What Did You Jazz Say?

This short story is an assignment from Start Writing Fiction. I was tasked with writing a 500-word story using the characters I had developed beforehand. The tricky part was that we did not get to choose our own topic; the educators wrote that we should write about the first thing we would hear the moment we opened our radios. I used a website called Radio Garden and searched for a random station. The result? Boracay Radio playing a jazz music.

I could not help but find the irony in all of this. You see, the characters I created are punks (the subculture, not the loose term). They live the lifestyle of a punk: a nonconformist who expresses their ideologies through their fashion, tattoos, and "rebellious" songs. They are regulars in a place I would like to call "Deadpan Pub". As a plan B, I made another character, and his purpose is to kindle a conflict. 

Before you read it, I would like to add that writing a story with the thought of reaching an exact word count was sort of frustrating. I was not able to express myself the way I wanted to, but perhaps it speaks about my lack of conciseness. Sadly, the short story I wrote has 657 words.  

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What Did You Jazz Say?

Colorful, disorderly, and—for the most part—stinking, Deadpan Pub serves as a sanctuary for diehard punks like Eve. It is a relatively plain place at daylight, but its real charm reveals itself at night. A combination of enthralling yellow and red lights permeates the place. The loud and aggressive music is rarely a recording of punk rock songs; ten paces away from the bar is a makeshift platform wherein live band performances are hugely encouraged to perform. They need not bring their own instruments as two electric guitars, a bass guitar, a keyboard, and a worn out drumset are already on the stage, waiting to be used.

I’m home, Eve thinks to herself as she opens the door. The familiar ambiance of the place completely overwhelms her senses in an instant, a moving red light crossing her eyes and the smell of cigarettes twitching her nose. She may stick out like a sore thumb inside plain, same-looking establishments that conform to the modern standards of architecture and interior design, but she is warmly received whenever she comes here, like an important person of a tribe has come back from a long pilgrimage.  

Today is no different, with the exception of bringing Ben. His face is overtly expressing discomfort. This is what you call a party? Several hands pat him on the shoulder as he resists the urge to wipe off his expensive coat. A few handshakes and small chatters later, he and Eve situate themselves at the table where Bill and his friends are sitting.

Bill is known for being confrontational, and when he notices that Ben is deliberately using body language to insult either the place or the people, he measures him up with his eyes.

            

“Give him a break, Bill,” Eve says, detecting the tension. “This here’s a rich kid.”

            

“A rich kid who likes to think that other people are below him just because he has more money,” growled Bill.

            

Ben puts his chest out to hide the fact that he is intimidated. After a gulp, he says, “You… You call that,” he points at the onstage performers, “music? You don’t know real music!”

            

Ben thinks that it is only his imagination, but the place goes silent; the band stops playing, and all eyes stare at him.

            

“What did you just say?” Eve and Bill ask in unison.

“Jazz,” he responds, unable to hide the shaking in his voice. “Saxophones. Smooth vocals. Lighthearted lyrics. Relaxing instruments. Unlike… unlike this one!”

His blabbering is received with a cacophony of deafening laughter; laughter that does not inspire glee nor friendship.

Ben looks pleadingly at Eve. Say something! I’m going to get beaten up here! Stop them.

“Looks like we need to teach someone a lesson,” the man beside Bill says.

Bill nods. “I agree. Don’t worry, kid,” he winks at Ben who is visibly shivering. “We won’t be too rough."

Eve abruptly stands up. “Please, we’ll just leave.” She instinctively puts her arm around Ben’s shoulder. “Don’t do anything to him.”

Laughter booms once again, way louder than its predecessor. Eve and Ben look at each other like as though the explanation to this confusing situation is found within each other’s eyes.

“Told ya, Bill,” the band vocalist says through the microphone. “Sweet li’l Eve likes that Conformist.”

Eve blushes. “What the hell kinda stupid assumption is that!?”

Like a conductor, Bill puts his fists up and the crowd goes back to their own matters. “We’re not going to break his face, Eve. You know we don’t do that.”

“I know…” Eve sighs. “I’m just wo— I just don’t want to feel guilty because I’m the one who brought him here.”

Bill nods knowingly, and Eve shakes her head. Nate does not understand what is going on, but when Bill’s eyes focus on him, he waits patiently for him to speak.

“You dislike our music, Conformist,” Bill asserts. “But does your music speak the truth?” 

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For more information, read all about the punk subculture. It is rather fascinating.

Source:

radio.garden