A candle burns. I light a cigarette from the flame. Black smoke quickly disappears.

Cans of beer are opened by the two of us. Together, we sit on a busted old couch with springs exposed, holes in cushions, and tiny cigarette burns. A small transistor radio plays bop jazz into the night.

We sit there listening to Ornette Coleman play a long disconnected song with high notes and screechers, low tones driving home a message in the language of avant garde. He reaches into the Styrofoam cooler and grabs two more Black Label beers. The red cans are still cold. Ice is beginning to melt.

Is this heaven? I ask. Or are we in some kind of hell? My friend looks at me.

Shhhh. I’m listening, Paul says. Please be quiet. I know this song. I’ve heard it before.

Sounds like a mess to me, I tell him. A wonderfully satisfying mess.

Shhhh.

The song ends, and Mingus begins Goodbye Pork Pie Hat. Horns slather over the small room. Even on a small radio, the sound is big.

No, Paul says. This is as close to paradise as we’ll ever get.

Smoke rises, and the candle becomes a pile of orange wax. It is dark. A college kid’s voice comes over the air, saying, That  was Charles Mingus with Goodbye Pork Pie Hat. And before that was Ornette Coleman playing Focus on Sanity. Time is 2:43 in the A.M.