(no subject)
“Hey, Driscoll.”
Jack Driscoll, presently perusing the titles at his favorite 1999 bookseller, glanced up from one play of interest to regard the face of Donald Wilson, the man whose cocktail party he had attended this weekend. Jack had met Wilson or Will, as he preferred to be called, at a jazz club one evening. They had hit it off, discovering a common interest in the theater arts and a passion for writing plays. Jack had even been to one of Will’s plays, walking away with a very high impression of his friend’s talent. It pained Jack somewhat to know that Will would not be able to see one of his plays, and he was slightly consoled knowing that his friend could see one of his films instead.
Will was a tall black man, as tall as Jack. He reminded Jack of the man they called Hayes on the Venture, with his articulate speech, reverence for the written word, and his manner that commanded respect from everyone.
[In his mind he can hear Jimmy scream as Hayes’ limp body hits the rock and falls. He pushes him back, fires his weapon at the beast, perhaps to protect himself, perhaps to protect them all, perhaps to repay the beast in kind for killing so many good men.
“Yes, Jack, but even the strongest of soldiers are lost in combat,” his father had said.
Later, as they all roused from the slumber induced from a great fall, Jack holds Jimmy as he weeps. Once he, Carl and Ann have departed from the Venture, Jimmy will tell Jack that he’s leaving the sailor business for good, that he’s going to get educated just like Mr. Hayes said. Jack will tell Jimmy that he’ll be at the boy’s service.
He’ll never see Jimmy again. Not in a long while, at least.]
Jack made a small grin. “Hey, Will. What’s up? Got another party going?”
Will chuckled. “No. Just browsing the book store.”
“Yeah? Well, I think I just made a selection.” He held up the book he had picked, a contemporary play about the life of the working class.
“Busy?” Will raised an eyebrow. Jack nodded.
“Yeah. Gotta get in some writing before I go to this lecture tonight.”
Will nodded. “Well, if you aren’t doing anything after the lecture, want to meet me at the club?”
The jazz club, of course. “Sure. I think it ends around 9. See you there, then.”
“See you.”
---
You don’t know what love is
Until you’ve learned the meaning of the blues
Until you've loved a love you've had to lose
You don't know what love is
It was typical, really: dimly lit, veiled with the fog of a room full of cigarettes; circular tables full of intellectuals and cosmopolitan couples; thoughtful men lining the bar, keeping to themselves, letting the music and alcohol soak through their skins and drip into their souls. Jack and Will sat halfway between the door and the stage, where a female singer crooned her way through “You Don’t Know What Love Is.”
You don't know how lips hurt
Until you've kissed and had to pay the cost
Until you've flipped your heart and you have lost
You don't know what love is
Jack watched the singer, the table before him empty, waiting for the drinks to arrive. The only conversation that had transpired between himself and Will had centered on the lecture; then the singer had launched into her song, and Jack fell silent.
Do you know how a lost heart feels
The thought of reminiscing
And how lips that taste of tears
Lose their taste for kissing
As Jack listened, Will watched him intently, taking note of his pensive expression
You don't know how hearts burn
For love that can not live yet never dies
Until you've faced each dawn with sleepless eyes
You don't know what love is
Did Jack know he was nodding his head in agreement and not with the beat?
You don't know how hearts burn
For love that can not live yet never dies
Until you've faced each dawn with sleepless eyes
You don't know what love is...what love is...
“Know something about that?” Will asked, after the song had finished, over the low taps of hands clapping. Jack looked up from his reverie, then down to the table. While Jack had been unknowingly agreeing, he and Will had been served their drinks. Jack picked up his glass of whisky and kicked back some of the liquid, holding the glass just above the table top as he lowered his hand.
“I know that it’s true,” Jack replied, giving Will a sad smile. He looked back at the stage, where the female singer had launched into another song:
There was a boy
A very strange enchanted boy…
“You ever get the feeling that it’s never enough?”
“What?” Will folded his arms, tilted his head curiously, but Jack would never know: he was too busy staring at the singer.
“Just…women. It’s never enough for them, you know? You do all these things for them, even risk your life for them on occasions, and it’s…it’s never enough.” He sighed, and took another gulp of his whisky.
Will shrugged. “You just gotta keep trying.”
“Yeah, but I’m tired of that.” Jack looked Will straight in the eye. “I keep trying and trying and what do I get? Nothing. I get their back, that’s what I get. I’m…tired of it. Tired of it all.”
Will sighed. “You shouldn’t give up so easy.”
“I didn’t. I tried hard, lost some good friends in the process, and…” He looked away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
On stage, the singer continued:
And then one day
A magic day he passed my way
And while we spoke of many things
Fools and kings
This he said to me
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn
Is just to love and be loved in return"
Jack frowned. “And that’s a bunch of bullshit,” he muttered under his breath, and finished off his whisky before abruptly standing up.
“Hey, where are you-”
“Back home. I’m suddenly tired.”
Will looked like he wanted to contest that, but said instead, “Take care, pal. Sleep well.”
“I’ll try to.” Jack paused for a moment, regarding the curious, understanding face of his friend, before he turned and walked out into the night.
Jack Driscoll, presently perusing the titles at his favorite 1999 bookseller, glanced up from one play of interest to regard the face of Donald Wilson, the man whose cocktail party he had attended this weekend. Jack had met Wilson or Will, as he preferred to be called, at a jazz club one evening. They had hit it off, discovering a common interest in the theater arts and a passion for writing plays. Jack had even been to one of Will’s plays, walking away with a very high impression of his friend’s talent. It pained Jack somewhat to know that Will would not be able to see one of his plays, and he was slightly consoled knowing that his friend could see one of his films instead.
Will was a tall black man, as tall as Jack. He reminded Jack of the man they called Hayes on the Venture, with his articulate speech, reverence for the written word, and his manner that commanded respect from everyone.
[In his mind he can hear Jimmy scream as Hayes’ limp body hits the rock and falls. He pushes him back, fires his weapon at the beast, perhaps to protect himself, perhaps to protect them all, perhaps to repay the beast in kind for killing so many good men.
“Yes, Jack, but even the strongest of soldiers are lost in combat,” his father had said.
Later, as they all roused from the slumber induced from a great fall, Jack holds Jimmy as he weeps. Once he, Carl and Ann have departed from the Venture, Jimmy will tell Jack that he’s leaving the sailor business for good, that he’s going to get educated just like Mr. Hayes said. Jack will tell Jimmy that he’ll be at the boy’s service.
He’ll never see Jimmy again. Not in a long while, at least.]
Jack made a small grin. “Hey, Will. What’s up? Got another party going?”
Will chuckled. “No. Just browsing the book store.”
“Yeah? Well, I think I just made a selection.” He held up the book he had picked, a contemporary play about the life of the working class.
“Busy?” Will raised an eyebrow. Jack nodded.
“Yeah. Gotta get in some writing before I go to this lecture tonight.”
Will nodded. “Well, if you aren’t doing anything after the lecture, want to meet me at the club?”
The jazz club, of course. “Sure. I think it ends around 9. See you there, then.”
“See you.”
---
You don’t know what love is
Until you’ve learned the meaning of the blues
Until you've loved a love you've had to lose
You don't know what love is
It was typical, really: dimly lit, veiled with the fog of a room full of cigarettes; circular tables full of intellectuals and cosmopolitan couples; thoughtful men lining the bar, keeping to themselves, letting the music and alcohol soak through their skins and drip into their souls. Jack and Will sat halfway between the door and the stage, where a female singer crooned her way through “You Don’t Know What Love Is.”
You don't know how lips hurt
Until you've kissed and had to pay the cost
Until you've flipped your heart and you have lost
You don't know what love is
Jack watched the singer, the table before him empty, waiting for the drinks to arrive. The only conversation that had transpired between himself and Will had centered on the lecture; then the singer had launched into her song, and Jack fell silent.
Do you know how a lost heart feels
The thought of reminiscing
And how lips that taste of tears
Lose their taste for kissing
As Jack listened, Will watched him intently, taking note of his pensive expression
You don't know how hearts burn
For love that can not live yet never dies
Until you've faced each dawn with sleepless eyes
You don't know what love is
Did Jack know he was nodding his head in agreement and not with the beat?
You don't know how hearts burn
For love that can not live yet never dies
Until you've faced each dawn with sleepless eyes
You don't know what love is...what love is...
“Know something about that?” Will asked, after the song had finished, over the low taps of hands clapping. Jack looked up from his reverie, then down to the table. While Jack had been unknowingly agreeing, he and Will had been served their drinks. Jack picked up his glass of whisky and kicked back some of the liquid, holding the glass just above the table top as he lowered his hand.
“I know that it’s true,” Jack replied, giving Will a sad smile. He looked back at the stage, where the female singer had launched into another song:
There was a boy
A very strange enchanted boy…
“You ever get the feeling that it’s never enough?”
“What?” Will folded his arms, tilted his head curiously, but Jack would never know: he was too busy staring at the singer.
“Just…women. It’s never enough for them, you know? You do all these things for them, even risk your life for them on occasions, and it’s…it’s never enough.” He sighed, and took another gulp of his whisky.
Will shrugged. “You just gotta keep trying.”
“Yeah, but I’m tired of that.” Jack looked Will straight in the eye. “I keep trying and trying and what do I get? Nothing. I get their back, that’s what I get. I’m…tired of it. Tired of it all.”
Will sighed. “You shouldn’t give up so easy.”
“I didn’t. I tried hard, lost some good friends in the process, and…” He looked away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
On stage, the singer continued:
And then one day
A magic day he passed my way
And while we spoke of many things
Fools and kings
This he said to me
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn
Is just to love and be loved in return"
Jack frowned. “And that’s a bunch of bullshit,” he muttered under his breath, and finished off his whisky before abruptly standing up.
“Hey, where are you-”
“Back home. I’m suddenly tired.”
Will looked like he wanted to contest that, but said instead, “Take care, pal. Sleep well.”
“I’ll try to.” Jack paused for a moment, regarding the curious, understanding face of his friend, before he turned and walked out into the night.