So What

There's a new statue of Miles Davis outside Marilyn's Bar in downtown Alton, an old river town twenty miles north of St. Louis. Arlene, me and 300 others were awaiting the reveal on a cool October afternoon. After the dedication, it was time for Arlene to pursue her instincts:

“When was his birthday?”

“May 26, 1926.”

“Five plus two and six, a thirteen—one and three, he's a four. A box has four sides. He's feeling confined.”

A raspy whisper floated through the air. “What’s that, man? I'm not in a box.”

Arlene turned. “Oh, hi Miles. You’re late or we're early.”

“Ghosts are always late. They come so quiet, you never hear them.”

“I love your indigo and turquoise brocade frock and stunna shades.”

Was he here through the miracle of cryopreservation? He didn't smell bad.

Miles raised his ghostly voice. “May 25th, dammit!”

Someone screamed. The crowd fell back. Arlene recalculated. “That's five plus two and five, a twelve—you're a three. I'm a three! We're both threes. Ella’s a three.”

“Ella sings like someone’s standing on her feet.”

“One plus nine plus eight; thirty. A seven of clubs like Bill Clinton. You have a strong sense of creativity and self-expression, a worldly entertainer. When hurt, you retreat into a shell for extended periods.”

“That's right. Sometimes I wake up and I don't know where I am. I don't talk to nobody.”

“You have two fives; lots of five energy. You have issues with your past but you explore the future without fear. 'Five' is an 'f'—flight, fear, fantasy.”

“I haven’t understood a mother-fuckin’ word. I'm a six, a perfect six, and six is the number of the Devil. I have a lot of the devil in me.”

Off came the tarp on the sinewy statue. The crowd was creeping back. Miles lifted his shades. He limped over to the imposing bronze work and glared at Preston Jackson, the sculptor.

Jackson stepped aside: “I didn’t get you right?”

“Who the hell you think you're looking at? I'm five-eight. Does it stand? I always did.”

“Had to balance. 'S' curve. Praxiteles. You dig?”

“No tea, no shade.”

“The drapery is carved with meticulous delicacy,” I added.

Miles stared at Arlene. “That white boy with you?”

“Yeah—”

“I was gonna choke him nice and slow, but now I'll let him go. I didn't come here to rescue him from you. I came here to rescue you from him. Why don't you come back with me?”

“Arlene! Miles is dangerous!”

Her eyes glittered, her breathing loud.

“What’s wrong?”

Her features began to waste; a terrible smile came to her lips. “Don’t touch me,” she said in the most remarkable rumbling low noises.

Miles tapped his cane on the street. “Gotta dip. When I say later, I mean later!”

I reached across the dark space for her former self.

So what.

She was Miles away.