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The Blue Note
By Carrie Roman
Published June 2004

I shared my soul with a drummer from New York City one night a couple of years ago. Something was understood that night; nothing had to be explained. I think of him often, I do. After some thought however, I stop myself –I become afraid. Not of adoration, because I am not afraid to feel affection for someone else; only of the scariness of what may result in loveless lovemaking. I saw the drummer at the Fez, but he didn’t see me. That was the last time I saw him. The couple of times we actually did see each other were good times. All at once he was smart, sexy and enticing, funny, and fun. The fact that he was a decent drummer well into the jazz scene was thrilling for me as well. Always I’ll remember him and a particular time we shared.

I left him at two thirty in the morning to wait at the hotel. When he called me an hour later, I opened the door. Off with his shoes. As we rested on the bed, I lay on top of him and we smoked. I unbuckled his pants and down I entered our sexual abyss. A night and dawn full of passion with no break and no ending. That night I was a prowess with my loins. I loved him so slow, tenderly, and deeply. While he slept, I crept on top of him to love him more -slowly, deeply and tenderly – the whole of the night; room 610 at the Hudson. We slept until two in the afternoon. Two we were one all night long -this is what I long to feel again- one shining star, letting out all of our rays. No inhibitions felt; we merged our bodies. I loved him for that one night.
…
At the Blue Note is where I met him. The night that I walked in, I was feeling especially sexy wearing my stirring red dress along with my red lips. My friend and I sat to the left of the stage. He was sitting right in back of me. We were back to back, yet, I noticed him occasionally gazing at me. He watched me and I listened to him commentating about me to his friends at the table. I paid no attention to his weak tactics.

He turned to me, “Excuse me. Would you like some fries?” I looked at his half empty basket of limp fries and smiled. “No thanks.”

The evening went on. We listened to great music that night, my friend and I. We laughed, talked, drank and laughed a lot more. I noticed him walking down the aisle back towards his table. Surprisingly, he stopped right in front of me and asked, “What did you say to me?” His cute persistence got me. I saw his smile when he saw I was startled.

“I didn’t say anything to you. You’re crazy.” He laughed and walked back to his table. I am not in love with him, but I do love a part of him. Not long after that, I saw his friends file onto the stage with him behind them.

“Oh, they’re musicians,” Yvette realized. “He’s the drummer,” I said as I understood it.

After they were done with their set, he walked off and glanced towards me. If nothing else, would being a drummer get him somewhere? I glimpsed back at him with a grin that let him know it was okay to come over. He asked me to call him after he and the trumpet player kept us there past closing.

“Here is my card.” “Oh, so, should I need a drummer for whatever reason, I now have your card. Thank you.”
“Come on, are you going to call me?” After he so cleverly won over my attention, not to mention the fact that the man was fine, I knew I would call him.
“Yeah, I’m going to call you.”
“So, why don’t you give me your number so I can call to remind you to call me?”
“I will call you. Trust me, I’ll call.”
“Not giving me your number is an indication that you’re one of those girls who’ll say they’ll call, but never do”
“I will call you. You’ll just have to wait and see.”

The four of us left the jazz club, spectators and players. We walked outside in the same direction and had our first kiss that night outside of the Blue Note. His kiss was so soft and sensual. His taste was sweet as his warm tongue rolled leisurely inside of my mouth. “I’m definitely calling you.” I softly whispered into his mouth as we kissed. The trumpet player’s car was around the corner. The drummer asked me into the car for a smoke and I would’ve gone in; if it wasn’t for Yvette not smoking, I would have went. As we walked away, I felt the burning for him already.
…
Two weeks to the date of our first meeting I called him.
“I can’t believe you made me wait for your call.”
“I didn’t call because I couldn’t; but I’m on the phone right now.”
“I’m glad you called. What’s going on?”
“I wanted to know if you were playing anywhere tonight and if there were any available seats left.”
“Are you coming through?”
“If there is a seat for me I’ll be there.”
“Hell yea there is! I’m playing tonight at the Blue Note.”
“Okay, I’ll see you there –twelve thirty-ish.”

I met up with him at the Blue Note that night around 1 in the morning. As I watched him from the bar playing the drums, I had a drink. When he was done, he came over to me with the same, sweet, sensual, kiss he had last left me with. He ordered his drink and bought me another one. He kissed me again. We spoke at length for the first time.

“Why did it take you so long to call me?” he asked as he kissed me.
“What do you want me to say? I couldn’t, I was busy.” I kissed him back wishing I would have called sooner. I was excited by him, not just the drummer. By two thirty in the morning, I left him at the Blue Note. I headed uptown towards the Hudson.

A few months later, I took my cousin Nizeerah, visiting from Ohio, to see the Mingus Band, a great jazz ensemble playing at Fez, a jazz nightclub worth mentioning. My drummer friend, back from his European tour, was playing that night. It was a Thursday night, so they played two sessions. Nizeerah and her girlfriend were leaving the next morning, I had work, so it would be the early show we’d catch. I had anticipated this evening just as I had the last night we spent together at the Hudson -that night we shared lovemaking outbursts, and the few times I met him at the Blue Note. As I said, I knew that the drummer was in town. Early on that week, I had made the reservations for three. I knew with Nizeerah around, I couldn’t play my role, but I didn’t expect him to see me in such a crowd anyway. Having said all of this, we arrived late enough that we sat all the way in the back, diagonally to the stage, but still with a sufficient amount of time that the band was still filtering on stage. We had a small glimpse of the band from where we sat, most importantly, a clear view of the drummer. Understanding this should provide insight for my decision later on that night. While the band played, a loud, boisterous group entered the basement lounge, looking for somewhere to sit in the already crowded, smoky, small room. The hostess pointed to our direction, where a table to the left and right of us were empty. We sat in the middle of the two booths, where I had a perfect vista of the drummer. After some whispers amongst the group, the tall, beautiful hostess, came over and asked if we minded moving over to the table on the right or to the table on the left. I was haste with my answer, I must admit, because I was interrupted from my gaze, but I honestly ran it through my brain, quickly however. If I sat in any other direction, my view of the stage itself would be obstructed, never mind the drummer.

“No” I retorted, “I want to stay right where I am.” We stayed for both sets. During the intermission I thought he would for sure see me. I went up the stairs to the bathroom to stall time, in case he would see me. Did I want him to see me? I returned downstairs and had another drink with the girls. We laughed about the early incident and chatted about here and there. All the while, though, I watched him have a meal at the table in front of my booth with what seemed like good friends.
…
“When was the last serious relationship for you?” I inquired as we kissed the night we shared each other. “Two years ago or so. I met her here but she moved back to Japan. It didn’t last.”

“Oh.”

Was a female at the table the one who he shared his intimate feelings with once, for a time long enough that she is mentioned when inquired about “the last girlfriend”? They sat next to each other, but there were so many people there, they weren’t close. Or maybe it was just me? That was enough for me, however, not to barge. To get up now would mean a definite sighting; I’d rather not risk the awkwardness of the situation. I stayed until the near end of the second set, the music was that good. That was the last I saw him, the drummer.

Carrie S. Roman is a 26 year old Jersey City native. She is a poet as well as a writer. Some of her other work can be found on Poetry.com.
Her favorite writers (in no particular order) are: Ann Bradstreet, F. S. Fitzgerald, Jane Austen, Anais Nin, Gabo Garcia Marquez, Benjamin Franklin and Immanual Kant(this is only naming a few of them). To contact the author, email at: csroman22 @ yahoo . com

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