Free Jazz Moon by Joe Okonkwo

masculinity. There were men who moved firmly and with purpose, big arms swinging and big, brute backs casting shadows on the sidewalk, their broad, solid backsides taking command of the space. Men with virile faces, engraved with hard, flinty edges. Dapper men, godly with confidence, who grandstanded their way up and down the avenues, brandishing slick suits and two-toned shoes. Working men, tired and tireless, the veins in their arms and necks as thick as pipes. Dark-chocolate men. Café au lait men. Blue-black men. Men the color of caramel or red earth or tea. Ben would dream about the eclectic variety and wake up aroused. Exiled to the living room sofa and unobstructed by a wife’s objections, he relieved himself in private, guilty pleasure.
    Rise. Write. Work. Walk. Sleep.
    The poems poured out and the rejections from publishers piled up. He persevered because writing was all he had. That and his expeditions through Harlem, which led him one night to 142nd Street and Lenox Avenue: The Cotton Club. The marquee—so ablaze it lit the entire block—proclaimed that Fletcher Henderson and his orchestra were starring. A doorman stood curbside as taxis and Daimlers and Stutzes cruised to the curb, dropping off merry whites in tuxes, flapper dresses, gowns, even furs, though it was only October. Jazz bopped out of the club and into the street. Ben watched the parade from across the street. Out of one taxi stepped a figure he recognized. Mr. Kittredge dazzled with his self-assured flair. He appraised the surroundings, smiling his approval, imparting faultless elegance in his top hat, tails, and spats. A much younger man also stepped out of the cab. Mr. Kittredge touched, just briefly, the small of the younger man’s back as he ushered him into the club.
    Next day, the same young man joined Mr. Kittredge at breakfast. Ben watched as they talked and laughed, hands brushing a moment here, a second or two there. Their cheeks nearly grazed as they leaned in to each other and the young man confided something in Kittredge’s ear with an intimacy that Ben would never share with him. He looked Ben’s age with oil-black hair, skin as smooth as cream and almost as white.
    â€œGood morning, Benjamin. Allow me to introduce my friend, David-Nicholas.” Mr. Kittredge’s eyes never left the young man.
    Ben nodded. “Pleased to meet you. You from England?”
    David-Nicholas glanced at Kittredge, amused. “No,” he said. “The Upper East Side. You?”
    â€œHarlem.”
    â€œWe were there just last night, weren’t we, Geoffrey?”
    Kittredge gave the young man’s arm a pat that looked as though it aspired to a caress. “That we were. The Cotton Club.”
    â€œIt was swell!” David-Nicholas said. “The waiters danced as they delivered the food! You must go there all the time, since you live in Harlem.”
    Mr. Kittredge fidgeted.
    â€œCotton Club don’t allow colored,” Ben said. He debated with himself, then added, “Except to work onstage or wait tables. What can I get you gentlemen this morning?”
    Later, Mr. Kittredge said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you: How are you enjoying the Keats?”
    â€œVery much, sir. Thank you.”
    He lied. He had buried the book in the depths of his desk drawer. But that night he dug it out from beneath an old, heavy dictionary, took it to Pigfoot Mary’s Restaurant on the corner of 135th and Lenox, and asked for the most isolated table they had. After a meal of ham hocks, collard greens, and black-eyed peas, he opened the Keats.

    A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

    He hadn’t read those words in years, but they were evergreen.
    Ben had sat against a dogwood tree, Willful’s head in his lap, the last time he