Free Solitary Dancer by John Lawrence Reynolds Page B

face the fire, closing his eyes, warming his body and moving it in rhythm, always in rhythm.
    It was five blocks from Grizzly’s back alley place of business to the Flamingo and the knife through McGuire’s head, the one that blurred his vision and tilted the world around him like a slowing down spinning top, carved its way deeper into his skull with every step he took.
    Reaching the base of the fire escape, he ignored the heavy crust of bird droppings that had repelled Tim Fox two mornings ago and gripped the railing to pull himself up step by step to his room, shouldering the door open and walking unsteadily past the bed.
    In the ancient wicker wastebasket next to the toilet he counted five condom wrappers. He dumped them into a plastic garbage bag beneath the sink and washed the guano from his hands. Then, soaking a small towel in cold water and wringing it almost dry, he walked back to the single bed, pulled from the shelf the only hardcover book he owned, a battered copy of
Wild Animals I Have Known
, removed the five ten-dollar bills left between its pages and stuffed them into his pocket. Then he sat on the hard backed chair, holding the cloth against his forehead, its cool dampness almost erotic in the pleasure it gave him.
    When he opened his eyes a few moments later, there was a horse in the room. Small and dapple-gray, standing patiently in the corner. McGuire didn’t look at the animal directly, knowing to do so would make it disappear.
    â€œHello, horse,” he smiled. He rose, steadied himself against the wall, took two steps to the bed and lay upon it, placing the wet cloth across his face and feeling the room turn slowly beneath him.
    It was on the horizon of his mind and approaching slowly, the warm cloud of numbness he craved.
    When you do not wish to feel, you go numb. On your own, if capable. On the wings of a drug, if necessary.
    Waiting for the full effect of the painkiller, he numbered the missing pieces of his life, beginning with the music he loved, the quiet jazz that had once served as the foundation of his sanity and the inspiration of his youth. Gentle rhythms and melodic improvisation, masking passion and intensity. That was the power of it, the way the passion and intensity remained concealed beneath the surface. Without passion and intensity and control, the music was nothing. Miles, Desmond, Zoot, Coltrane, all their intense melodies and phrases had once flown like lovers to McGuire’s soul and made his head nod, his eyes burn, his smile arise like a dawn sun. They were gone, the music and the musicians, and he missed them.
    And Gloria. He missed Gloria, his first wife, dead four years. You’ll be commissioner some day, she told McGuire soon after they were married and he said, No, don’t be silly, I don’t want that, and she said, Then please figure out what you want because until you do you’ll never be truly happy and you’ll make everyone who is a part of your life miserable.
    He lay there, feeling his eyes grow damp, for perhaps thirty minutes until he heard two sets of footsteps climbing the fire escape, one heavy, one light. A girl from the club he figured, freelancing between shifts, leading a nervous morning customer on his way toward thirty minutes of fulfilled fantasy.
    McGuire opened his eyes and the simple action drained weight from his body. Something had happened to his face and he realized he was smiling. The knot at the back of his neck had unravelled and the taut wire rope that had been his spine had fallen away. He watched as he extended his arms above his head, seeing the fingers spread, feeling the damp cloth slide from his face when he sat upright.
    In the tunnels, moving through the runnels of his mind, the warmth of the medication advanced like a gently rising tide.
    He looked around the room. The horse was gone. Once he had seen a small black pig snuffling in the bathroom. And there had been snakes and roads the size of