>Madam’s Organ and the Fat Rasta Chick


Last night Matthew and I went to a popular party district in D.C., Adams Morgan. We arrived early, around nine, and surveyed the strip for the right joint. I had always seen Madam’s Organ when I was younger, envious of those old enough to enjoy the nightlife, and so we did an about face at the end of the road and walked back to see what all the fuss is about.

Inside was a host of taxydermied  animals: bears, falcons,  boars, a marlin, upside down deer,  even a lion’s head with raging paws. Matthew and I discussed life’s travails for an hour until the blues band came on the stage. The  soprano/baritone saxophonist and electric guitarist killed it. At one point, maybe after “Roadhouse Blues,” just two beers deep, I stood before them, eyes closed, taking the moment. When I opened them again, there was  an open circle of about a foot around me. I  would have had less room if I had been maniacally dancing

They had quarter pie slices at Alberto’s, which were “well seasoned” according to the myopic, double-chinned, red natty dreaded chick whose face I apprehended from about five inches away to ask whether the pizza was good. And Matthew wanted to go to  Pizza Mart across the street…Ha!  When we sat down to eat, Matthew asked her  “a serious question:” “Which do you prefer, relationships or financial success?” And she answered that with the way her parents treated her because of her hair and her friends still there for her no matter what, and her mother still supporting her, and her husband and her baby, obviously relationships. She didn’t invite us to smoke a blunt.

When she went next door to the Rasta club, and we walked to the empanada joint with the kick-ass hot sauce, we marinated on her and her answer.
Daniel Adler

By Daniel Ryan Adler

Daniel Adler writes fiction and nonfiction and is finishing his MFA at University of South Carolina.

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