Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Ben Wyder Sings the Blues by Angela Lam Turpin (romantic story to read TXT) 📖
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want to walk up to her, nibble her ear, tell her I love her. But she struts away when she sees me with only a half-hearted smile flung in my direction.
I pause, staring at the space her body occupied just moments ago. The distance I have placed between Ben and Joshua these last five years starts to fade until there is no space between Ben and Joshua. It’s just me, and I know it.
Thankfully, the week ends. My return to the mattress store is greeted with hugs and hurrahs from the staff who have missed me.
By mid-morning, a couple enters the store, inquiring about a waterbed. The woman looks familiar, but I don’t know her name. I lead the couple to the back of the showroom and offer them three styles to select from. The man lies down on the first bed and closes his eyes, pretending to sleep. The woman sits down on the edge of the bed and presses her palm against the mattress. Soft waves undulate across the bed, rippling underneath the man who pretends to sleep. The woman looks at me then looks at the mattress then looks at me again. This time she frowns. “Aren’t you the guy at Charlie’s? The one who sings the blues."
For the first time in a long while, I don’t know what to say. The woman shakes her husband’s arm. “Steve, isn’t he the guy from the club? Ben Milder?”
The husband squints at me, then at my name tag. “Says he’s Joshua, not Ben, honey. Sure you’re not thinking of someone else?”
“No, I swear it’s him.” She gazes up at me with rapt attention. “Do you sing?”
I don’t want to disappoint her, but I also don’t want to sing. Not right here, right now, in the back of the showroom. I want to finish my day, change my clothes in the green room, warm up with a few Do-Rey-Mees before breaking into song. So I tell her. The truth.
“You’re right, it’s me. Ben Wyder. By day, I sell mattresses. By night, I sing the blues.”
“Ben, oh, Ben!” The woman clasps her hands and tosses her head back. “I knew it was you! I’ve been dreaming about you every night since you sang that song, ‘Lowering the Sky.’ It’s my absolute favorite of all time. When will you be singing again?”
“Tonight, same time, same place.”
“Oh, did you hear that, Steve? We’re going to have to see Ben sing at Charlie’s again. Do you think we can get a sitter?”
“Why don’t we talk about it later, okay? I thought we were picking out a waterbed.”
When they are gone, I slip into the employees’ lounge for my ten minute break. The broken vending machine has been replaced with a bright, shiny new model with sliding doors stuffed with sandwiches and tomato juice and apples. The hard vinyl chairs have been stacked in a corner and a new couch sits squarely in the center of the room. Even the flickering fluorescent light has been changed.
I hunker down on the arm of the couch and light a cigarette. Sammy saunters into the lounge, drops three quarters into the vending machine, slides the door back, and removes a Washington apple. He hums a few bars to himself. I don’t recognize what he’s singing.
Becky slips inside, already holding a paper cup full of espresso, and leans over to kiss my cheek. “I’m leaving for Worley’s Fabrics in two weeks,” she confides. “As their accounting executive.”
“Congratulations,” I say, extending my hand.
She fluffs my hair and smiles. “I’ll miss you, Josh.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll make better friends.”
By the time my break ends, I realize too much has changed in the week I’ve been gone. It seems like a different place in a different time. Or maybe I’m just a different person.
Back in the showroom, Clarissa winks. “How was Cancun? Meet any beautiful natives?”
I shrug, thinking of Glenda, how she seemed as foreign as the white sand under my bare feet. “I’m not really lucky.”
Clarissa stops. She’s paying attention. She looks up at me and says, slowly, so I can hear her correctly. “You don’t need luck, Josh. You are luck. How else do you think we’ve been able to make all these improvements while you were away? The parent company paid us a huge bonus, thanks to your record-breaking sales.”
Luck, where were you last week? I think, remembering Glenda and how I made a fool of myself on the beach.
That night, I am scheduled to sing at Charlie’s. Two hours before the show, I run the new song by the band, but it doesn’t play right, so we decide to save it for practice next week. We go over the song list and tune our instruments in front of the mikes.
An hour before show time, Lonnie lumbers into the club and smothers me with a big bear hug.
“How’d it go?” he asks. “Any luck with the ladies?”
“All except one. A blonde. She got away.”
“There’s a song for that.”
“I know. We’ll be playing it tonight.”
“I hope you don’t mind starting a bit early,” Lonnie says, lowering his voice. “I had to fire the opening act. Crenshaw and the Crew. A bunch of comedians from the bayou.”
I nudge his arm. “No problem, stranger. I have a lot of soul tonight.”
At eight-thirty, I take center stage and introduce myself as Ben Wyder with the Stalwart Hearts Band. Johnny counts to three and the band starts to play.
“The sky is dangerous,” I sing. “Full of diamonds from lost wedding rings. Stones as cold and vacant as the hole you left in me.”
By the time I’m half-way through the song, the lights dim just enough for me to notice a blonde sauntering up to the bar, with one knee bent, her hair cropped close to her ears. When she turns around, lights reflect from her gold-rimmed glasses.
I tell myself it can’t be her, she’s thousands of miles away, in a tropical beach sipping margaritas with Carlos. Not here in Charlie’s Nightclub in New Orleans. Not listening to me, Ben Wyder, sing.
My palms sweat. Beads of moisture dot my forehead. My voice falters. I can’t remember the words.
The blonde by the bar slithers up toward the stage. All I hear is the blood running in my ears.
I don’t know if I’m singing anymore or not. All I know is that it is her, moving around the occupied tables, walking toward me.
Glenda.
“The sky is lowering, coming down on me. Won’t somebody notice?” My voice breaks into a sultry croon, surprising me with its sweet intensity. “The sky is lowering, please rescue me.”
The rest of the first set blurs into a foggy haze of exhilaration. She’s here! She’s here! I want to dance. I want to scream. I want to stop singing the blues and start singing for me.
At the break, I step down from the stage and approach her. “May I get you something from the bar?” I ask.
“Just a diet Coke, no ice.”
She follows me to the bar where I wave away the gin and tonic, no ice, and order a diet Coke, no ice, and a club soda. I want to remember every look, every word, every breath she takes. When our drinks arrive, I raise my glass.
“To the girl I thought I lost,” I say.
She raises her glass. “You never had me,” she corrects. “I had you.”
She’s right, I think.
Our glasses clink. I sip the club soda and feel the bubbles fizz in the back of my throat. I stare into her gold-rimmed glasses and see Ben and Joshua, one man, reflected back to me.
I pause, staring at the space her body occupied just moments ago. The distance I have placed between Ben and Joshua these last five years starts to fade until there is no space between Ben and Joshua. It’s just me, and I know it.
Thankfully, the week ends. My return to the mattress store is greeted with hugs and hurrahs from the staff who have missed me.
By mid-morning, a couple enters the store, inquiring about a waterbed. The woman looks familiar, but I don’t know her name. I lead the couple to the back of the showroom and offer them three styles to select from. The man lies down on the first bed and closes his eyes, pretending to sleep. The woman sits down on the edge of the bed and presses her palm against the mattress. Soft waves undulate across the bed, rippling underneath the man who pretends to sleep. The woman looks at me then looks at the mattress then looks at me again. This time she frowns. “Aren’t you the guy at Charlie’s? The one who sings the blues."
For the first time in a long while, I don’t know what to say. The woman shakes her husband’s arm. “Steve, isn’t he the guy from the club? Ben Milder?”
The husband squints at me, then at my name tag. “Says he’s Joshua, not Ben, honey. Sure you’re not thinking of someone else?”
“No, I swear it’s him.” She gazes up at me with rapt attention. “Do you sing?”
I don’t want to disappoint her, but I also don’t want to sing. Not right here, right now, in the back of the showroom. I want to finish my day, change my clothes in the green room, warm up with a few Do-Rey-Mees before breaking into song. So I tell her. The truth.
“You’re right, it’s me. Ben Wyder. By day, I sell mattresses. By night, I sing the blues.”
“Ben, oh, Ben!” The woman clasps her hands and tosses her head back. “I knew it was you! I’ve been dreaming about you every night since you sang that song, ‘Lowering the Sky.’ It’s my absolute favorite of all time. When will you be singing again?”
“Tonight, same time, same place.”
“Oh, did you hear that, Steve? We’re going to have to see Ben sing at Charlie’s again. Do you think we can get a sitter?”
“Why don’t we talk about it later, okay? I thought we were picking out a waterbed.”
When they are gone, I slip into the employees’ lounge for my ten minute break. The broken vending machine has been replaced with a bright, shiny new model with sliding doors stuffed with sandwiches and tomato juice and apples. The hard vinyl chairs have been stacked in a corner and a new couch sits squarely in the center of the room. Even the flickering fluorescent light has been changed.
I hunker down on the arm of the couch and light a cigarette. Sammy saunters into the lounge, drops three quarters into the vending machine, slides the door back, and removes a Washington apple. He hums a few bars to himself. I don’t recognize what he’s singing.
Becky slips inside, already holding a paper cup full of espresso, and leans over to kiss my cheek. “I’m leaving for Worley’s Fabrics in two weeks,” she confides. “As their accounting executive.”
“Congratulations,” I say, extending my hand.
She fluffs my hair and smiles. “I’ll miss you, Josh.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll make better friends.”
By the time my break ends, I realize too much has changed in the week I’ve been gone. It seems like a different place in a different time. Or maybe I’m just a different person.
Back in the showroom, Clarissa winks. “How was Cancun? Meet any beautiful natives?”
I shrug, thinking of Glenda, how she seemed as foreign as the white sand under my bare feet. “I’m not really lucky.”
Clarissa stops. She’s paying attention. She looks up at me and says, slowly, so I can hear her correctly. “You don’t need luck, Josh. You are luck. How else do you think we’ve been able to make all these improvements while you were away? The parent company paid us a huge bonus, thanks to your record-breaking sales.”
Luck, where were you last week? I think, remembering Glenda and how I made a fool of myself on the beach.
That night, I am scheduled to sing at Charlie’s. Two hours before the show, I run the new song by the band, but it doesn’t play right, so we decide to save it for practice next week. We go over the song list and tune our instruments in front of the mikes.
An hour before show time, Lonnie lumbers into the club and smothers me with a big bear hug.
“How’d it go?” he asks. “Any luck with the ladies?”
“All except one. A blonde. She got away.”
“There’s a song for that.”
“I know. We’ll be playing it tonight.”
“I hope you don’t mind starting a bit early,” Lonnie says, lowering his voice. “I had to fire the opening act. Crenshaw and the Crew. A bunch of comedians from the bayou.”
I nudge his arm. “No problem, stranger. I have a lot of soul tonight.”
At eight-thirty, I take center stage and introduce myself as Ben Wyder with the Stalwart Hearts Band. Johnny counts to three and the band starts to play.
“The sky is dangerous,” I sing. “Full of diamonds from lost wedding rings. Stones as cold and vacant as the hole you left in me.”
By the time I’m half-way through the song, the lights dim just enough for me to notice a blonde sauntering up to the bar, with one knee bent, her hair cropped close to her ears. When she turns around, lights reflect from her gold-rimmed glasses.
I tell myself it can’t be her, she’s thousands of miles away, in a tropical beach sipping margaritas with Carlos. Not here in Charlie’s Nightclub in New Orleans. Not listening to me, Ben Wyder, sing.
My palms sweat. Beads of moisture dot my forehead. My voice falters. I can’t remember the words.
The blonde by the bar slithers up toward the stage. All I hear is the blood running in my ears.
I don’t know if I’m singing anymore or not. All I know is that it is her, moving around the occupied tables, walking toward me.
Glenda.
“The sky is lowering, coming down on me. Won’t somebody notice?” My voice breaks into a sultry croon, surprising me with its sweet intensity. “The sky is lowering, please rescue me.”
The rest of the first set blurs into a foggy haze of exhilaration. She’s here! She’s here! I want to dance. I want to scream. I want to stop singing the blues and start singing for me.
At the break, I step down from the stage and approach her. “May I get you something from the bar?” I ask.
“Just a diet Coke, no ice.”
She follows me to the bar where I wave away the gin and tonic, no ice, and order a diet Coke, no ice, and a club soda. I want to remember every look, every word, every breath she takes. When our drinks arrive, I raise my glass.
“To the girl I thought I lost,” I say.
She raises her glass. “You never had me,” she corrects. “I had you.”
She’s right, I think.
Our glasses clink. I sip the club soda and feel the bubbles fizz in the back of my throat. I stare into her gold-rimmed glasses and see Ben and Joshua, one man, reflected back to me.
###
Publication Date: 07-04-2009
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