Blazer Boy

It’s hard to tell when he arrived, bedecked in a stained blazer and rumpled slacks. A deposit in the jukebox provides us with Jerry Lee Lewis’ manic piano and a subtle toe tap from the benefactor. His eyes leap around the room with every chorus of “Whole lotta shakin goin on”.. The crags and cliffs in his face tell a silent tale, the unfiltered Pall Malls another. Folks who puff these babies always run deep, never a vapid chapter from them. I surmise he’s fresh from a formal engagement gone awry, one of those souree’s when the machinery gets clogged and the results less than desirable. A shade of agitation is visible here, another quarter finds it’s way to the juke before Jerry Lee is done. The air trembles with Guns & Roses now, his response is less subtle now, a solitary dance ensues near the bar while he request another Jack double. He’s fond enough of the verse,”welcome to the jungle baby, we got your disease” to sing along in psuedo-scream style, eliciting some looks from other patrons. He fumbles with the blazer’s buttons as if to release himself from some unseen bondage. It’s a more animated swarm of motions as the song builds into the final morass of guitars and shrieks. The onlookers are fixed on his flailing, the bartender is pondering the 86^th clause in his contract while blazer boy is churning out his last vestiges of restraint. He grabs his head and sinks to the floor while the final chord subsides. Quickly back to his feet, he brushes some wrinkles from the coat, buttons up and thanks the bartender for his hospitable efforts. An adjustment to the collar, he wheels toward the door as if nothing unusual has happened and exits into the misty night air