Friday Morning Jazz — A Drink Not Consumed
By: Nick Furi
Tags: Creative Non Fiction, Jazz, Drinking, Writing

Lately, I’ve lived a — mostly — sober life. Except for an increase in coffee consumption, my vices are dropping like flies as I age.

The thing is, no matter the time and place I listen to jazz, I want to break all elements of a healthier lifestyle. It’s probably a Pavlovian response, but the swing of jazz, the plosives of funky trumpets, the light, fast right of hi-hats, and the staccato jumping of fingers hitting black and white keys — all of it makes me crave a glass of wine, a smokey scotch, or a smooth gin.

I picture myself sitting alone in my apartment. Alone at the bar, nestled up atop my barstool perch, only breaking my silence to request another beverage. While I’m there, I sit and enjoy. I listen to the emotion — the jubilation and the sorrow — truly. The bounce. The sway. The bob of my head, a quick tapping foot, or the gentle sway of my whole body — barely noticeable — consumes my actions as I let the music flow through me, infecting my blood with its intoxicating properties.

Reaching for the first sip, the world fades away, and all that remains is me, the drink, and the jazz. Then, depending on my mood, I force myself back to reality to read poetry and a new book. Escaping the depths of my inner being, back to reality, only to escape to a realm of someone else, to hide in their creations, their beliefs, their sentiments. Studying words as the jazz fuels their meaning, and the whisky, or the wine, or the gin encapsulates my understanding — I feel every line of every letter like it’s scratched into my skin, heart, and brain.

The quick jumping fun halts. A slow trumpet takes over the scene, and the despair feels even deeper, and love’s (lost, unrequited, or still alive) intensity grows. Another sip and deeper and deeper I fall into the dark loneliness of sitting up on that lonely barstool perch, or the bigger my small bachelor apartment becomes — more space for the world to keep its distance, to forget about one of its many.

Another sip.

If it isn’t falling into the depths of someone else’s world, then I sit back, still atop that perch, still alone in the apartment, but, this time, with paper and pen. Jotting down my own fictions. My own poems. Mostly, I write about the loves I don’t understand. Sometimes it’s more about the world and the changing landscapes, trying to cope and understand how my place in the world is changing.

As the drinks keep flowing, the more the truth seems to present itself, all stimulated by the jazz now spread through every part of my body — lungs, toes, stomach, eyes, hands, ribs. I drink until the words become sloppy and the intended meanings become slurred. It’s a fine line, the perfect mixture of solitude, alcohol, and that liberating jive of horns, pianos, drums, bass, the odd guitar and sax. The problem is, stepping over it is all too easy. Hence, the attempt to live a — mostly — sober life.

I’ve finished my coffee. It’s 9:53 AM. Jazz is going, and I fight the desire to drool from the ringing of a bell, to go into the space where I’m alone, hiding from the world. I’ve played this jazzy drinking game. Some of it was worthwhile. Some it lingers with regret. Too often, I used it as a distraction, procrastinating from goals, desires, purpose — an excuse to let the world pass me by.

It’s 9:53 AM, and my coffee is gone. The jazz is still playing. I still want that drink.