Read Online Love in a Carry-On Bag by Sadeqa Johnson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sadeqa Johnson
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industry came to flex their genius.
Smalls stayed open all night and there were photographs on the wall of Miles Davis, Charlie Parker, Betty Carter, McCoy Tyner and Sonny Rollins, who all sharpened their skills on the very same stage.
“Look who’s traveling on the wind.” A fair-skinned man wearing a black beret limped toward them. “Come to jam?” His voice was raspy like he smoked two packs a day.
Warren held up his horn case and the men slapped five.
In the ten minutes that it took for his name to be called, Warren closed his eyes and visualized warming his instrument. It was a talent he had picked up playing in the band at Howard University. Once on stage, he tipped his horn to Erica and waited while the pianist counted.
“One, two, a one, two, three.”
The quartet played a standard, “Never Let Me Go.” Roy Hargrove had redone the song on his third album and Warren knew the piece well. During his solo, Warren spit the notes. Even when he stumbled on the wrong note, it was right. Musicians rotated in and out, other brass instruments jammed with him and against him, but time didn’t tick. Warren played like a man possessed until his lips swelled with the satisfaction of a familiar kiss.
Warren’s black shirt was soaked through and he left the stage feeling like Superman. At a bistro table in the corner, Erica was slouched over asleep with her head resting against the cushiony padded wall. He had played so hard that he hadn’t realized that she had slept through it. In the chair next to her, he rubbed her hair softly.
“What time is it?” She opened her eyes and ran the back of her hand over her mouth.
“Seven.”
“You played for five hours straight.”
“It felt like five minutes.”
“Good, honey,” she readjusted her dress and stretched her arms overhead.
Two busboys were clearing off the table and she could smell the bucket of water with bleach and disinfectant.
“You hungry?” he asked, helping her into her coat.
“Think the Pink Teacup is open?”
“Should be.” Warren gave the man with the limp a pound and told him he’d be back soon. Once they made it up the stairs and out onto the street, Warren draped his arm over her shoulders. The sun had risen but was cloaked behind pregnant clouds. Warren could have used his sunglasses to help adjust to daylight but they were in the car.
“You were snoring louder than the music,” he teased.
“Whatever, I don’t snore. How long did you think I’d last?”
They walked three blocks over to the Pink Teacup, a soul-food restaurant that had been in the same location on Grove Street for five decades and owned by three generations of the same family. The restaurant was painted pink inside and out with black-and-white celebrity photos hanging from the walls. Because it was early, they had their choice of window seating. The waitress dropped off menus they didn’t need with fresh squeezed orange juice and a saucer of homemade biscuits.
Erica watched Warren. He had that far-away, detached look in his eyes and she could feel her body counting down the minutes until he had to leave. The weekend had once again gone too fast and she was sick of saying goodbye.
“Why don’t you stay one more night and leave first thing in the morning?” she tried.
“I wish, but there’s so much work waiting for me.”
“Have you signed the contract?”
Warren’s eyes flashed down at her and she could see the wheels turning in his head, like he was choosing his words wisely.
“Is it a secret? My life is affected by this, too.” She became impatient.
“Yeah, I signed,” he confessed.
“Why?” She wanted to pound the table with her fist. Her cell phone rang from inside her clutch. It was trapped in a pocket being smashed by her wallet, keys and lip gloss. After taking everything out the caller-ID flashed that it was her mother. She silenced the phone. This was not the time for one of her silly emergencies. Erica was having a crisis of her
Smalls stayed open all night and there were photographs on the wall of Miles Davis, Charlie Parker, Betty Carter, McCoy Tyner and Sonny Rollins, who all sharpened their skills on the very same stage.
“Look who’s traveling on the wind.” A fair-skinned man wearing a black beret limped toward them. “Come to jam?” His voice was raspy like he smoked two packs a day.
Warren held up his horn case and the men slapped five.
In the ten minutes that it took for his name to be called, Warren closed his eyes and visualized warming his instrument. It was a talent he had picked up playing in the band at Howard University. Once on stage, he tipped his horn to Erica and waited while the pianist counted.
“One, two, a one, two, three.”
The quartet played a standard, “Never Let Me Go.” Roy Hargrove had redone the song on his third album and Warren knew the piece well. During his solo, Warren spit the notes. Even when he stumbled on the wrong note, it was right. Musicians rotated in and out, other brass instruments jammed with him and against him, but time didn’t tick. Warren played like a man possessed until his lips swelled with the satisfaction of a familiar kiss.
Warren’s black shirt was soaked through and he left the stage feeling like Superman. At a bistro table in the corner, Erica was slouched over asleep with her head resting against the cushiony padded wall. He had played so hard that he hadn’t realized that she had slept through it. In the chair next to her, he rubbed her hair softly.
“What time is it?” She opened her eyes and ran the back of her hand over her mouth.
“Seven.”
“You played for five hours straight.”
“It felt like five minutes.”
“Good, honey,” she readjusted her dress and stretched her arms overhead.
Two busboys were clearing off the table and she could smell the bucket of water with bleach and disinfectant.
“You hungry?” he asked, helping her into her coat.
“Think the Pink Teacup is open?”
“Should be.” Warren gave the man with the limp a pound and told him he’d be back soon. Once they made it up the stairs and out onto the street, Warren draped his arm over her shoulders. The sun had risen but was cloaked behind pregnant clouds. Warren could have used his sunglasses to help adjust to daylight but they were in the car.
“You were snoring louder than the music,” he teased.
“Whatever, I don’t snore. How long did you think I’d last?”
They walked three blocks over to the Pink Teacup, a soul-food restaurant that had been in the same location on Grove Street for five decades and owned by three generations of the same family. The restaurant was painted pink inside and out with black-and-white celebrity photos hanging from the walls. Because it was early, they had their choice of window seating. The waitress dropped off menus they didn’t need with fresh squeezed orange juice and a saucer of homemade biscuits.
Erica watched Warren. He had that far-away, detached look in his eyes and she could feel her body counting down the minutes until he had to leave. The weekend had once again gone too fast and she was sick of saying goodbye.
“Why don’t you stay one more night and leave first thing in the morning?” she tried.
“I wish, but there’s so much work waiting for me.”
“Have you signed the contract?”
Warren’s eyes flashed down at her and she could see the wheels turning in his head, like he was choosing his words wisely.
“Is it a secret? My life is affected by this, too.” She became impatient.
“Yeah, I signed,” he confessed.
“Why?” She wanted to pound the table with her fist. Her cell phone rang from inside her clutch. It was trapped in a pocket being smashed by her wallet, keys and lip gloss. After taking everything out the caller-ID flashed that it was her mother. She silenced the phone. This was not the time for one of her silly emergencies. Erica was having a crisis of her
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