One evening I just felt my blood stirr and I came up with this, please tell me what you guys think of it.
Blues and Pizza.
A Story by The Great Saiyaman
It’s amazing how much the world changes and yet still remains the same when you return to one particular spot in a town year after year. Not many people see the continuum but it’s there nonetheless.
As I turn the wheel of my metallic blue Opel into the parking lot of this largely forgotten part of town and pull the brakes I see the same things over and over, I hear dogs barking, from one of the clubs comes music and some stray cats are shooting past me as I make my way along those dirty streets.
On my back I carry my weapon of choice, an old Guild Jet-Star which I take along with me every time I come around here. Tonight I’ll once again sit down on a bar stool and play the blues in front of a few bums who are probably too drunk to notice me at all. But that will be reserved for later, first I need to do my yearly visit to the Salvatore.
The Salvatore has always been my favourite place to chow down, the waitresses are pretty and they serve wood stove made pizza, which is becoming a rarity. As I open the door I take my time to inhale that wonderful scent of Italian spices. It’s too bad that I can only visit here once a year, I wouldn’t mind eating here more often.
As I sit down in one of the heavy Oak chairs and grab a hold of the menu card, I take in the surroundings, fake plastic woodwork, copper pots and pans, pictures of Pope John Paul the first, statues of Christ and fake Roman statues. I love this restaurant, kitschy as it might be.
As the waitress takes my order I wonder why I don’t order anything else besides Mushroom soup and a Pizza Funghi, but why change a winning team? From my table I can see the cook flapping the dough of what will eventually become my pizza. I smile in delight, sometimes happiness is a good meal, even if it is for once in a year.
Ah, here comes my soup. I see the lighter shade of white from the cream and the green pieces of parsley floating on top, as I twirl my spoon in it I see the chunks of mushroom floating by. I take a good sniff from that lovely scent while breaking off a piece of the bread that came with the soup, putting on some garlic butter I dip it into the soup and take my first bite.
Aaah… Nothing can give such sweet delight than a well made meal and I’m so lucky that I know where to find it. The soup tastes as good as ever and I give the waitress a friendly smile when she asks me if everything is like I want it to be. Sure it is, I know it’s only once a year but I’ll always get special treatment, at least I think I do.
As the waitress takes away the empty bowl and my pizza makes its way onto my table I see in the waitress’ eyes that she probably feels that something’s odd about me. She probably knows my eyes from somewhere but cannot place them to a specific person. As I take the cutter in my hand and begin to slice my Pizza into six parts, I see her inquisitive look while trying to figure out why my appearance keeps on ringing a bell inside her head.
Maybe she knows the eyes from that punk rocker with the long spiky Mohawk, Or from that serious business woman who had her long black hair in a ponytail. She just can’t figure out where she knows that look from. I can’t say I blame her.
As I take to leave and pay the bill, the waitress is still trying to figure out what’s the deal with me, but she’s polite enough not to ask. As I hand her the money she takes one last look at me before giving up. I wonder if she noticed that every time I come around her place I pay with the exact the same bill as I did the year before.
“Blues Café The Bottleneck”
As I approach the faded neon sign, the scent of puke, piss and beer fill my nose. It is a far cry from the restaurant where I just walked out of but hey this place has just as much bliss as the other. I hear noises from loud music and brawls from inside as I knock on the door. The hatch opens and one of the muggers looks my up and down. I tip my cap and smile at him, his face goes soft and he smiles as he unlocks the door.
The people in this café have long since forgotten my name but they know who I am anyway, they even make wagers to find out what the deal with me is but so far none of them has a clue. As I take the mike and plug my guitar in I see their looks some of them filled with awe, others are simply too drunk.
I sing about love and lust about relationships gone astray, I sing about being chased by the dark one and about death and decay. Between my songs I give little dialogue other than a simple “thank you” for those who care enough to applaud.
The barkeeper brings me a free beer, he always does, in his eyes I see the sadness, he’s probably the only one who really knows who I am and why I’m here even if it’s only once in a year.
As I leave the café I see a traffic officer putting a ticket on my car. I smile at that, little chance that I’ll ever pay that. As he turns away, I open the trunk of my car and place my guitar in it, it is almost time for me to go but there’s one thing left for me to do before I go.
Here was it that it happened, in front of this warehouse, the driver was drunk and probably never saw me at all. This is the only part of the town that changed beyond recognition but I still know every detail on how it used to be, I still see the people, a fat woman with a voice like a chainsaw, a bum sipping from his bottle, a heroin hooker waiting for her man and there I was, walking towards my car with my guitar in my hand.
I still remember vividly how I got behind the wheel and was about to start my engine when all of a sudden I heard this loud noise as I looked up I saw this car racing towards mine. And that’s the last thing I ever saw.
I never was given a proper burial, I was another John Doe and was cremated. Only a few know my real name. I was gone and for most of them forgotten. But once a year I return, return to once again taste that delicious food and to sing inside that smoky heaven that is the Bottleneck blues rock café.
Maybe as to play a little prank on the waitress at the restaurant I tend to appear different each time I come around. I have been a grey haired old hippy, a young teenage girl, a serious Busyness woman, a Punk rocker with a Mohawk, a fat guy, you name it. It is very seldom that I appear with my actual looks. The only give away are my eyes, they tell people who I am regardless of how I look.
I guess you can call me a wandering spirit but I’m glad to be able to return once a year to this one tiny piece of heaven on earth.
As I make my way to my car again, I pick away a tear and sigh in delight, my day has come to an end and as much as I hate it, I have to go again. I see the barkeeper from the café standing on the sidewalk, even from this distance I see his tears, I give him a good smile, cheer up old guy, I’ll be back next year.
As I start my engine and drive off I see the parking ticket fluttering underneath the windshield wiper, soon nothing will hold it there and it will flutter away.
My name has long since forgotten but as I see in my rear view mirror how the barkeeper picks up the ticket from the street I know that as long as I’ll keep returning here each year I’ll never be forgotten.
The end.
Blues and Pizza.
A Story by The Great Saiyaman
It’s amazing how much the world changes and yet still remains the same when you return to one particular spot in a town year after year. Not many people see the continuum but it’s there nonetheless.
As I turn the wheel of my metallic blue Opel into the parking lot of this largely forgotten part of town and pull the brakes I see the same things over and over, I hear dogs barking, from one of the clubs comes music and some stray cats are shooting past me as I make my way along those dirty streets.
On my back I carry my weapon of choice, an old Guild Jet-Star which I take along with me every time I come around here. Tonight I’ll once again sit down on a bar stool and play the blues in front of a few bums who are probably too drunk to notice me at all. But that will be reserved for later, first I need to do my yearly visit to the Salvatore.
The Salvatore has always been my favourite place to chow down, the waitresses are pretty and they serve wood stove made pizza, which is becoming a rarity. As I open the door I take my time to inhale that wonderful scent of Italian spices. It’s too bad that I can only visit here once a year, I wouldn’t mind eating here more often.
As I sit down in one of the heavy Oak chairs and grab a hold of the menu card, I take in the surroundings, fake plastic woodwork, copper pots and pans, pictures of Pope John Paul the first, statues of Christ and fake Roman statues. I love this restaurant, kitschy as it might be.
As the waitress takes my order I wonder why I don’t order anything else besides Mushroom soup and a Pizza Funghi, but why change a winning team? From my table I can see the cook flapping the dough of what will eventually become my pizza. I smile in delight, sometimes happiness is a good meal, even if it is for once in a year.
Ah, here comes my soup. I see the lighter shade of white from the cream and the green pieces of parsley floating on top, as I twirl my spoon in it I see the chunks of mushroom floating by. I take a good sniff from that lovely scent while breaking off a piece of the bread that came with the soup, putting on some garlic butter I dip it into the soup and take my first bite.
Aaah… Nothing can give such sweet delight than a well made meal and I’m so lucky that I know where to find it. The soup tastes as good as ever and I give the waitress a friendly smile when she asks me if everything is like I want it to be. Sure it is, I know it’s only once a year but I’ll always get special treatment, at least I think I do.
As the waitress takes away the empty bowl and my pizza makes its way onto my table I see in the waitress’ eyes that she probably feels that something’s odd about me. She probably knows my eyes from somewhere but cannot place them to a specific person. As I take the cutter in my hand and begin to slice my Pizza into six parts, I see her inquisitive look while trying to figure out why my appearance keeps on ringing a bell inside her head.
Maybe she knows the eyes from that punk rocker with the long spiky Mohawk, Or from that serious business woman who had her long black hair in a ponytail. She just can’t figure out where she knows that look from. I can’t say I blame her.
As I take to leave and pay the bill, the waitress is still trying to figure out what’s the deal with me, but she’s polite enough not to ask. As I hand her the money she takes one last look at me before giving up. I wonder if she noticed that every time I come around her place I pay with the exact the same bill as I did the year before.
“Blues Café The Bottleneck”
As I approach the faded neon sign, the scent of puke, piss and beer fill my nose. It is a far cry from the restaurant where I just walked out of but hey this place has just as much bliss as the other. I hear noises from loud music and brawls from inside as I knock on the door. The hatch opens and one of the muggers looks my up and down. I tip my cap and smile at him, his face goes soft and he smiles as he unlocks the door.
The people in this café have long since forgotten my name but they know who I am anyway, they even make wagers to find out what the deal with me is but so far none of them has a clue. As I take the mike and plug my guitar in I see their looks some of them filled with awe, others are simply too drunk.
I sing about love and lust about relationships gone astray, I sing about being chased by the dark one and about death and decay. Between my songs I give little dialogue other than a simple “thank you” for those who care enough to applaud.
The barkeeper brings me a free beer, he always does, in his eyes I see the sadness, he’s probably the only one who really knows who I am and why I’m here even if it’s only once in a year.
As I leave the café I see a traffic officer putting a ticket on my car. I smile at that, little chance that I’ll ever pay that. As he turns away, I open the trunk of my car and place my guitar in it, it is almost time for me to go but there’s one thing left for me to do before I go.
Here was it that it happened, in front of this warehouse, the driver was drunk and probably never saw me at all. This is the only part of the town that changed beyond recognition but I still know every detail on how it used to be, I still see the people, a fat woman with a voice like a chainsaw, a bum sipping from his bottle, a heroin hooker waiting for her man and there I was, walking towards my car with my guitar in my hand.
I still remember vividly how I got behind the wheel and was about to start my engine when all of a sudden I heard this loud noise as I looked up I saw this car racing towards mine. And that’s the last thing I ever saw.
I never was given a proper burial, I was another John Doe and was cremated. Only a few know my real name. I was gone and for most of them forgotten. But once a year I return, return to once again taste that delicious food and to sing inside that smoky heaven that is the Bottleneck blues rock café.
Maybe as to play a little prank on the waitress at the restaurant I tend to appear different each time I come around. I have been a grey haired old hippy, a young teenage girl, a serious Busyness woman, a Punk rocker with a Mohawk, a fat guy, you name it. It is very seldom that I appear with my actual looks. The only give away are my eyes, they tell people who I am regardless of how I look.
I guess you can call me a wandering spirit but I’m glad to be able to return once a year to this one tiny piece of heaven on earth.
As I make my way to my car again, I pick away a tear and sigh in delight, my day has come to an end and as much as I hate it, I have to go again. I see the barkeeper from the café standing on the sidewalk, even from this distance I see his tears, I give him a good smile, cheer up old guy, I’ll be back next year.
As I start my engine and drive off I see the parking ticket fluttering underneath the windshield wiper, soon nothing will hold it there and it will flutter away.
My name has long since forgotten but as I see in my rear view mirror how the barkeeper picks up the ticket from the street I know that as long as I’ll keep returning here each year I’ll never be forgotten.
The end.
