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BLUES AND DIABETES DON’T MIX
by Kat Georges
halfway out of the womb
I blinked blood back
and saw a piece of paper
covered with odd symbols
between thrusts
my mother cooed
This is your set list, baby.
You start at the top here,
she indicated,
then just perform the songs
in the order written.
Order?
Sounds bad.
I pulled back.
Too late.
Push! screamed the doctor
And she pushed
and he slapped
and they got me
on stage singing
Cryin too C-Sharp
but light-blind
I couldn’t see anything
but the songs on my list
and the easily-placated faces
of fans in the front row
who sang every word with me
feverishly applauding
precision
It was an easy gig
and paid well
Halfway through my set
the house lights flashed
revealing complete chaos
in the rest of the arena.
Order is the charade
of the blind in the light.
I ran to the dark
where anything could happen
knowing only that magic of not
Ran to an LA basement club
where the dark was named
Top Jimmy and the Rhythm Pigs
and the set list didn’t matter
past the first song
but the music did
falling apart then soaring
like life without promise
beyond ability.
Carlos keeps it all together
Bonnie said.
And nobody notices because nobody likes him.
He’s too real.
I introduced myself
drunk after a rugged show
in a Laguna Beach jazz club.
Ten minutes later we were making out
and the next day my mother got nervous
because
Someone named Carlos
keeps calling. He stutters. Who is he?
I shrugged.
One night I went to his apartment
Carlos sat at a small table
stammering on the phone,
his electric blue guitar on his lap,
the t.v. was on,
the radio was on,
the sun was setting.
He gave me a beer and we just sat there
for a while, not knowing what to talk about.
I said,
“Play one of your songs.’
He reached under the table and pulled out
a foot-high stack of hand written sheet music.
After three hours
I left him still playing
promising to see him the next week
at a gig
but I didn’t.
At 3 a.m. my father
picked up the phone to hear
“Kathi and the rest
of the Georges family
are fucked.”
Must have been Carlos
I figured. Guilt.
I moved north to San Fran,
after a few more years of
boredom.
So did Carlos:
he wanted to be near
his daughter.
After six years
our paths crossed again
this time at a bar
South of Market where
he led a jam session on Sundays.
The first break he tells me
“I almost died last year. Diabetes.
Put me in the hospital for six weeks.
You wanna go out tonight?
Gimme your phone number."
He started a band
got some gigs
started drinking
started screaming
at the Blue Light on Geary
fired his band on stage mid-set
next song hired them back
next show fired them again.
The diabetes kicked in,
he almost died again.
No one visited him
at the hospital.
No one knew where he was
then, he was back with a
Tuesday night jam session
at Hanno’s, a little bar in
an alley near Fifth.
First time I showed up
Top Jimmy rolled on stage,
the drummer got pissed
and left with his drums.
Someone else pulled out drumsticks
and started beating a box
then ten people were playing
and the madness flew sideways—
even the bartender looked happy—
and nobody noticed
Carlos held it all together.
But then it was over again.
Three weeks later
the bartender smirked.
“Carlos Guitarlos? We fired his ass.
He should know by now:
Blues and diabetes don’t mix.”
Time disappeared;
a year or three passed.
People died; among them
three R&B legends:
sax man Lee Allen;
Rhythm Pig Gil T
and finally, sadly,
the great belter Top Jimmy.
All of them held court with
Carlos back when the sweat
poured on Blue Mondays at
the Cathay de Grande.
No one said Carlos
was dead. Then again,
no one had seen him
around.
He was gone;
life went on...
missing something
unknown
Then, one fine day,
out of the blues
Carlos reappeared
walking on Sixth Street
guitar case in hand.
He said something dirty
to make me feel young
then bragged in cut time:
without taking a breath:
“I just made forty-five bucks in less
than two hours playing outside the Bart Station
I’m never playing in a bar again.
You get a gig, at a club, you get $250 but
you got to split it four or five ways,
you got to play three sets for six hours
breathing all that cigarette smoke
you end up spending most of what you
make at the bar. On Market Street,
you sit outside in the sun and when
you’re ready to stop, you pack up and go home.”
Now he plays nights on 11th street
sitting on his amp.
People gather on the sidewalk
watching in awe
Nobody knows what it takes
to hold it all together.