Nostalgia for Darkness (2008)

For the first time, Douglass recognized the lure of Carmine’s Pub. He never drank like the others and relished being a silent observer. Now he felt submerged with everyone else as he sipped his drink—his glazed eyes surveying the atmosphere.

The fading photo’s draping the walls, the crackling from Carmine’s record player, and the worn furniture revealed itself. He sat with a half simile, clutching a withering picture. His eyes were running over every detail.

Carmine’s father, the late Martin Colon, was captured in the pinnacle of his drum performance—his mouth gaped open, his eyes sealed shut. From behind the bar, Carmine peered over his shoulder, flashing Douglass a friendly smile.

“I think that shot was taken in '69,” said Carmine pouring a drink.

“He was the biggest drummer nobody ever heard of; he kind of reminds me of you," he said controlling his smile. “He didn’t talk much and was addicted to his work.”

Douglass’ face crinkled; he always conjured his thoughts, looking as if he was in solitude—forgetting eyes where still upon him.

“So what happened?” Douglass asked probing further.

“Being a full-time drummer doesn’t pay the bills," Carmine said. "It hurt my father when he quit. Music was a tradition in our house," Carmine said reflectively. “Everything in this pub tells the story.”

“So what’s the story behind the peanut gallery!” a voice said from the back.

“You’re the story behind the peanut gallery,” a scruffy man spat, not bothering to turn around.

The laughter sang out in unison like a choir of booming voices. It worked its way towards the front where Douglass sat with a lazy smile, though he was more so amused by his own arcane knowledge of Carmine’s pub.

He had heard Carmine’s father use the term towards his wife and had been present the night the wooden sign was placed in the back; he still remembered reading the words PEANUT GALLERY carved in the slab; the argument from Martin and his wife replayed in his mind as clear as the day it happened.

Douglass’ his eyes veered from Carmine, stopping on a photo of Martin Colon standing with a fair-skinned brunette.

Carmine traced his line of sight, wasting no time in putting the puzzle together.

“Don’t you dare; I don’t need your psychoanalysis,” said Carmine sliding Douglass a glass of brown liquid.

Douglass slouched back in his stool, with a long face— the swirling brown liquid reminding him of his wife.

“Point taken," he muttered. "I am off work; you know work's the only reason I come here," he added.

“Not because of her?” Carmine asked

“Not because of her.”

Carmine flashed his smile once again, and Douglass felt free of guilt. But the moment, which got a smile from Douglas, ebbed away with a creak from the bar’s front entrance.

The door opened and Douglass winced at the incoming light. The silhouette of a towering man stood within the threshold, peeling off layers of clothing. Douglass' attention fell from the figure; he sat absorbing harsh light and cold wind, waiting for the ambiance of the bar to be restored.

“You know," Carmine said as he grabbed a whiskey bottle, "speaking for everyone in here, you turned the mood to shit when you walked in.”

“Ah, Carmine. This place was a toilet bowl before I got here," the towering man howled. “Matter of fact,"  the man said craning his head back, "when you gonna take down your grannies’ television?”

Snickering poured from two men at the bar; crawling up Carmine spine, he was no match for Roy in a battle of wits.

“That thing was probably on for Hattie’s acceptance speech; the I Have a Dream Speech, the first moon shot, and now," he said pointing a the television, "the first beige president.”

The pulse of beating laughter dissipated; the bar fell in silence, a man halted his pool game—right in the middle of shot; his eyes gravitating from the cue ball into Roy’s jovial face.

“Calm it down, Roy; it was peace before you got here.”

Roy nodded to himself, strolling towards his usual spot. He greeted the wooden bar, as he always did, tapping his fingers—anticipating his glass of whiskey.

Douglass felt the vibration from Roy’s tapping, he knew the melodic sound leaving his fingertips; he understood how to translate it; the same way Roy interpreted Douglass’s isolation. 

“No Latin jazz today, Carmine,” Roy said tapping his feet to the beat.

“Roy. I try my best to culture you, brother. If you don’t know Max Roach, I’ll have to revoke your black card," Carmine said.

Stray laughs rang in short burst from a distance, injecting Carmine with zeal. Roy watched, feeling entertained, as Carmine did a playful strut towards his crate of records.

“This must really be a textbook day,” Roy said beginning his speech. “Carmine’s getting laughs from The Peanut Gallery, Doug actually has a drink to his mouth, Is this the result of that?” said Roy pointing at the television.

Douglass cringed at the sound of his name. A response was on the tip of his tongue. He guarded his feelings from Roy far too long; words began penetrating through his lips; no doubt it was the liquor coursing through his system.

“I’ll have to agree with you, Roy," Douglass shot from nowhere. "You can’t deny something is different these days."

“Doctor McPherson speaks everyone!”

Douglass focused his vision on the wooden sign hanging in the back, and his regretted his spirited response.

“I didn’t know his last name was McPherson,” said a stray voice.

“Mc-Pher-son. You have to break it down to understand, sir” Roy said.

“So you know the man now,” a rising voice said.

"You can say that," Roy said holding up his drink. He’s the therapist for some of my convicted juveniles."

"He knows what I’ve seen and he’s sat here afraid to speak up."

“Hey! Mr. Puppeteer, what want that man to say?”

“He can start with everyone’s sudden case of amnesia. Have you forgotten what color runs things? You got an example right here. This is an all-black neighborhood!” Roy said passionately. "We and can’t even get a full-blooded Puerto Rican to own the place where we throw our money away!”

Roy finished his speech to the cracking sound of pool balls. The cue ball zipped towards its destination as if it were being pulled by a magnetic force, landing in its rightful pocket with a violent thud. His dark hands retracted a pool stick from the green cloth, leaving behind a glowing yellow light above the table—his hand disappearing into the darkness.

Carefully, Roy’s sipped his drink and listened to the ghost-like footsteps clack from around the table; a dark-skinned man with a shiny face stepped from the shadows, ascending into the light.

“Look at the Television," he said approaching Roy, "the only color I see running this is black.”

“Funny I was talking green,” Roy said with a snide smile. "If you think you broke niggas in the street, who get shot up by cops, funded your moment history you another black ass fool.”

The words exploded with a subtle delay. As fast a single heartbeat, Roy’s towering stature was entangled with the dark man's muscular body—his dark hands clinching Roy’s throat.

The pain ran through Roy like undulating waves, turning his face a hot red. He was trapped. Much like a snake and its prey, the man’s hard callous hands tightened like coils, his feet digging into the floor—sending Roy back, crashing down on the bars wooden surface. The men encircled the scene but took no action.

They watched the life being drained from Roy; they saw his arms straddled along the bar, spread out —his arms flailed widely pounding the wooden surface. The vibrations trickled down the bar like blood flowing through veins, working its way towards Douglass, but the commotion escaped him; he sat gazing down an empty glass, his control over his body was finally claimed by the alcohol.

The fading picture of Martin Colon was his only piece of Clarity. It now stared at him, almost analyzing him—vividly resurrecting memories of his past.

Finally, he understood the appeal of Carmine’s pub. Through the yelling from the outpouring of men enthralled by the pounding of flesh on flesh; through Roy’s persistent rapping against the bar; Through Carmine’s fearful voice pleading for the calamity to cease; the crackling from the record bled through.

The beautiful drum solo revealed itself like a secret, tunneling to his eardrums, but left as quickly as it came. Only to be replaced by the heavy breaths being expelled from Roy.

No doubt he was influenced by the liquor. Douglass stood up almost against his will, looking Roy directly in the eyes.

“My Brothers! My Friends! And my enemies; my friend Roy is correct: I have been afraid. What's more, I’m afraid of the future; Afraid of the present; I don’t know where to put my old self and how to make room for my new self. You see? You all have come in here shed a piece of your selves. To get how you feel in the air. I’ve been afraid of doing just that."

In a drunken daze, Douglass began to play drum solo at the bar; it became loud enough to hear the crackling record play, and everyone stood, listening to Doug's index fingers pounding the bar. A cold wind began to invade the pub, and a dim light revealed the figure of a woman.

Everyone directed their attention towards the front entrance;  a woman walked in and Roy gasped for air, coughing as the dark man slowly backed away. The men began to part as she waded through the sea of bodies,  stepping over stools towards Douglass,  still drumming away.

“Doug!”

“Hey, Illona,” he said full of surprise. “I’m drunk”

“I know, sweetie,” she said.

“I’ll call a cab,” said Carmine rushing towards the phone.”

“Thank you, Carmine,” Illona said

Douglass fell back into the stool—his body powering down. He looked at the television and watched the handsome man flash his heartfelt smile, so big his eyes were almost closed. He wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words to finish his speech. Before he could focus his mind, he felt arms carry him out the door, placing him in the backseat of a black sedan. He was safe in his wife's arms and the cab bobbled down a bumpy road.

“Doug…Doug,” his wife softly whispered.

“Sweetie, promise me you won't take a trip down here anymore; they’re closer bars by our home.”

“Sure,” Doug replied.

“You can still do your outing after work; you can make some new friends, and you’ll be closer,” she said rubbing his head.

“Wait? Do you hear that?” Douglas said with closed eyes

“What?”

“The music in the cab,” Douglass exclaimed

“It's too loud. Sir, could you turn the music down?”

Douglass felt himself drifting; he struggled to focus his thoughts back inside Carmine’s—trying his best to remember what he did to end fight inside the bar.

“Soon the day will be over,” Douglass whispered himself.

“That’s the beauty of it all; everyday is a new beginning," she said softly.

Douglass fought with his scratchy eyes, doing his best to picture Carmine and Roy and the dark-skinned man and all the faces in the Peanut Gallery, but the images in his mind played a blur. And against his will, he fell asleep to the soft touch of his wife. The bumpy cab ride rocked them up and down, as the faint music from the Cabbie’s car radio found its way into his dreams. Illona smiled at her husband; happy to him sleeping peacefully after an eventful outting--anticipating the walls of their quiet home.