D.C al Fine, by Penelope Amara

 ​      The damp New Orleans streets are aglow with the bright reflections of shop lights and distant laughter. Drunk banter barely cuts into the ringing ears of the young musician as he saunters home once more. Jasper Poignard’s eyes are hardly open, trusting the aimless movements of his tired muscles to take him back to his cold bed. The cheap plastic trombone case holds the night’s earnings, and a couple of coins jingle against the brass instrument, creating a new kind of sound in Jasper’s already pounding head. Rusted metal walls encompass the echoing asphalt and the slow drip, drip, dripping of water distorts the light rippling across where he walks. Not a soul in sight, only Jasper and his concealed shadow bound forward into the hard stone of the Quarter. 

        Time slips away, for the young musician finds himself already at his front steps. The stone stairs are wet from the earlier rain, and he feels the cold water through his already damp socks. He lifts the large rusty key from his loose trousers and opens the groaning apartment door. He slips into frigid sheets and barely sleeps. Jasper sighs at the light seeping through the uncovered windows, signaling the redundant day ahead. Monsieur Poignard begins his morning commute as the city still sleeps, with no onlookers to glare at his dirty blazer, or unkempt hair underneath his ratty hat. No matter the place, no matter the audience, the young musician will play, and play, and play, until he can play no more. Face numb from overuse, lips red and tired, he will push through for just one more coin. 

        Jasper takes the final turn onto Rue de la Levée and halts all movement as he arrives in front of Perlis Clothing. Tuxedos and hats of an extravagant nature, wanted by many but sold sporadically, are displayed in the window. Today, they are calling out to him more than usual. The colors look brighter, the quality stronger, and the sights more beautiful. They are begging Jasper to indulge in their lavish existence. Monsieur Poignard has wanted to simply pluck the fruit and savor the high life, but that is not the reality the young musician has been able to establish. He walks into the pub reluctantly, not feeling alive enough after the few hours of rest he was able to get in the cold apartment. His days are spent there, and his nights are spent alone in the street. The owner is nice enough to keep him fed, and he provides entertainment for those who stop through in exchange. The shifts are long, and he doesn’t make nearly enough, but he’s still alive. That’s plenty for now. 

       When the dark comes once more, he casts his eyes to the sky to see the moon against the reddened sun and frowns deeply. The night seems to be following Jasper, although it is bright as can be. Streetlights are never fully dark here in this city. Life is sucking the darkness right out of it. He leaves the empty pub, thanking the employees for the food, and making his way across the creaky floorboards to the exit. The young musician jolts his gaze back to his framed shadow beneath him on the streetlight-filled sidewalk. He walks to his spot outside, near the street, and crouches down to the dirty ground. Grabbing the 1940 King Liberty trombone that he received during the war out of the plastic shell, he begins his endless set.

        The city awakes to the sounds of cars, small chatter, a babe’s cry, and the low lamenting tones of the young man in front of Perlis Clothing. No one knows the real identity of the young man, only that when you gift him compensation for his piece, he grabs the tip of his ratty hat and nods his thanks humbly. Jasper had played for 6 hours straight, with very few breaks, and a total of 3 coins in his grasp as proof of his conduct. As the sun sets and the young musician feels the siren’s song of sleep calling through the glow of twilight, the sounds of footsteps embrace the path none have walked for hours. Monsieur Poignard catches sight of a man in the most grandiose suit, tie, and hat he has ever seen in front of the tux shop. He chokes on air as the man comes closer, looking down at the ground to hide his visage behind the hat he wears. The man drops a piece of paper into the plastic case without slowing his pace as he gallantly continues down the Rue de la Levée without a word. The young musician, too stunned to even nod his thanks to the flashy stranger, looks to the night’s earnings. He grabs the piece of paper in his calloused, shaky hands and unfolds the gift. A five-dollar bill is in his possession. The young man smiles, laughing so very loudly into the empty, sleeping streets, but there is no need for worry. Not anymore.

        The days begin to seem brighter as the week goes on for Jasper Poignard. The walk to Rue de la Levée is no longer burdensome. There is suddenly a pep in the young musician’s step as he gets ready to play the normally tiresome set. Jasper plays smoother, louder, and with more passion than all of his performances combined, which people seem to notice. First, a young woman with a pair of striking red shoes that keep the rhythm of Jasper’s song halts in front of the young man. The woman simply watches and listens to the sustained notes. She leaves him a quarter. Later, the employees of Perlis Clothing seem to notice the young musician for the very first time in his years of playing. They offer him a warm cup of coffee and a whole dollar. 

        More and more people enjoy Monsieur Poignard’s music as the days pass, and his pockets begin to feel heavier. He waits and waits for the grandiose man to arrive once more, but he doesn’t show his face until a week after his very first visit. Jasper waits longer than usual that day, leaving as the moon shines high above him in the sky. He hears him before he sees him; the fanciest man he’s ever witnessed arrives slower than expected. The man’s face is still hidden behind the brim of his black hat, while his arms seem to be holding tightly around his torso, as if in pain. His legs seem unsteady as he gets closer to the young musician. 

        “Sir, are you alright?” Jasper calls.'
        The man does not answer. Jasper’s frown cuts deep into his skin. The man simply limps up to Jasper and tosses a piece of paper into the plastic trombone case while the young musician begins to protest.
        “Sir, you don’t seem to be in the best shape. Do you need help? I can walk you to the doctor down the street,” Jasper said. 
       The man does not respond, only advances without ever slowing in his pace, and continues down the darkened street of New Orleans. Monsieur Poignard worries for the man, but what would such a lavish gentleman want with a tattered youth who plays his music on the street? Jasper looks within the case to see a fifty-dollar bill stained with red.

         Days pass and Jasper is now worried. The injured man has not returned to Perlis Clothing, nor his performance spot, which leads the young musician to deduce that he is either recovering somewhere safe, or dead. Although worry plagues his poor head, Monsieur Poignard excels at entertaining his audience on the streets as they pass him by. On the week mark after the fancy man’s second visit, Jasper decides to put his new earnings to use. He begins his morning commute lighter than usual, with no case in his hands, just a carefree expression as he experiences the bustling world around him. A day off never existed in the life of Jasper Poignard, not even before the war. Jasper heads in the direction of Perlis Clothing, feet moving faster and faster as he nears the entrance. He abruptly stops in front of the window, giving in to the alluring fabrics, hats, and threads that have been teasing him for years. The young musician opens the doors and savors the high-pitched ring of the bell that sounds as he enters. Two hours later, Jasper Poignard, the poor young musician, exits the store adorned with a brand-new black suit, tie, and hat. No longer will people see him play and scoff, they will revel in the young man as he expels the most beautiful brass tones in all of New Orleans, they will line up at theaters for tickets to finally hear the amazing Jasper Poignard play. Jasper sleeps quite soundly that night.

       The days rapidly pass by as the young musician plays, and plays, and plays. Every morning for two months, Jasper ties up his brand new tie, buttons up his brand new tux, and graces his head with his brand new hat. 

       After a long day of work, Monsieur Poignard breathes in the warm Louisiana air, as he places his earnings for the day into his case. Night comes quickly, although it seems darker than usual with the moon hidden behind the encompassing clouds. Jasper begins to walk, listening to the distant sounds of restaurants and parties, feeling the warm breeze across the tip of his hat and nose.
The night becomes silent as children sleep and parents return home from their night lives. The distant sound of the quarter leaves a deep feeling of melancholy within the young musician. Living here his whole life, losing his two brothers in the war, his younger sister and mother passing away before the little one could even cry for the first time; Their fates have not yet caught up to the last Poignard. The night encompasses the young man, echoing the sweet jingle of coins within his grasp. Jasper’s eyes lift from behind the brim of his brand-new black hat as another form steps in front of him on the street. His eyes widen once more, seeing the glint of metal before feeling the burning heat of pain and blood deep in his gut. 

        Red seeps through the brand-new suit as the young musician’s body trembles in shock. The money-filled case is ripped from his hands as his assailant escapes without a trace. Monsieur Poignard staggers in his place. He falls to the ground in an attempt to calm his breath and gasps out for help in the silent night. Jasper cannot speak. He cannot move his tongue, use air as he has his whole life, and expel tones of sound. He raises his eyes at the distant sound of footsteps to see his own face standing above him. Perlis Clothing merchandise mirrors his very own, height and body shape echoing that of Jasper’s, so familiar yet so foreign; the one difference being the eyes mimicking his own. A deep red lives in those eyes, frightening, bright, foul. The oh-so lavish man that once was, stands in front of Jasper, yet they own the same face. The young musician stares into his very own eyes as his double lifts a bloody five-dollar bill and places it on top of the dying musician’s chest. Jasper watches himself walk away in his very own brand-new black suit, tie, and hat. The young musician looks back to the sky and stares at the moon until he can look no more.

         The murder of Jasper Poignard makes the front pages. His fame as a musician did not last for very long, but his name was known and seen by many, for years and years to come, until his name meant no more. 

​My name is Penny Amara, and I am a senior at Clark University, currently working on a degree in English and Creative Writing! I love writing fiction, poetry, one-act plays, and creative non-fiction flash-pieces. I am one who is extremely involved in the arts, with my hobbies surrounding painting, acting, writing, and music. I am currently working on my debut novel, and am very excited to continue my career in academic and creative writing!