MURDER IS MY MUSIC: The Screenplay
Full moon climbing poison ivy reflected in a still puddle in the street, African batiks catatonic store window display, The Five Blind Boys playing at the theater. That cop car idling in front of Nick's Bar & Package Goods is an accurate advertisement. The doorman is a living Mayan statue. Inside, the bartender aims her bare shoulder at me.
A small band plays Duke Ellington, loving him badly, so they end it. The drummer's skinny, drunk girlfriend wears a short, black skirt, black stockings with runs, an imperial nose dividing her face into profiles. She eyes me nervously.
The resident poet introduces himself. Bracing himself on my arm, he tells me that a haiku has seventeen syllables; three lines of five, seven & five. I flunked math in college, I say, Then I jump in his pond, emerging with my coat collar turned up private eye style. I'm wearing my yin yang earring. Last week I had my wisdom teeth extracted.
The band returns to the stage. Now the singer is in drag, a baby doll nightie. Guys, don't try this if you're into fashion, he announces. A man with his tuxedo falling off stumbles backward into the pinball machine, which awards him a replay then tilts.
I'm becoming more invisible by the minute to everyone but the drummer's girlfriend, who snaps her fingers out of time while she tries to catch some light with her diamond ring.
I finish my beer, spin two quarters on the bar & slip out the side door disguised as a poem from a secret lover. I pass two signs telling me I'm traveling the wrong way on a one way street.
The moon is tangled in poison ivy. I'm walking as fast as I can. I walk past the bank & the YMCA, past the diner & Captain John's Bait & Tackle Shop. I walk straight out of town. I walk all the way to the planet Venus over a bridge constructed of my ancient powers.
I turn around & walk back across a patch of clouds floating in the west like an ink wash in a zen painting.
Scene Nine (with rolling credits):
There's no place else to go but home, where I file this report for The Old Man.
© Bob Rixon