Brotherhood of the Black Moon

He cruised north on Vista Del Mar with the Pacific
flanking his left side. Wind tousled his hair. The music
was off. All he could hear was the waves on the beach
and the tires over the asphalt.

As he neared his destination an airplane flew overhead
from the nearby airport. Briefly, he looked over and saw
its form buried in the dark skies. He slowed and pulled
over as he came to a stop.

In rapid succession, the headlights and engine were killed.
A car sped past. He could feel it's velocity through the
sudden shudder of the car. The lights of oncoming traffic
blinked into the darkness and barreled close and away.

There was no reason for him to be there this late. He didn't
want to be home. There was nothing in his room and at
least here he could listen to the waves and let his mind
forget about itself for a few moments.

His phone buzzed and the screen lit up. It was a text.
"At the Black Moon having a drink. Drop by."
He wrote, "Sure. Be there in 15." He turned the key
in the ignition only enough to turn on the stereo.

A loud cymbal crash followed by rumbling toms
and the clattering of percussion beating through the
speakers. From the first note he knew it was "A Night In
Tunisia" by Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers.

He turned the key and the engine awoke. There were
no cars in either direction. A quick u-turn over the
solid double yellow lines and he was headed south
towards the Black Moon.

He needed the company. He needed the drink.
What a day. What a week. Wayne Shorter's sax
cut through the wind as the two sounds intermingled
to create a new voice.

What kind of night would it become? It didn't matter.
How could it? Eventually he lost track of the waves,
the road, as though nothing but he and that song existed.
His company was anticipated. He hurtled forward

until the mild suburban facade of the area showed
it's face again, and when it did, how he longed to rip
the skin from it. At last, the Black Moon came into
view. There was nothing to be won or lost.