Page 6 of Mr. Not Nice Guy

I perceive a bit of whispered conversation between Brennan and Liza, so I click on one of the videos just to drown out the sound of them murmuring and kissing each other.

“So, what do you think, August?” Liza says after a minute or so. “Want to meet us there around eight?”

I study the screen as though I’m extremely focused on the non-unicorn on the screen, and then turn to her with yet another pleasant smile.

No, Liza, I actually don’t want to fucking meet you guys there at eight.

“Sure,” I say cordially. “Eight would be great.”

* * *

Scarlett

Sittingat a small card table next to the one living room window in our tiny apartment, Maw-Maw sifts through a pile of puzzle pieces before picking one up and inspecting it through her reading glasses. After peering at it for an extended beat, she drifts her gaze to the assembled edge of the puzzle, and then presses the piece deftly into place.

A quick smile tugs the corners of my mouth as she returns her knobby, weathered hand to sift through the pile again.

Maw-Maw has been working on the puzzle all afternoon and into the evening, so I know her state of mind is stable enough for me to leave her by herself to go to work. Her disoriented episodes have been increasing over the past couple of months, but she’s still mostly functional. That said, her slow decline has been consistent enough that I know I’m going to have to get some help soon. Which means I need to hustle every single night while I still can. Which means another show tonight. Which means, for the time being at least, the dream is still alive.

If I have to, I’ll give up the dream and get a regular job, but for now, I’m going to bust ass to try to have it all.

Take care of Maw-Maw by earning a living as a legit local New Orleans jazz musician.

This city was built by peoplejust like me.If they can do it, so can I.

I cross the small living room to rub her frail back and kiss her head. “I’m going to do a show, Maw-Maw. You feel good about staying alone for a couple of hours?”

She absently flits her rickety fingers. “‘Course,cher. Go on with you.”

I smile again as I lean down lower to hug her slight shoulders. “Love you.”

She carefully sets down a puzzle piece to reach up and stroke a strand of my hair. “Sure do like this color on you,cher. Like Carnival on your head.”

I laugh lightly despite the pang in my chest. Every day she says that, and every day it’s a reminder of her deteriorating mind. She was so devastated after being diagnosed with the early stages of Lewy Body Dementia three years ago that I threw us a Mardi Gras party despite it being November. I found us an out-of-season King Cake, gathered a bag full of tourist beads from the Quarter, spent an entire day making glittery, gold Zulu coconuts, and then bleached and dyed my damn hair to make it look like a royal purple flag of the French Quarter. I even broke out the trumpet, despite not being as proficient at it as I am at the piano. But, then again, we don’thavea real piano. I’ve only got a small, cheap electronic stage piano that I managed to find at a pawn shop six years ago. And the electronic keyboard doesn’t belong at an impromptu Mardi Gras party for two, so I dusted off the trumpet and filled the apartment with old brass band standards.

Maw-Maw loved every last second of it, and now my hair stays purple to anchor her in the happiness and familiarity of our hometown’s most iconic tradition.

“Well, maybe we should do yours to match.” I stroke her thin, silver waves. “Wouldn’t even have to strip your color first. It’d lookbitchin’.”

She heaves a rusty chuckle and pats my cheek. “Better leave thebitchin’ color to you. I’m too old,cher.”

“No, you’renoo-oot…” I sing-song, smoothing her hair again before stepping away to pick up my bag that’s got one of Maw-Maw’s vintage gowns from her days as a headlining singer with the USO stuffed in it and ready for the show. I always wear her old clothes. One, because they’re stillstunningand so unique. Two, because we’re flat broke. Three, I have to remember mywhywhen things are rough out there. “And one of these days, we’re gonna do it, Maw-Maw, just you watch.”

She chuckles again and shoos me. “Go on now, you. Get on outta here.”

I blow her a kiss as I pull open the door. “I’ll be back soon.

* * *

“I don’t hear y’all!”I call at the small crowd, my lips brushing the mic poised above the vintage piano while I tickle my fingers up and down the ivories. “Gonna have to be louder than that!”

“I hear you, baby!” some guy hollers from the back of the tiny club, “I see you, too!”

A wolf-whistle cracks above the trilling, plinking piano strings, and I cut my eyes across the club to make bedroom eyes at nobody in particular. After all,sexysells, and I need these drunk dudes to fill up my damn tip jar.

In an effort to rev these people up to the point of tossing their cash in my jar, I transition the original song into an old New Orleans brass band standard.

“Oooh bah lay!”I hoot, slamming the keys in an upbeat staccato, while the bass drum pounds from the back of the stage.

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