Mercury Swings by Robert Kroese

Mercury Swings
     
    A story by Robert Kroese
     
    Mercury strolled along the banks of the Euphrates, trying to pinpoint the source of a saxophone wailing the unmistakable strains of Dixieland jazz. As the sax gave way to the strumming of a bass, he spied a man wrapped in desert garb near the entrance of a cave.
    “What’s happening, friend?” queried the man, a phlegmatic Amelekite who was sucking on what appeared to be a rolled up piece of papyrus stuffed with some sort of dried vegetation. Foul smelling smoke wafted from an ember at the end of the papyrus roll.
    “Just out for a stroll,” said Mercury, trying to appear nonthreatening in an effort to counterbalance the fact that he towered a foot and a half over the prehistoric hepcat. “Is that tobacco?”
    “To-what-o?” asked the Amelekite, unimpressed. “Never heard of it. This is what we call ‘funk weed.’” The Amelekite took a long, slow drag on the makeshift cigarette, the corner of his mouth curling upward in cool bliss. He held the smoke for a moment and then began to exhale, but the noxious fumes caught in his throat and he started to hack and cough uncontrollably. Mercury waited while the man fell to his knees, choking for breath and ultimately vomiting into an unlucky bush.
    “Why would you do that to yourself?” Mercury asked, genuinely puzzled.
    “It’s the music,” gasped the green-faced Amelekite. “I keep telling myself to quit, but for some reason this music makes me want to inhale the poisonous fumes of a dried plant.”
    As the Amelekite struggled to his feet, the impassioned wail of the saxophone once again echoed from the cave’s mouth.
    “It’s an anachronism,” said Mercury. “Jazz isn’t supposed to be discovered for nearly four thousand years. After tobacco and whiskey.”
    “Well,” reflected the Amelekite thoughtfully, “Anna Nakkernizzim is a bitch, I’ll tell you that much.” He hacked up a wad of mucus from his throat and spat it on the bush. “What’s the password?”
    Mercury frowned. “Password?”
    “Can’t let you into the club without a password.”
    “It’s not a club,” said Mercury. “It’s a cave.”
    “Can’t let you into the cave without a password then.”
    “Where would I get the password?”
    “From someone in the club.”
    “Where did they get the password?”
    “From someone else in the club.”
    “Okay, but where did they get the password? Somebody must have been the first person to have the password, right?”
    “Huh,” said the Amelekite, eyeing his cigarette suspiciously, as if it were a snake that might bite him at any moment. “Never thought of that. I guess the guy who came up with the password was Boraxis, the bartender. I mean, it was his goat, after all.”
    “His goat?”
    “Yeah, you know, his goat, Taco.”
    “Boraxis has a goat named Taco?”
    “Well, of course,” said the Akkadian. “Where do you think he got the idea for the password? Anyways, there’s no loitering, so if you don’t know the password, you better just keep strolling.”
    Mercury studied the Amelekite. “I think I just remembered the password,” he said.
    “Sure you did,” said the Amelekite, bringing the cigarette to his lips once more. “I’m not an idiot, you know.” He took a long drag from the smoldering weed, filling his lungs with the putrid smoke.
    “I’m gonna take a wild stab and say it’s ‘Taco,’” Mercury announced.
    The Amelekite’s face went suddenly green again. He fell to his knees and began to wreak more evil on the bush, conscientiously waving Mercury into the club as he did so.
     
    *****
     
    Mercury stepped inside the cave, taking a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark, hazy interior. There was no mistaking it – primitive locale notwithstanding, the languid atmosphere of stale smoke, staccato rhythms and raw sexual energy gave this dank cave the distinction of being the world’s first jazz club – 3800 years early, not to mention six