Flash Friday 12/20/2013 An encounter with a wild animal in Flash Friday

The usual fauns were out on the dance floor being circled by chicken hawks and coyotes, feathers and hair slicked back with pomade and the heat of Old Spice pheromones so thick you could hardly see the bandstand. Joe set em up and knocked em down, and if you slipped him a Jackson your drinks would be liberal all night, though if you asked him he’d say he was non-partisan.

I was scoping the competition, a three piece come up out of the Delta, Bass, Banjo and Bari-sax. The fauns freeze in any headlights and the chicken hawks ride the thermals the coyotes don’t give a shit as long as the pack gets a bellyful, but the cats, the cools cats, hung back in the shadows and snapped their fingers. They’d rather die than admit it, but shtick was cool; what the hell was up with the banjo? Hillbilly be-bop.

And yeah, my toe was tapping, and so what? They got gators in the delta; three piece comes with a side of greens. Just saying you don’t see a lot of skinny gators. It’s what brings them so far north. Not competition, but I could use the bassman, mine was looking at a nickel and the shark of a PD was more like a dolphin, and yeah, maybe he’ll balance a ball on his nose but no black robe was going to give him less than six months.

My advice is; you get offered the alpha dog spot of a pack of musicians, turn it down, kneel and offer a paw to the front man. At best you find yourself tapping your hindquarters down at the zoo trying to cull a bassman from the herd, stake like a goat as gator bait. At worst the wolves are at your door demanding both the note and the vig. More headache than heartbeat.

The guy could keep the beat and promenade down the scale, and seeing how there wasn’t anyone to throw a drumstick He’d twirl that stand up every so often, let the jungle know he still had a pulse. A couple of fauns with blue eye shadows were smacking lips with coyotes in shades in the booth behind me. They were smacking to the beat. Good enough for me. I dropped a bill into the tip jar and when the band went out for a smoke I followed em out, blew some smoke up the bassmans ass gave him a card.

He nodded to the other boys, said in the delta they mated for life. I pointed out the circling buzzards and how my card was a carrion cure. When the next set started most of the prey was paired off with their carnivore and the dance floor was all rear presentation and the swishing of tails.

Joe poured me three fingers out of a bottle of brown.

“The cat Swings, Sammy.”

“Don’t be a smartass Joe. I’m gonna pat him down. Might have worked for Johnny Cash but I ain’t playing Folsom. Hell Joe, you can keep a beat. I need a cat who can keep his paws out of other peoples milk.”

Joe poured a finger out of my glass and into his own. “Damn straight I can keep a beat. But me, I got job security; I set em up, I knock em down.”