It was on the word of a friend that I find myself at a swanky bar down by the Willamette. The smokey tavern isn’t really my kind of place. The sin is thick and the carcinogens choke my lungs. I’m here for Kiss Me Cait. A new act that my friend raved about.
“You won’t believe it! She’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard. A voice as booming as World War I and beauty that stretches like a beacon leading all the sealegged men home from searching for that yellow bird.“
I’ve heard this hyperbole before. In fact, my search for talent has inevitably been an excuse to flock like a moth to any neon sign. Alcoholism is a choice not a disease, I mutter as I battle with the understanding that I don’t know anything about anything.
I order Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks because thats what the afghan’s drink before they go to war. It spikes the back my throat like a pack of lit cigarettes. All I do is kill myself but I never die. What a cosmic joke.
The lights flicker and then dim. The place is a swamp of smoke and bluish blindness. A figure appears in a red dress, red lipstick and red high heels. She isn’t bright, it’s not like she’s wearing sequins. The fabric is soft, appealing to the declining eyesight to the men who stare. Her eyes though, they are anything but soft. They are as vibrant as color in darkness. I’m lost at sea for a moment.
Then comes my beacon. A voice that carries death to the drowning and screams to the newly born. I can’t tell what key she’s in only that it’s opening doors. Everyone in the room is focused. Focused on every breath, every exhale, and every pitch perfect note.
When she was finished she cracked a confident smile. Then disappeared from whence she came.
She only sang one song but it was enough. As I stumbled home that evening. I looked up at the sky and yelled out, “There are two kinds of women in this world Kiss Me Cait, and you are neither of them.”