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Here’s Purple Jazz by Dreen Lucky
I have so many stories of daring – often incredibly stupid adventures. Some experiences, like the one I share today, are ghostly. Others could have turned me into a ghost. Most of my memories just haunt my peripheral brain in a fuzzy void.
I was raised in chaos and I constantly fight the urge to find comfort there.
Though I don’t know much about the person I used to be, I do recognize the chaotic patterns of my life.
At the time, I was barely 18 and had been living on my own for years. Without kids, roommates, or romantic affiliations, I was free to do as I pleased. I knew I could walk out of an explosion safely.
I could handle anything that wasn’t a genuine conversation about feelings.
Nothing was impossible; I could do anything and everything all by myself. Instead of recognizing my strong independent nature as a trauma response, I took solace in my strength.
I worked hard, paid my bills, and spent a lot of time chasing anything shiny because I was too afraid to follow my dreams.
Following dreams makes you vulnerable and that kind of exposure leads to hurt. It was best to live life vicariously through impulses.
Despite having a schedule, I couldn’t maintain a schedule. My morning routine consisted of snoozing 8,349 alarms. Everything else was up to chance. My alarms usually started at 6 am to ensure I could catch the bus by 9 am.
I lived just outside of downtown St Paul, Minnesota. This apartment was a larger complex right off a main urban street. Some people appeared to cook tires with a flavoring of mothballs, or at least my hallway always smelled that way.
Most of my time was spent stuck in the turbulent waters of my head.
I didn’t see much in the world but I did see my upstairs neighbor, Arkady, regularly.
He had a daily ritual of bringing his plants in and out of his apartment. I called him Jazz man and he called me Purple.
Our conversations felt awkward. There was a huge age gap, language gap, and interest level gap. I was nice to him though; I knew he was trying to learn English from one of the only native speakers in the building; ME.
He seemed lonely. I couldn’t help but didn’t want to be rude. I didn’t know what Jazz was, but I know he talked about it a lot. His Ukrainian accent was thick, so I didn’t understand he was a renowned jazz musician. He was a smart man who could have taught me a lot if I could have heard him.
Unfortunately, his fame was robbed when he was forced to flee persecution in communist Russia in the ’80s.
He attempted to make deeper conversation, but I only understood minimal Ukrainian. It wasn’t very functional.
Everything was made harder by the fact that I was young and not interested in pretty much anything he enjoyed.
I was mainly only interested in getting through the day. I was always nice but quick to leave. I was always in a rush to do whatever it was I usually did.
He starts almost every sentence with, “How you say in American”. Today, Thursday, was no different.
I groan internally as I prepare to translate what he’s trying to tell me. He points to the heating fixture under the mailbox. I access the thesaurus part of my brain and announce everything in my sight.
I spit a list of words: heater, mailbox, boxes, entrance, mail, hot, package, and warm.
“That’s it!” he cheers.
Thank goodness, I smile as I slowly creep into my apartment directly below his.
Friday, I saw his sign. “THIS TO WARMLY DON’T PACKAGE HERE.”
I chuckled and joked with friends about it that night. The apartment dwellers were partying or roasting swamp foot over a flaming pile of dog hair, or so the smell indicated.
He was noisier that night than he had ever been before. Awkward stomping and flailing would emerge in weird bursts. I really didn’t care. I didn’t put another thought into it until morning snuck up on me again.
The music emanating from Jazz Man’s apartment was unusual. I ignored it.
I thought about my former insane roommate whose bloodstains never quite came out of the door frame.
This former roommate had a drinking problem. One day he cut himself. He thenfabricated a story about fighting a group of assailants.
I bought him a ticket back to Chicago and he passed away of an overdose shortly after. I remember wondering why death followed me but didn’t put much thought into that either.
Saturday slips away in thought. I remember waking to the sound of knocking from upstairs but I wasn’t interested in doing anything about it.
Sunday I noticed unusual activity outside my apartment.
Police presence kept the residents quieter than normal. This is nothing too out of the ordinary.
Our insane weather can make people want to kill each other occasionally.
I hear a lot of noise coming from my upstairs friend, but I quickly lose interest.
I inadvertently learned what was going on a few hours later
An angry-looking law-man beats at my door until I answer. I step outside as calmly as I can, but I internally panic.
I start to wonder stupid things like: did I accidentally kill a man? Or, do I accidentally have felony-level drugs in my house?
“Ma’am,” He grumbles while eyeing me like a criminal. “I need you to tell me everything you know about Arkady?”
“Who??” I stumble.
“Arkady, the foreign guy who lives upstairs from you.” He says more demanding.
“Is everything ok?” I stammer, relieved I’m not in trouble.
“Ma’am, I’ll ask the questions,” He says in a condescending tone typical of the law. “Can you tell me when you last talked with him? When you last saw him?”
“Uhhh,” I pause as I try to remember details. “I saw him Thursday?”
“You sure about that?” Mr. Law answers, clearly not in love with his job. “Did he appear fine?”
I tell him everything I remember from the week and the officer writes it down. After he gets all the details he finally responds to one of my questions.
“You have your dates wrong ’cause that guy has been dead for at least a week if not more.”
His casual callousness throws me off. My awareness shifts. This was the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. Another untimely, tragic death happened but this one feels different.
I felt an uncomfortable burning feeling in the pit of my sternum. The next morning, I woke with a heavier heart. I didn’t really know this man, but I mourned him. I hoped there was a better place to go where he was happy.
The day delivered thoughts of my mortality and existential crisis.
Around 7 pm the next day, an older tattooed woman
An older, tattooed woman stands outside my door. “My name is Alice. I’m Arkady’s estranged wife.” She starts with a very thick accent. “I’m in charge of his belongings but I want none. Would you take what you can from his house?”
She sees my confusion and continues. “It would help if you took his stuff. I will get charged. He kept everything, everywhere. I spent hours working, please take!”
Curious, I follow her to the upstairs apartment. Arkady had wall-to-wall stuff. His apartment was not disgusting as most hoarders were, it was just covered with things. I knew I had to help.
I hauled stuff until I hurt and hobbled home.
Alice insisted I keep boxes of stuff but I didn’t want it at the time.
I didn’t realize what I had then. There were a lot of secrets hidden in the collection.
When I went through it, I learned a lot about him.
He was talented and recognized for his music abilities.
He didn’t understand slang.
He looked better with old age. He was much older than I thought; he was almost 80.
He was progressive for his age, he believed women should be treated with respect.
He didn’t understand why slavery was a thing. He also didn’t understand why American politicians didn’t share their wealth or why they didn’t work for the people.
He left his country and fame for a better life but regretted it.
I wonder if anyone appreciated him. Did anyone give him a funeral? Was he the last of his friends?
Was there more to his story?
As I asked myself these questions and more, I appreciated the moment more. I recognized people more. With the death of a complete stranger, I was open to interpretation. I did not know how to feel. Mortality is such a convoluted and inevitable topic.
My guilt became the bridge that built my better understanding.
I will never know Arkady, but I will know that we all share the same struggle. Maybe, if we all knew how important we are to each other, we’d live happier lives.
Perhaps, if we lived happier lives, we wouldn’t need trauma to teach us lessons because we would already be listening.
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