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“Blue Monday” was a short-listed entry in our recently concluded 70th Short Fiction Contest, and is published with the consent of the author.

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Davidmitcha, CC BY-SA 3.0 , via Wikimedia Commons

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Blue Monday

by Ashlee Trahan

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          …..  Have you ever seen the sunrise over New Orleans? It’s the most beautiful thing you’ll ever see. The city goes to bed at 4am, just in time for those of us who don’t sleep to slip outside for a cigar and a tipple. It’s like a blanket being slowly pulled off the narrow streets, leisurely filling everything with a warm glow. The drunks hiss and scurry into the holes and alleyways of the Quarter, the birds start chirping, and the bells of St. Louis break upon the dew.

        …..  It was a Monday in the fall of 1953. I was in my mid-twenties, and up to no good. I found myself outside of a house of ill-repute on Dumaine, one of those mid-1800s double stacked Creole townhouses. There was a bar on the bottom, and on the top some of the two-bit lounge singers would cozy up with whoever they felt had their pockets lined.

        …..  Fats and I just happened to be around the night before. He had a gig, and I had come by to see him. Fats was a good friend. He was gonna be big, and everyone who knew him knew it. No one could tickle a piano the way he could. He was the definition of a hep cat. Full of talent, with a babyface, slick suits, and that distinct New Orleans swagger and drawl.

        …..  He was a prince-in-waiting for the radio crown.

        …..  I puffed half of my Cuban cigar, snuffing it and sticking the rest in my pocket. I moseyed up the stairs to the balcony. I knocked twice on the first door. Some rustling, and Fats flung open the door and shielded his eyes from the morning light. His trousers were haphazardly pulled on. It was a dank tomb of a chamber behind him. Some dame was laying across the bed facing the wall, still asleep, her barenaked back and dark hair tossed over the white pillow. He put his finger to his lips, grabbed his shirt and spit-shined leather shoes, and we made a break for it.

        …..  “Man, my woman gonna leave me if I don’t get my shit together.”

        …..  “At least you got a woman,” I mused.

        …..  “Sooner or later one’s gonna get their all claws up in you.” Fats smirked in that knowing way of his, “Lordy, I guess I gotta stop on by the house.”

        …..  We had some cab fare between us, but we decided to walk instead. Fats needed to sober up before facing his old lady. So we made our way down to the Lower Ninth. Out of the seediness of the Quarter, into the Marigny, down the Bywater, until the space between buildings started loosening up a bit and the energy of the city gave way to the relative calm of a residential neighborhood. We were finally in our neck of the woods, and arrived on the stoop of Fat’s cottage.

        …..  We gave each other the once-over, but it was no use. I took to not sleeping much far better than my friends. I still managed to look slick and pressed, but Fats was a lost cause. His babyface made it worse, almost compounding his guilt – looking like some kind of child who ate a cookie before having his dinner.

        …..  We knocked. Rosemary opened up. The prettiest Creole woman you ever could see, but her face was painted over with sleeplessness and fury. A musician’s woman to be sure. Antoine Jr. was crying somewhere in the back of the house. She took one look at us, scowled, and slammed the door shut. Fats gave me a sidelong glance.

        …..  “Ain’t that a shame?” He sighed.

        …..  The sound of the lock signaled we weren’t welcome until he or we came back with some kind of offering worthy of her momentary forgiveness. We took a seat on the stoop to collect ourselves. Fat’s beady eyes closed and opened again.

        …..  “I need some food, man.”

        …..  “You think Frank would have something lying around this early in the day?”

        …..  “Why not? Ain’t got nothing for me here right now.” Fats mumbled, glancing back at the door with a sarcastic huff.

        …..  We stood up off the stoop, and started making our way to the Dew Drop.

        …..  Y’all know something about a New Orleans fall? It’s a New Orleans spring, almost a New Orleans summer. The sun gets high up in the sky. If you catch a patch of sidewalk without the shade of a building or a tree, you could start cooking. Here we were, sleepless and hungover, and starting to cook.

        …..  Now is a good time to remind you all that this was New Orleans in 1953, and here was a white man of Cajun descent walking down the street with a black man of Creole descent. We had been friends for so many years that this didn’t phase us. In fact, we had more in common with each other than we had in common with people outside of New Orleans. Every once in a while, with segregation still trying to keep one up on the city at the time, it sure seemed to phase the police to see us mingling. I guess this was one of them days, because as we were moseying back in the direction from which we had come – counting our pocket change to see about getting a taxi – we had a police car roll up to us with his window down.

…..“Morning boys, where abouts are y’all headed?”

…..“The Dew Drop, Officer.”

…..“It’s a bit early for the Dew Drop, no?”

…..We glanced at each other, trying to figure out how to explain we were headed there to appeal to Frank Painia for a free sandwich and a cup of coffee. We were trying to rub two dimes together, when the cop removed his sunglasses, squinting against the sun. He peered at us.

…..“Say, are you Fats Domino?”

…..“Sure am, Officer.”

…..“Man, you can play a mean piano!”

…..“Sure do try, Officer.”

…..The cop leant back in his seat, nodding his head approvingly as if hearing the music in his own ears. He put his sunglasses back on, and touched the bill of his cap. He put both hands on his steering wheel.

…..“Well, you boys be on your way now. Stay out of trouble.”

…..We watched the police car roll out, and then we caught a taxi when we came up on the street crossing. When we rolled up to the Dew Drop, the door was unlocked, so we let ourselves inside. Frank was inside, behind the bar. He must have registered the sight of us. He gave us a nod, slid us a bowl of mixed nuts and put on some coffee.

…..“What brings y’all down this way?” Frank asked.

…..“Troubles with his woman.” I replied, so Fats wouldn’t have to.

…..Frank laughed, and poured us out some coffee. We drank it black, and didn’t mind the heat. The Dew Drop was dim, cool and quiet. The birds chirped outside, sunlight slipped in through the cracks in the roof. It felt different during the day.

…..At night, the place came alive. The tables would be arranged, food and beverage would be flowing. Bodies would be rubbing together on the dancefloor to the sound of live music. People, black and white, mingled together without the eyes of the world upon them. People lost themselves in the music, in the feeling.

…..Fats finished his coffee, and went over to the piano. He cracked his knuckles, and his fingers settled on the keys. And man, he opened his mouth, and the lifestyle came alive. The singing voice, distinct, and harmonious, rose up from the silence of the room and he played.

 

“They call, they call me the fat man

´Cause I weigh 200 pounds:

All the girls they love me

´Cause I know my way around”

 

…..As I listened to him play, arranging to tune this way and that way, skillfully slamming and tickling and playing on the ivory, I thought to myself how I was listening to the real deal. I was no soothsayer, but I knew that my friend was surely going places. I had no great talent myself, but being in the presence of it sure did make you feel some things.

…..One day, I hoped that I would be the kind of man that I was witnessing. Maybe I wouldn’t have a talent for music, or maybe I wouldn’t have a talent for pulling women, maybe I wouldn’t even be remembered – but maybe, just maybe, I’d be the kind of friend that Fats was to me.

…..“Say Fats, Feddie’s got a patch of flowers out back, you should go grab a handful before you head home.” Frank called from the bar.

…..As the cicadas signaled the fall of the late afternoon, we found ourselves moseying up the steps of Fat’s cottage once more. Time flies when you’re in the presence of greatness, and time flies when you’re fucking around.

…..“How I look?” He asked me with a toothy grin.

…..“Like shit.” I smirked.

…..Fats held up the bouquet, and he knocked on the door. It opened. His smile was big and white, his round face youthful and charming. Rosemary looked at him, and then looked at me. There was a pause while the three of us studied each other. She saw the flowers in his hand, half-wilted from the journey home. Her eyes softened, resigned. She accepted the offering.

…..“Y’all hungry?”

…..“Sure ‘nuff, baby.”

…..“And you, Benji?”

…..“I think I’ll stay out here a while, finish my cigar.”

…..She nodded, and letting Fats grab her up in his arms, he kicked the door closed behind them.

…..I took out my matchbook and the remnants of my Cuban cigar. I sat on the stoop, and lit her up. The sounds of families winding down for the evening echoed softly through the Lower Ninth. I could hear Fat’s laugh bellow from inside the house, full and hearty.

…..Have you ever seen the sunset over New Orleans? The waning of the reds into the oranges and golds, until the sky comes down on a blue Monday? It’s the most beautiful thing you’ll ever see.

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Ashlee  Trahan  is a multimedia artist and écrivaine from the swamps of South Louisiana. Ashlee is the author of the poetry compilation  Anthologie du Sexe, and most recently a finalist for the 2025 Southern Screen Writing Challenge. When she’s not exploring new vistas, or reading her nonsense out loud to her cats, you can probably find her discussing her latest read on her bookstagram @lola_loves_reading.

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War. Remembrance. Walls. The High Price of Authoritarianism – by editor/publisher Joe Maita

“The Sound of Becoming,” J.C. Michaels’ winning story in the 70th Jerry Jazz Musician Short Fiction Contest

Click here to read more short fiction published on Jerry Jazz Musician

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Click here for details about the upcoming 71^st Jerry Jazz Musician Short Fiction Contest

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Jerry Jazz Musician…human produced since 1999

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