Bossa nova Is the Brazilian Man’s Jazz

BY GREGORY DUKE

Bossa nova is the Brazilian man’s jazz, something about those chords, heart cords are always being pulled, pulled back, frayed, taut, guitar chords with male soloists in a chorus, chorus of chords, and yet, and yet, they seem so distant and calm and serene, maybe everyone down in Brazil is just that perpetually tranquil, consistently relaxing, covalently bonded by the pumping blood of their historically informed music, Gershwin rewrote the American songbook, Antônio Carlos Jobim rewrote Brazil’s, Elis & Tom, my friend always listened to that record, record number of listens, said it was a classic, I had never heard of it, but if someone tells me something is a classic there has to be some sort of authority involved, all I heard in my house was the coarseness of Bob Dylan and here I was, having a quick dinner at his place, and we swayed to You make my life so glamorous / You can’t blame me for feeling amorous / Wonderful, marvelous and my heart paced as my feet slipped and his feet tapped as his heart dipped, what does amorous mean, pure poetry, pure art, pure, unabashed Brazilian art, so calming, and his mother walked in and we walked out and the record kept playing, another tally to add, add the next tally, he liked to keep tally, it’s just the old American checks and balances but for music he would say and I would nod because I also took a civics class but I had no idea what he was saying, I never really felt that same way, I never felt my hips sway after his mother walked in, I never felt glamorous amorous marvelous and my feet always slipped and I fell back to Gershwin and Dylan and went home, a web of streets, streets and shortcuts, chords of the city, a chorus of chords.

Why are you spitting at me?

BY GREGORY DUKE

Why are you spitting at me?

I’m not spitting. I’ve never spat. I don’t plan on spitting.

Your saliva is on my shoes. It’s on my face. You spat at me. You just spat.

I didn’t spit. I just told you. I’ve never spat. I don’t plan on spitting.

Then what’s on my face? What’s on my feet?

You just ran out of the rain.

It hasn’t rained in months.

Then why do you have an umbrella?

Because I’m worried about my skin. My family has a history of skin cancer.

Why wouldn’t you bring an umbrella to do both: protect yourself from the sun and the rain?

Because there isn’t any rain. Look outside and tell me it looks like it rained.

It looks like it rained.

Are you blind? There aren’t any clouds. The ground is dry. You could probably get burnt by sitting on the asphalt.

You could still get burnt with the rain falling around you while you sit on the asphalt. That means absolutely nothing to me.

What about the grass? There’s no water on any of it.

It’s called evaporation. Unless you’re not from around here, you have to know that the sun comes out right after a rainstorm and keeps our drought going.

That’s not how that works.

Well, we’re still in a drought.

I’m not talking about the drought.

Then what are you talking about?

You spitting on me.

I thought you said “at” you.

What?

I thought you said that I spat “at” you.

Did I say something different?

You said “on,” that I spat “on” you instead of “at” you.

Is there a difference?

I think so. One means I’m just spitting and it happens to be on you and the other means I’m blatantly attacking you. One seems a bit ruder than the other.

I think you’re reading too much into it.

You wouldn’t be thinking that way if we were in a court of law.

We aren’t in a court of law.

I never said we were.

We’re in a Dairy Queen parking lot.

I never said otherwise. Why are you fixating?

I’m not fixating. We just aren’t in a court of law.

I never said that. It was a hypothetical.

Then don’t talk to me like we’re in a hypothetical.

I didn’t. I haven’t.

How about I go inside and ask my friend whether it rained or not? We can find out that you’re a liar and an idiot and a spitter, which we already knew but now will know with no doubts.

That’s not fair.

What’s not fair about it?

Asking your friend isn’t fair. She knows you and doesn’t know me plus you’re friends so she likes you. I’m a complete stranger. Who do you think she’ll side with?

What are you talking about? The fact that it rained isn’t really something to lie about.

You could say the same thing about me saying that I didn’t spit. It’s stupid to lie about because it’s so obvious to know if I did or didn’t do it.

Well, if it’s so obvious, why are you lying?

I’m not.

You are.

I’m not.

Why are you lying?

Why do you think I’m lying?

Because I have spit on my shoes and face.

No, you don’t.

I do.

Where? Show me.

Well now it’s gone. We’ve been talking enough for it to have sunk into my skin and the shoe fabric.

Then I guess we’re done.

“Hi, sorry for the weird call…”

What are you doing?

“So it has in fact rained today?”

Ugh.

“Thanks. Did you cancel that movie date? We’re on for seven? Cute. I’ll see you then. Sorry again. Bye.” So it rained. Thoughts?

I still call bias.

How?

Because your friends will presumably always side with you. We’ve been through this.

Stop talking like this is some sort of game.

Is it not?

No.

Okay.

What?

I agreed.

What’s wrong with you?

Absolutely nothing.

I’m tired.

Get better sleep then.

This has nothing to do with sleep.

What does it have to do with?

Your spitting.

On or at me this time?

Shut up! Just say you spat at and/or on me and leave me alone.

Well I didn’t, so there’s nothing to say.

Why the hell did you just do it again?

What?

Why are you spitting at me?

I’m not spitting. I’ve never spat. I don’t plan on spitting.

Your saliva is on my shoes. It’s on my face. You spat at me. You just spat.

I didn’t spit. I just told you. I’ve never spat. I don’t plan on spitting.

Mam. Did you see?

See she just walked by because nothing happened.

Mam. Hello? Yes, you. Why are you not listening? Why are you still walking? Hello?

She can’t be bothered.

Shut up. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam. Mam.

She can’t be bothered.

What am I supposed to do?

For what?

To prove to you that I’m right.

What if you aren’t?

I am.

Who says?

Me.

No one else seems to agree, so that must not be true.

You’re the only other person that’s spoken to me. Of course you’ll say I’m wrong.

But I’m right, and you’re wrong.

You’re wrong. I’m right.

Says who?

Me. It doesn’t matter what you say. I know I’m right. I know you spat at me. I know you spat on me. I know you’re spitting on my words. I know you’re spitting on everything that you can without actually spitting on me.

See. I agree. I didn’t do it.

That’s not what I meant.

Then why did you say it?

I didn’t mean to phrase it that way. I meant that you didn’t just spit physically. You also spat without any saliva.

I don’t really see the point when you just said it yourself: I “spit” on everything, which you use as a sort of metaphor for a sort of disrespect that you think I have for you but in reality I have the utmost respect I just feel the need to prove to you that you’re wrong because I’m right and I can’t just let that slip by because you feel the need to call me names and accuse me of things that I haven’t done and continue this ridiculous circle of a conversation for your own gain when you don’t even deserve that gain because you are, to use your own choice of words, spitting on me, you’re spitting at me, you’re spitting on everything I say, and you’re spitting on everything I do, but the fact is is that you relegated my spitting to metaphor, which is as close to truth as you’ve gotten, so you inherently agree that I’m no spitter and that you’re swindling me into a game.

There’s no game to swindle you into. There is no game in general.

It’s a figure of speech.

Well, I’ve never heard it.

Do you have to have experienced something before this conversation to think it’s a fact?

No.

Then why are you questioning me?

Because you’re a liar.

When it comes to figures of speech?

When it comes to anything.

Stop talking like you know anything about me.

I never said I do.

It’s littered in everything you say about me. All of these generalizations. I lie about everything. I’m manipulating the conversation with every turn of phrase. I spit on everything. I make everything a game. You don’t know me. Don’t talk to me like you think you do.

I don’t need to know you to know enough to make assumptions.

What if your assumptions are wrong?

Then I adapt.

Then why aren’t you adapting?

I never said I was adopting. I don’t want kids.

Who said “adopting?”

You. You just did.

No, I didn’t. I said “adapting.”

Oh. I do adapt.

Then why aren’t you adapting?

Why do you ask?

Because I’ve told you the truth, and yet you don’t really believe me and decided that I’m a monster. You don’t know me.

I don’t need to know you. I don’t really see the point when you’ve shown otherwise yourself: I’m not adapting because there is no reason to adapt, there’s nothing to work around, nothing you say changes anything about my views, about my truths, about my truth, I know it, I know the truth, I don’t give a fuck what you think, you don’t know me, you will never know me, I’ve been lucky and I’ve been unlucky, I’ve been honest and I’ve been dishonest, but, in this moment, I know what the reality is, it’s as objective to me as the blueness of the sky, of the reality that two plus two equals four, and I know that you may not regularly be an asshole, but, right now, you’ve doubled, tripled, quadrupled down, you’ve relegated my truth to fiction for the sake of your pride, and for what?

For what? For the truth.

So you’re the arbiter of the truth?

When I’m correct? Yes.

But when I’m correct, no?

But you’re not.

But I am. You just don’t want to listen to me.

I do. I am in fact listening.

Then why did you just spit at me.

No.

Why are you spitting at me?

I’m not spitting. I’ve never spat. I don’t plan on spitting.

Your saliva is on my shoes. It’s on my face. You spat at me. You just spat.

I didn’t spit. I just told you. I’ve never spat. I don’t plan on spitting.

I can’t do this anymore.

Seems odd to cry about it. Even though I haven’t spat, it would hypothetically all just a bit of spittle. It seems odd to get so distressed.

I can’t do this anymore.

What?

It wasn’t raining. The asphalt will burn your bare feet. My skin is wet.

Well, according to my phone, the Weather Channel says that it did in fact rain. “100% chance of precipitation from three to five.”

What?

I told you.

It didn’t rain.

It says the same thing on weather.com.

Weather.com is owned by the Weather Channel. It’s the exact same data.

Does it really matter in the end? It’s the Weather Channel.

It does matter. Who says you aren’t just making it up and saying it without showing me your phone to try and make a point when you don’t have a point because you’re lying because you’re a liar and I’m here borderline gullible, borderline allowing you to gaslight me into saying you’re right when you aren’t right because you can’t be right when you’re just a liar who lies and I’m honest and I’m honest and I tell the truth and I’m honest and I know that it didn’t rain because I, I don’t know, because I just drove here to grab a cone and on the way I saw a raccoon, I saw a raccoon on the road while I drove, and it was thirsty, I don’t know how I could tell, but I think it was because it kept scraping at the dirt, just picking up chunks of dirt, digging a little hole, little holes, and it moved among the holes and kind of made a scooping motion, like it was trying to cup water, and I just kept driving by for my cone, and I felt so privileged that I wasn’t born as a raccoon that would eventually struggle for water, and I kept driving and driving and got my cone and walked out just to be spat on and I thought to myself that maybe I am actually living no better than that poor raccoon when you can just approach me and spit, spit all over me and everything I am. I’m helpless because of people like you. I’m helpless because you never listen. I’m helpless because you lie. I’m helpless because the only thing you can help is yourself.