Bleeding Heart

Lyrics by Elmore James, as performed by Jimi Hendrix. A new music video of this song can be viewed here on YouTube.


The bar, by Queens standards anyways, hardly stood out. Estimable attempts at sleek post-modern décor filled the space to the limit, thrashing any sense of minimalism originally intended by the designers of the individual lucite-and-vinyl barstools or bleach-white booths. But none of the guests seemed to care; eight dollar Heinekens taste the same here as in the hippest hipster stop in Brooklyn.

James - as he now fancied himself - gazed through his preposterously new horn-rimmed glasses clear past all the other patrons. He scratched at his nascent beard and squinted to read the teeny score box on the screen across the room. It was bad news:

NYK 108

SAC 112 F

Knicks loose again, surprise surprise. And to the Kings no less. Bleh. He took a hard swig and finished the first of several whiskey and rocks of the evening. He swiveled around and neatly released the tumbler onto the bar, which would have made a pleasing clinkthud sound if some miserable wretch hadn’t been belting out karaoke at the top of her lungs at that particular moment. She held his attention for a moment, amusingly drunk for this early in the evening but lacking any other sort of appeal. In particular her choice of music ruffled his sensibilities; even if chosen out of irony, Journey is inexcusable at this point.

“Hey buddy, you having some fun?” Matt slapped his back harder than he meant to and yelled directly into his friend’s cochlea. James raised his eyebrows and pulled his cheeks up, screwing his scrabbled features into a very poor poker face. “Aw man, don’t be like that! Look at these chicks! If Christina weren’t around I’d totally hit like half of them!”

“How very Chris Brown of you Matt,” he deadpanned back, then turned to gesticulate wildly in the direction of the overworked and under-clothed bartender for another round.

“Ha, ha, smartass,” he droned, adding a jovial punch at the shoulder. James managed to procure a refill before turning back to his pal.

“You know wha- -eans -eft -lone?” James’ depressive voice didn’t carry enough punch to outmatch the dreadful karaoke, now a heartfelt love ballad to ganja perpetuated by a dreadlocked Caucasian (via Bob Marley).

“What?!” Matt screamed for his friend to repeat.

“Do know what it means to be left alone?!” he screamed, his reddening cheeks hidden behind a wall of chestnut bristles. “My little girl left me,” he muttered to himself, eyes watering.

“Dude, you gotta leave that crap at the door.” He tried to keep positive, but a few weeks into this divorce thing and Matt actually felt exhausted at reenacting the same conversations. He shook his head and again attempted to steer his comrade towards something not depressing. For want of sufficient dialogue to achieve this end, he suggested action. “Look, Christie and Steve and some other people have a table over there. Come join us.”

And so off they went, nearly hand-in-hand, towards a dimly lit booth abutting the stage. An industrial sized speaker loomed directly over the back bench of the booth, which also laid the ignominious claim as closest seat to the bathroom. Matt and Chrissy chatted with Stevie and Emily and another couple James didn’t know. That made him the seventh wheel, a fact not escaping his notice. He pretended to check his phone for messages but really read up on the Knicks game. Melo had turned an ankle and sat out most of the fourth quarter, completely sinking their offense. At least there was an excuse.

He at least put his phone back in his pocket and tried to join in on the conversation, but they all seemed obsessed with discussing ‘Breaking Bad,’ a show for which Mary lacked the stomach. There’s your silver lining, he thought. I can watch whatever violent, disturbing TV shows I want now. Yippee. He made a mental note to add it to his queue. For now though, he had little to nothing to add to the discussion.

With his drink expired, he took his leave of the group (they barely noticed) and meandered back to the bar. There was a spot open next to a supremely petite girl in an equally petite and sparkly black dress. He dropped his elbows on the plushly padded bar rail and ordered another Dewer’s rocks.

“That's a pretty stiff drink you just ordered,” the girl said as she swiveled to get a good look at him. He glanced back, noticing her delicate features and complicated pointy coiffe. She looked as if she hailed from Seoul, but she sounded like she was raised the San Fernando valley.

“Huh? Oh yeah. Good stuff though. Are you into whiskey?”

“That depends,” she replied with her head down and her eyes up.

“On what?”

“Who’s buying of course.” Her over-friendliness and shameless charm should have tipped him off, but his mind drifted elsewhere leaving him disarmed.

“Gotcha,” he said flashing a peace sign to the bartender. She returned with two glasses of deep amber liquor and a duckfaced wink.

“Thanks!” his new acquaintance said with a businesslike nod.

Then she waltzed off without so much as a cheers! and gigglingly rejoined a group of similarly attired and motivated young ladies.

“Yeah no problem. My name is James. Come here often?” he spouted to the empty air in front of him. He tossed back the entire glass of whiskey in one deep draught and slammed the glass down on the bar behind him harder than he intended. A dripping ice shard escaped and landed next to a neighboring patron’s beer. Nobody noticed, especially James.

He scratched at the neck of his depression beard and wandered out deeper into the bar, which had gradually transmuted into a nightclub. Mercifully the amateur guest vocalists had ceased their racket a bit earlier, but the replacement, a thanklessly incessant string of dubstep tracks, achieved only marginal amelioration of the sonic environment. The alcohol kicked in at full swing around then, spurring him onto the dance floor and away from such - if any - thoughts. His body instinctively pounded along with the thundering nonstop eighth-notes of the bass line. He looked preposterous of course, with his retro specs and his awful facial hair and his sweaty unkempt mop flopping atop his head, but disinhibition can be a powerful game.

He lost track of time pretty quick and ran out of energy not long after. His throat protested mightily for a drink of water, which he obtained by cupping his hands at the dingy Men’s room sink. Someone in the lone stall retched noisily, bringing a wave of nausea through the pit of James’s stomach as he lapped up the disappointingly warm water. After splashing a bit on his face and clumsily drying himself with the sleeve of his yellow polo shirt, he exited the washroom feeling considerably worse than he had before he entered. At least he looked marginally better, though this was hardly a consolation as he’d not bothered to assess his reflection.

The music felt outrageously close now and the air pressed damply on his forehead, so he decided to catch a breath of fresh air. The sea of people didn’t part on their own, so James had to wend his way through a tangled horde of dancers and drinkers to reach the outside world. Stepping out into the February air quickly reminded him that his hat, gloves and coat remained nestled in the booth, but he braved it anyways. Goosebumps quickly engulfed his arms and a shiver of protest attempted to dissuade his conscious self from going any further, but the whiskey emboldened him to continue.

He made it about a block before he realized his insanity.

He broke out into a jog to return to the safety of the bar, returning in a huff of cloudy breath and near frozen sweat. The girls with short skirts and heavy jackets hanging out by the door scoffed at him from behind their cigarette smoke. This he pretended to ignore.

The relative warmth of inside welcomed him invitingly as his cheeks ruddied in delighted relief. This relief was short-lived though. It stopped dead in its tracks when he saw her (her!) perched on a high stool at a two-person table near the door.

She looked fantastic.

Mary’s hair spilled down in all of its blown-dry luxuriousness. Deep purple eyeshadow gave her a dangerous edge he’d all but forgotten existed. Her lips blazed radiantly with crimson, and they were engaged in working their precocious magic with an impeccably dressed guy with a chiseled jawline and a meticulously designed mess of blonde atop his head. James flitted away like a hummingbird and bull-rushed his way to his stashed outerwear.

Some other group had long since taken over the coveted booth, so James tried awkwardly to explain the situation. Quickly he gave up verbal communication and simply stabbed his finger repeatedly in the general direction of the coat, and by the time he realized one of the girls at the booth was the very one with the sparkly dress for whom he’d bought a drink (who clearly didn’t recognize him back), he had one arm into the jacket. He sped off towards the door, only after sneering unrepentantly at the disturbingly cute young landy who’d fleeced him. This was ignored in turn with equal vigor.

The crowd had thinned slightly since his last venture, providing less cover for his escape. He actually turned his collar up a little which only served to amplify his conspicuous attempt at going in cognito.

“Jim? Is that you?” he heard, frozen in panic with a hand poised to shove the door open. He craned his head back to see Mary, head tilted quizzically, staring him down. For a moment he considered walking out then and there, but a cadre of new patrons tore the door open and impeded his exit by brushing him aside. He felt far more foolish than he looked.

Deliberately moving his marginally necessary glasses from eyes to breast pocket, James dejectedly walked over to his ex’s table and returned the greeting.

“Hey Jeff, can you give us a minute? We should talk.” Jeff the adonis obliged, graciously leaving the seat warm for Jim to settle in. Disappointingly, the table sat far enough from the speakers that he could hear Mary clear enough.