Jazz
by 57channels
Casey stared intently at his second bottle of beer. He was removing the label, piece by tiny piece, and placing the fragments methodically on his napkin, trying to ignore his surroundings. This wasn't music. This was just - sound. Different instruments coming together to make sounds that weren't music. He hated jazz. At present, he hated New Orleans. He'd thought they were coming to New Orleans to drink, eat, and see the pretty architecture. Maybe hit a strip club or two; one of the great joys of being in love with a man was being able to go out and ogle women with your boyfriend. And Danny was a champion ogler of women.
Instead, he was fairly certain that he'd been to every jazz club in town over the last two days. This one, the Funky Butt, they'd only found because Danny asked the saxophonist at the last club for a place with real jazz where the tourists didn't go. Casey supposed this was real jazz, but that didn't make him have to like it.
It wasn't that he didn't like clubs. He did. He liked the slightly dazed feeling of being out late, ,; the fellowship of being in a smoky room with other people awake when they shouldn't be. He'd spent most of college in all-night diners and coffee houses. If Dan had wanted to drink French coffee and eat beignets until all hours, Casey would have been perfectly happy. But being stuck here, assaulted by this noise. T; this he didn't like.
They'd been at the Funky Butt for almost two sets now. Casey was running out of classic baseball games to replay in his mind. Maybe they could leave? He turned to Danny, hoping he'd be ready to go.
Danny was leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, head moving slightly to the beat of the music. His beer sat untouched in front of him. He was smiling a little, peacefully, an expression that Casey recognized as Danny's content smile. It showed up sometimes after a good show or when Charlie was explaining some complicated point of video game strategy to him.
Casey watched Danny for a moment, and then waved his bottle at the waitress, requesting another beer.
Casey stared intently at his second bottle of beer. He was removing the label, piece by tiny piece, and placing the fragments methodically on his napkin, trying to ignore his surroundings. This wasn't music. This was just - sound. Different instruments coming together to make sounds that weren't music. He hated jazz. At present, he hated New Orleans. He'd thought they were coming to New Orleans to drink, eat, and see the pretty architecture. Maybe hit a strip club or two; one of the great joys of being in love with a man was being able to go out and ogle women with your boyfriend. And Danny was a champion ogler of women.
Instead, he was fairly certain that he'd been to every jazz club in town over the last two days. This one, the Funky Butt, they'd only found because Danny asked the saxophonist at the last club for a place with real jazz where the tourists didn't go. Casey supposed this was real jazz, but that didn't make him have to like it.
It wasn't that he didn't like clubs. He did. He liked the slightly dazed feeling of being out late, ,; the fellowship of being in a smoky room with other people awake when they shouldn't be. He'd spent most of college in all-night diners and coffee houses. If Dan had wanted to drink French coffee and eat beignets until all hours, Casey would have been perfectly happy. But being stuck here, assaulted by this noise. T; this he didn't like.
They'd been at the Funky Butt for almost two sets now. Casey was running out of classic baseball games to replay in his mind. Maybe they could leave? He turned to Danny, hoping he'd be ready to go.
Danny was leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, head moving slightly to the beat of the music. His beer sat untouched in front of him. He was smiling a little, peacefully, an expression that Casey recognized as Danny's content smile. It showed up sometimes after a good show or when Charlie was explaining some complicated point of video game strategy to him.
Casey watched Danny for a moment, and then waved his bottle at the waitress, requesting another beer.