bob_dobalina

dedicated to michelle marie...

there was a time when women would slow their gaze and love him with their eyes. there was once one whose gaze stopped when her eyes met the veins in his neck, who had lined mooch's trousers with silk so that she could touch him when she'd put her hands in his pants, touch him like there was nothing between them but warmth that turned into heat. with six silk handkerchiefs that she bought from a men's store in the valley, she replaced the pockets of three pairs of his pants with luxurious material. whenever they sat down to have whiskey with their chipped ice or beans with their rice, her hand was in his pocket gripping him. she was a hungry girl.
those memories were about all that mooch had left. that and the pants that had needed restitching everywhere but in the pockets. who could have guessed that the softest material was also the strongest? if not for the pants and their secret pockets, the memory of the girl and her needs might have faded along with so many others.
few things meant more to him than his memories. women, drugs, money, friends had all departed from his life now that he was old. but the memories were a frequent visitor, stopping in to spend the afternoon sitting in the sun, laughing or sometimes crying. no moment has as much joy as the story you tell yourself and nothing can make you grieve like pain that you dig up from your own soul.
loneliness and laziness were not afflictions that mooch was burdened with. people would still come by from time to time to smoke a little reefer or share memories, filling in details that only a different perspective can provide. he had his own little spot in the light and was revered by some, bird named a song after him, after all. charlie came from the east through the dry desert and was elated when he met mooch and his oasis of white aitch. miles returned to st. louis to get clean and bird needed a trumpet to go with his alto. mooch was more than able to help bird out with his habit and need for accompaniment.
people still turned out to see mooch blow. the days of central avenue gave way to poverty and hip-hop but mooch had his own engagements in hollywood whenever he felt the urge to play. he couldn't hit the high notes quite as often as he used to but when he did, it really meant something. an afternoon of reminiscing often turned into an evening of extroversion. he couldn't stand all through his sets anymore but would play to the point of exhaustion, often collapsing in a chair behind him after his extended solos. from his perch, he could scan the crowd. not everyone was focused on the music anymore, many were talking with their dates or looking for one. but mooch could still catch the occaisional girl slow her gaze and focus on the veins in his neck.