“He’s a clown.”

But Irwin’s words couldn’t cut the clamor, the hundred mashed-up voices, the heat the smoke the bass and the funk, the song and the singer, the cigarettes the booze the blur and the blues. The bar killed the words, dead in his mouth.

“What?” said Will.

The beat shook spirals in Irwin’s scotch … his sixth.

“A clown, man. A sad clown,” howled Irwin.

But Will shook his head.

They sat at the corner table closest to the stage at University West on 116th Street in Manhattan, a bi-leveled college bar mostly packed with students from the Ivy League school that stood across the street. At the street level the bar was  all brown, a spectacle of wood and brass. The booths were wood and the bar was a wood and brass island where everyone packed tight against it to wave their arms, hold up twenties and say “me, I’m next” to the pretty bar maidens.

Some might say the Upper West Side address, the Ivy League school across the street, made University West a classier college bar, but they’re wrong. Like all college bars it was a place to drink and, if all goes right, to find someone willing to fuck later that night in city dorms or homely Harlem apartments. But University west had history, long before 2001 when bar music was a meatloaf of one-hit wonders. Once the famous Beat poets Irwin loved sat in those same wooden booths and wrote of life and sex in unlined notebooks while jazz bopped off the walls and beer flowed or Scotch whisky overtopped their glasses. Though after the poetry ended, they were just another gang looking to get laid at a bar.

Irwin and Will were below ground, where the walls, the tables, the chairs, the stage were all black. Down there bands raged while students danced and spilled their beer on the floor. It was party chaos, and they sat at the table closest to the stage.

“I’m telling you Will, it was weird. This guy, this clown. He wore this … trench coat, all ripped up, pockets full. One of those round hats, you know, like the ones the old-time cats used to wear. Oh, big shoes too, but not those funky-colored clown shoes, you know man. They were ordinary, brown wingtips, just at least six sizes too big, or something. I don’t know. But, man, his face –”

“What?” said Will.

The boom, the bass and the singer, a red-faced, freckled woman dressed in a tight, yellow plastic jumper and a big purple afro, all swayed Irwin. The music was strong, the groove tight, and Irwin should have shut up, poured out that unnecessary sixth scotch and enjoyed the old Marvin Gaye song the young musicians played with a new, more urgent sense of soul. But Irwin only thought of the clown, of the noise … and of steadying his twirling head.

The scotch was Irwin’s sixth drink at University West but not his sixth drink of the night. Hours before he and Will started out with a seven-dollar bottle of vodka, and took turns shooting the Russian gasoline while listening to Coltrane’s Sun Ship in Irwin’s dorm room. Irwin cranked the music so loud that the guy across the hall, a student at the Ivy League school who had traveled to New York from Denmark, threatened to break the damn stereo if Irwin didn’t leave. So they did, off to University West to listen to funk and keep the buzz alive.

“His face! It was painted. All white, black around the eyes. The little triangles on his cheeks. But man, it was the frown he painted. The brightest damn red you’ve ever seen, and liquid looking too. He kept the lips white. It was crazy. This sad-faced clown. Oh, and he had on black gloves that had the fingers cut off, you know. You could see his tips.”

“ … Yeah, man,” said Will.

There are not many people who, after drinking as much as Irwin did that night, would still have the necessary motor function in their lips to construct a sentence. But typical slurred speech and heavy lethargy didn’t afflict Irwin when he was drunk. Instead, the more Irwin drank the more wired he became. His eyes blew open, pupils dilated and swirled back and forth and up, down, in a circle, like he was dreaming. His hands twitched. His fingers bent and opened, bent and opened like he was playing his horn or pointing everywhere. He leaned back and forth like a metronome. Another friend of his, Sally, once gave him the nickname “google-eyed Irwin,” to describe his uber-boozed persona. It captured well the crazy, wobbly, electric Hyde that Irwin became.

Irwin’s google-eyes spied a lithe brunette as she danced in the opposite corner. But the sad clown was the only character he could focus on.

“Yeah man, it’s so he can play his horn.”

“What?” said Will.

“He wasn’t just hanging out in the park, making balloon animals or riding a tricycle. He was there to play. He had this brown leather gig bag, and – a Mark VI. The clown had a Mark VI, the best sax you can get and the clown’s got it on his shoulder. So I grabbed a seat under a tree … so I could listen. Wait, listen, you gotta hear this.”

“Yeah man,” said Will, as he stared at the curvy brunette and kept the band’s beat with his head.

“Dude, it was incredible, check it out. He starts playing this minor blues-type thing, ripping these killer lines, and he keeps landing on the low b-flat, like BOOM then killer blues licks, then BOOM and back to these blues lines … but after each BOOM he’d add a few more color tones to the lick, changing the feel from minor to half-diminished and then it shifted to this augmented riff and then to some other colorful line until the whole key that he started in seemed … gone. But still, it was the BOOM b-flat, still there, still the power of the thing, but its relationship to the harmony of the piece had changed. It was like everything around that tone fought it and … embraced it at the same time. And he didn’t stop. That b-flat just BOOM and the colors just swirling. And somehow, he just falls back into b-flat major … and then he blew this serenity, this winding down riff that just painted this peace on you. And man. It was huge, it opened my eyes. It’s what I want, what I want to find. I never felt so close to a song before and–”

“Dude, I’m sorry,” said Will. He leaned into Irwin’s ear. “I see you’re excited about something but I can’t hear you. It’s just too loud in here.

Irwin shot his scotch.

Then his eyes grew extra googly, extra wide, and if you looked at him you’d swear that the purest malice flickered on and off behind that glance. Pure pupil, no color. And you’d keep an eye on that devil, knowing that something sour was soon to erupt from him.

I heard it, his pang. Imagine the effort it took, drunk as he was, to feel so inspired by a saxophone playing clown. Imagine it, the roar, the band, the bar, the warbles, echoes and dizziness, all conspired to blurry this one sight, this one scene that touched him. Imagine that kick, when an alcohol inflated dream was popped, when Irwin felt his song die in his mouth. And imagine how over-the-top drunk Irwin was, so blotto that he couldn’t suffer a tiny interruption to a thought that could only be that precious to him.

Indeed, he looked to be plotting something much more than wrong, but in his head there was no plan. Instead, where you’d expect to find the list, the premeditation and the decision … where you’d expect to hear my little voice in battle with a very bad idea … there was music. And it wasn’t the funky band. It was more like a stampede, like Shostakovich’s Seventh, one … and two two, from tubas and bells and horns, while clarinets trilled and snares snapped time. The motive, resolute and repetitive grew louder.

You’ll regret this Irwin.

He stood up.

“What are you? … C’mon, sit, man,” said Will.

But Irwin couldn’t hear him. It was too loud.

He leaned over the table and spun out from his chair before standing. Irwin google-eyed the stage, saw the afro on the singer’s head, the flashing sticks of the tight drummer. Then he stared through the crowd with those rash eyes. A small woman noticed, saw that something wasn’t right in Irwin’s head, and she danced out of his way.

He moved, tripped, ricocheted off of each dancer, and opened and closed his hands as he bounced from shoulder to shoulder.

I tried so very hard to get through to him, to cut the music, to diffuse his menacing motives. I tried to make him see what would happen, to bring a little sense to his deranged song. This is wrong Irwin, that would be rude Irwin, this will only turn out bad. But one … and two two ruled, the orchestra in Irwin’s head, and sense was exiled.

Who am I? I’m Irwin … but only half of him. If you called me his guardian angel I’d only apologize for the piss poor job I’d done so far. There’s no halo on my head, no wings on my back. I’m just Irwin.

I’m not plugged into any heavens, nor am I a messenger between an almighty God and Irwin. I’ve no idea about Alpha and Omega. Call me Zed. I’m nothing but a sense.

I am good, though, I know that to be true. I’m everything Irwin has come to know as right. As he is only nineteen, I am too. He lives, I live. He learns, I learn. I’m both egos and the id. I’m wise and I’m always right as far as Irwin is concerned. When sees what his right, it is because I reminded him of it. Call me third person interactive, or first person omniscient. I live the story and watch it from far away at the same time.

I affect the story too, when I’m listened to. Essence, kindness, truth, compassion, jurisprudence, karma, desire and spirit, that’s me. I’m true Irwin, the voice in his head. And I guard him only as well as he guards himself.

Like Irwin I live for jazz, for beauty, for ideals and hope, but I never run astray. When Irwin despairs I turn on the light, and when he makes a bad decision I learn too, so that next time, and there is always a next time, I can sing to him the lesson in the memory.

I am Irwin without time, without flesh, without motion. The imprint he wants to leave behind, and the tool that can help him do so. But without flesh of my own, I’m essentially powerless if Irwin chooses to ignore me.

Because all I can do is dream Irwin’s life.

He lives it.

And Irwin was definitely living it without me as he bounced his way to the foot of the stage, and climbed onto the platform.

Back at the table, Will stood up, and watched.

The singer sang with her eyes closed so it took a few moments for her to realize that Irwin was there. The guitarist, the bassist, drummer and keyboardist each smiled at Irwin before the bassist laughed and mouthed ‘Yeah man.’ The crowd started to cheer and whistle, and Irwin stood as close as he could to the shut-eyed singer and pointed his google eyes at her. She’d shut her eyes tighter, so she never saw Irwin coming.

Maybe she thought the sudden crescendo in the crowd was for her, and she dug in, wailed high tones, rich blues, soul and rhythm. And she danced harder, bent her knees deeper, shook her wild body … and bumped into Irwin.

She stopped singing when she caught the chaos in Irwin’s eyes. His hands opened, fingers pointed, and his body swayed back and forth. It almost looked like he was dancing to the music.

“Give him the mic, he wants to sing,” the keyboard player shouted to the singer.

“What?” she screamed back. It was picked up in the microphone and the crowd laughed a little and cheered louder for wobbling Irwin.

”Give him the mic.”

She did.

Irwin began to sway even more. That last quick shot of scotch was exploding inside of him. And I tried to get him to see the drummer’s smile, the guitarist’s sincere nodding of his head. If Irwin wasn’t going to listen to me at least he could feel the music, perhaps feel some respect for this honest band. Just give the mic back Irwin.

But in Irwin’s mind that Shostakovich motive lingered, one … and two two, deep tuba, flutes and trills and tensions and clacking snares.

“Sing, man.”

Will started to laugh.

Irwin pulled the microphone close to his lips, his head tilted into it. He stared at the singer. The crowd cheered, the keyboardist played glissandos, the drummer beat hard time, clacking the snare … and then Irwin spoke.

“Why don’t you motherfuckers shut the fuck up I’m trying to talk to my friend?”

…

I failed.

Will mouthed “Oh … fuck,” under his breath.

The whistles cut off, the noise cut in half. The keyboardist and guitarist stopped playing but the bassist and the drummer kept on going. It didn’t look like they’d made out what Irwin said.

At least a quarter of the crowd gasped, their mouths open. Heads shook, howls grew angrier. Irwin kept the mic close to his lips and swayed like a snapped guitar string hanging from the neck.

In the back of the bar a few guys yelled towards the exit, and pointed to Irwin, the drunk idiot on the stage. Two massive bouncers waddled through the door and divided the crowd like plow. When Will saw them coming he jumped around the table and pushed his way to the stage. He got there first.

Irwin remained on stage, rocking back and forth. He stared down the singer and she shot a fierce look back, a devastated look, yet there was nothing behind Irwin’s google eyes, no regret at all. The singer hurt, I saw it, everyone else in the crowd saw it, and the howls and boos boomed louder.

“Irwin, hey Irwin,” said Will, grabbing his drunk friend. “C’mon man. It’s time to go.” Will looked at the singer and said, “I’m … sorry, he’s drunk.”

She turned around.

Irwin placed the mic back in its stand while the drummer and bassist kept playing the beat and the bass line, perhaps trying to keep the scene from turning into a lynching. The guitarist yelled “asshole” at Irwin.

“Come on man, we have to go,” said Will.

Irwin stepped off of the stage.

The bouncers burst through the last layer of the crowd and grabbed Irwin by the arm. “It’s cool,” said Will. “We’re leaving.”

“Yes, you are,” said the taller of the bouncers. “Your friend’s a real fuck,” said the shorter.

“He’s just wasted,” answered Will.

“No excuse.”

And the three of them carried Irwin upstairs and outside into the cold December night. That scene was done, the curtain fallen on the black hall below the bar, and I never even made an appearance. I was useless.

Will ran back inside to grab Irwin’s coat.

In Irwin’s mind the symphony faded. The cheers from University West echoed down Broadway. Blurry streaks of red chased cabs down the street and the moon swayed over Irwin’s head.

It was early yet.