazz is a beautiful thing. Nothing on earth quite like it. It can be smooth and slow like molasses or as riveting as homemade whiskey. My momma always said the sound of jazz could make dreams come true. 

The deep boom of drums traveled through the cracks of the shoe shop’s back door, drawing me closer. I was sure the coppers around the corner heard it, but they probably turned the other cheek in exchange for some cheap booze. Still following those sweet sounds, I tapped on the door and a big brown eye stared me down through the peephole. 

“Password?” the brown eyed man whispered.

“Dead soldiers don’t cry,” I whispered back.

The door made a little creak as it cracked open just enough for me to squeeze through. The music was even livelier on the inside. The melody of the music blended with the clinking of glasses and tapping of pearl beads like a wonderful cocktail for the ears. 

“Fix me something. I don’t care what it is, as long as it's strong,” I told the bartender, sliding him a couple clams across the table.

“One of those kinda nights, huh?” Said the gray haired bartender, slinging his towel over his shoulder. Whiskey sloshed over the edge of the glass and onto the counter as he poured my drink.

“Gotta take the edge off somehow,” 

“What’s got you so worked up, girl?”

“You listen to Big Easy Broadcasts?” I asked. He nodded. 

“Yeah, you and everybody else. The owner of the studio’s coming to town to talk to my boss, and if I ever want a shot at having my own radio show, I gotta impress him.”

“Keep dreamin, doll,” he scoffed. “That little face of yours is too pretty for radio anyway. We can always use another showgirl around here.”

The graying men sitting on either side of me, still dirty from work, erupted in deep, drunken laughter. I snatched my drink and made my way over to the dancefloor, fearing that if I stayed at the bar any longer, I’d say something they’d make me regret. I just let the music take over, letting the tension in my shoulders turn into rhythm. The band kept booming and my feet kept flying as the night roared on. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an unfamiliar face take the stage, the kerosene lamps illuminating his tan skin and coffee colored curls. His face was mostly hidden, looking down at the floor. He moved like he could feel every eye in the room judging him. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, for your entertainment I present to you Mr. Mateo Gulliory on the trumpet!” announced the singer of the jazz band, stepping aside to give the young man more room.

Shy, coffee haired Mateo Guillory began to play that trumpet like I’ve never heard it played before. King Oliver and Louis Armstrong had nothing on this skinny little boy from Belle Chasse, and in that moment, my mind produced the most brilliant idea it could have ever dreamed up.

“Can you dance as good as you can play, Mr. Guillory?” I asked the trumpeter as he left the stage for his break.
“What?” the young man replied, jolting back, his caramel eyes as wide as saucers.

“You aren’t gonna leave a young lady all alone on the dance floor, are you? Surely your momma raised you better than that.”

“I’m sorry miss,”

“Claudie Bordeaux,” I answered.
“Well, I’m sorry Miss Claudie, I just ain’t ever been asked to dance by a lady before. ‘Specially not a white lady. Took me by surprise is all.”

Still looking at the floor, he fidgeted with his pinstripe bow tie, trying and failing to straighten it. My hand reached, straightening up his tie and grabbing his hand, pulling him into a triple step swing.

“Stay loose and try to keep up!”
“I don’t really think we really shouldn’t be dancin’. Ain’t you scared people’s gonna talk?” Mr. Guillory asked.

“Anywhere else, maybe, but not here! This place is a den of sinners. Ain’t nobody talkin’ about what goes on in here.”

He laughed. It was the first time I ever heard his laugh. It sounded a lot like his music, rhythmic, lively, and so full of wonder. He had a sort of caring gentleness about him, hidden underneath that nervous
exterior.

“I think we’re gonna be good friends,” I said to him.

“And why’s that?” he said back.

“Because you want to share your music and I want my own radio show, but no one takes us seriously. We understand each other and we can help each other. You picking up what I’m putin’ down, Mr. Guillory?” I asked. He smiled.

“My friends call me Matty.”

“Well then, I’ll see you at the BCB Radio station downtown tomorrow mornin’ Matty,” I said, straightening up his bowtie one more time before I mozied off towards the door.

“Bright and early! So you better not get too jazzed tonight!” I yelled from across the speakeasy. 

“I’ll try my best!” Matty replied, waving goodbye as the burly bouncer swung open the door for me, leading me out into a world of new opportunity ready for the taking.

“Good mornin’ Miss Claudie!” called Matty, standing alone under the front awning of the radio station. His navy blue pinstripe suit stood out against the bland beige building and a sweet smell of pastry dough filled the air around him. 

“Are you crazy? Somebody’s gonna see you out here!”

He smiled and waved as I made my way up the sidewalk. The pastry smell was wafting from a little brown box that Matty handed me when I finally got up to the door.

“I brought you some beignets as a thank you. I baked ‘em myself, they’re my Grann’s recipe.”

“Oh, thank you,” I replied, taking the warm box into my grasp. It had been a while since someone had done something kind like that for me. 

“Let’s get in here before anyone can see us.”

I fiddled with my keys for a while, jamming in a few different ones until the lock clicked open. Matty held the door and we entered the cold, dark, quiet home of BCB Radio. Wooden floorboards creaked under our feet with every step as we made our way through the dilapidated hallway and into the recording studio. I flipped the switch and the lights all turned on, sweeping the room with their warmth.

“It ain’t much, but it’s a start.” I said as I turned on the dials of the recording equipment. 

“It looks mighty good to me, Miss Claudie!”
Matty’s toothy grin pushed his little round eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose, his eyes lighting up like the radio dials. 

“Well, make yourself comfortable and try not to be seen. I’ve gotta put on a pot of Joe for my boss, Mr. Clarke or else we might not be getting any airtime at all!”

I closed the studio door and headed over to the break room. The back door swung open, and Mr. Clarke trudged in, grumpy as ever.

“Your guest here yet?” he barked, coughing into the wrinkled sleeve of his dirt colored suit. “I need you on air at the top of the hour!”

“Yessir, he’s just freshening up before the interview!”

“He better be! You got fifteen minutes, that’s it, and you better not mess it up, girl. That coffee ready yet?”

I nodded. I didn’t even want to speak to him.

“Good girl.”

That vile man. I could feel the vomit creeping up the back of my throat and the cigarette stench from his clothes lingered in the room, much like his words. Rushing back to the studio, I checked behind my shoulder and opened up the door. Matty was already in his chair, tapping his foot. I flipped one last switch and the “ON AIR” sign flickered on.

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen! You loyal listeners are in for quite the treat on today’s broadcast where I’m interviewing local up and coming Jazz star, Mateo Guillory. You heard it here folks, we’ve got a celebrity in the makin’ right here in Belle Chasse! Stay tuned to the end of the show and you’ll get to hear his original song, exclusively on BCB Radio!”

After the interview with Matty, I figured it would be a good idea to get my hair all fixed up and my nails painted. If the owner of Big Easy Broadcasts came to chat with me, I just had to look my best. A little bell chimed as I entered the beauty parlor and took my seat, grabbing the first magazine I found lying on the table. I was catching up on a months old issue of Motion Picture when a certain shrill voice drew my attention away from Marion Davies and towards the back of the salon.

There she sat. Mrs. Marceline, the queen of gossip on her salon chair throne, her graying hair blowing around under the hood dryer. She thought being the first lady of Belle Chasse Baptist made her Grace Coolidge and she loved nothing more than bumping gums with other snobby old ladies.  

“You’ll never guess what Betsey told me after service on Sunday. Her sister’s husband’s been sneakin’ around with some young flapper in the city!” said a blonde lady on Mrs. Marceline’s right. “Speaking of flappers sneakin’ around, have you heard the Bordeaux girl’s little radio show? ”

“Now this is all just hearsay, but my neighbor, you know Mrs. Dubiose, she thinks the boy she interviewed might be,” Mrs. Marceline answered. She looked around and whispered, “colored.”

The other two women she was with gasped like they’d seen a ghost. Sweat droplets started forming on my forehead and I could feel my heart beating faster and faster and faster. Using the magazine to cover my face, I leaned my ear in a bit closer.

“That Creole woman that cleans my house has that last name, Guillory. I bet you anything they’re related,” replied the brunette on Mrs. Marceline’s left, straightening up her dress to cover up her ankles.

My cheeks felt hot as a firecracker and my fists were so tight, my fingernails dug into my palms. I had to hook my feet on the salon chair pedals just to keep myself from getting up. 

“Keep your big mouth shut, Claudie,” I muttered. I couldn’t afford to make my reputation even worse, not this close to a shot with Big Easy Broadcasts.

“Bless her heart. She better settle down and stop trying to do men’s work before she gets herself wrapped up in all kinds of sin.” 

The copy of Motion Picture made a loud pop as I slammed it on the table. It must have startled Mrs. Marceline, her cheeks flushing as she realized I heard everything she’d said. The little bell rang again as I left the parlor. I’d just cut my hair with my scissors at home. 

A navy pinstripe suit brushed against my arm, but I shrugged them off. I could hardly see who it was, my eyes were so full of tears and mascara, but it looked like the last person I wanted to see right now.

“Well hey there Miss Claudie!” 

“I can’t be seen with you right now, Mr. Guillory, I’m sorry,” I whispered, pushing past him.

“Oh.”

I turned and looked him in the eye. His face looked just as hurt as mine probably did, but I kept running until I reached the alley behind the radio station, the only place that might cheer me up a little.

“I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stand to see a friend so upset.”

Matty turned down the alley and took a seat on the curb next to me. Constantly, he glanced over his shoulder to keep a watch for any prying eyes on the hunt for new beauty parlor gossip.

“You got any cigarettes?”

Matty chuckled and took a pack of Lucky Strikes from his pocket and lit two.

“You’re my best friend, Matty. Although, it’s not sayin’ a whole lot, you're about the only friend I got,” I said, coughing out a bit of smoke.

“Can’t imagine why the ornery old geezers in this town wouldn’t wanna be friends with an independent, ambitious, fiery young lady like yourself. You’re like a shot of gin, Claudie!”

I could taste salty tears and smoke on my lips as I laughed. We must have laughed so hard, we didn’t notice the sound of footsteps approaching the alley. I did hear a familiar shrill gasp, though.

“Well, I always knew you were a harlot, but I never would have thought you’d stoop quite low enough to associate yourself with his kind!” Mrs. Marceline scoffed.

Matty shook his head no, but to me, the risk was worth it.

“Surely you remember what the Bible says about being unequally yoked, Claudette.”

“Surely you remember what it says about taking the plank out of your own eye before removing the speck from someone else’s,” I roared. “Now you can call me whatever names you want to, I don’t care, but Matty ain’t done a thing wrong. I will not let you speak about him that way ‘cause he’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. Maybe you can learn a thing or two from him, Mrs. Marceline.”

“What’s all this commotion I’ve been hearing out here?” asked a gravelly voiced, round little man emerging from the back door of the BCB station.

 “I recognize those voices. You’re the ones I listened to yesterday morning! I was just asking Mr. Clarke about you two,” the man exclaimed, extending his hand to shake mine and Matty’s. “Quite a pleasure to be meeting such raw talent! I’m Richard Landry, the owner of a little station called Big Easy Broadcasts over in the city.”

My head got all dizzy and I think my heart skipped a beat or two. 

“You’ve got a lotta spunk. That’s a personality I need on air. I’d like you two to make a trip to New Orleans to be on my show. That is, if you're interested,” Mr. Landry continued, giving us a wink and leaning in close. “There’s a lot less nosy ladies getting in your business in the city, ya know?”

“We’d be delighted, Mr. Landry! Said Matty. I don’t even think I blinked or breathed.

Mr. Landry squeezed into the backseat of his car, careful not to dirty his suit. He waved and rode off in his shiny yellow Rolls Royce.

“You did it, Claudie! We’re going to New Orleans!” Matty exclaimed, squeezing my hand and not caring that Mrs. Marceline saw. My head rested on his shoulder as I pulled him into a hug.

“We did it, Matty.”

Jazz really does make dreams come true.