A Love Supreme

Gov knows he works too hard.

Oftentimes, he works himself to the bone until his hands can no longer hold a pen and his eyes can't see what they're typing anymore. He knows he has a problem. Whenever he gets too deep into his work he stops feeling like a person and more like the supernatural entity made to represent the government and do their work for them.

California calls him heartless, and Texas calls him a monster. He knows it isn't completely false, but it still hurts. It is in his nature to follow the government and what they tell him to do, only in his nature to act in these corrupt ways. He tries to stop himself. He tries to be different, tries to be better, but usually it doesn't last, or the states don't care. It hurts because he does care about them, but he knows they don't care about him, not usually.

The states oftentimes make him feel like exactly what he is, a creature made to work and run meetings and nothing else. No interests, no hobbies, all that he has is this office and the meeting room. He doesn't exist outside of when he's working, when he's not he just sleeps.

But that's not true, he thinks in defiance.

He can't stand to look at his inane work any more. He shuts his laptop and stands from the desk. He goes over to the chest on the left side of the room, opens it, and picks up his record player. Yes, he should be ahead of the times using a phone or even a radio, but there is something about the old fashioned sound of the record and the feeling of holding vinyl in his hands that fulfills him.

He sets it up. A gong sounds and piano and saxophone fill his office, before a bass comes in. John Coltrane's production fills him up and he begins to sway and bounce and shimmy to the beat.

Jazz had been one of those unexpected things that came into his life that always gave him joy to hear. Very few things got him to feel that way, but the sound of jazz music came on and suddenly he was transported. The sadness of life never sounded so beautiful and inviting. It was a reminder that all the pain was worth as much as the joy. And jazz could capture joy well, but there was something about the way it captured sadness that spoke to him.

His hips sway in time with the saxophone and he taps his shoes to the piano. His office no longer feels like a horrible, confining space, but instead a dance floor made only for him.

"A Love Supreme" part one fades out and his dancing calms down as soon he is only left with the bass. He wishes this record had the rest of the parts of the song, but alas it does not, it is only a Best of Jazz record. He's waiting for the next song to begin when he hears, "Mais, now that's some fancy foot work."

He jumps in shock and clutches his heart. There's Louisiana standing in his office looking him up in down. He flushes in embarrassment.

"Louisiana, what are you doing here? How long have you been here? Wait I-" He doesn't wait to finish his sentence as he goes to turn the record off. "Feeling Good" by Nina Simone is just coming on, and he does love that song, but right now he feels embarrassed, and more vulnerable than usual. He's been laid bare and it hurts.

"Mais sha, now wait." Louisiana runs up to him and grabs his hands before he can reach the record, "I came around the middle of the song, I prolly shouldn't have spied, but you looked like you were enjoying yourself so I didn't want to interrupt. Nobody wants to be interrupted while listenin' to Coltrane, right?"

He doesn't really know how to respond. Intellectually he knew Louisiana loved jazz music and wouldn't have made fun of him for it, but he also knew the states saw any vulnerability from him and leapt at it like a cat on a mouse.

"Can I join ya, sha?" Louisiana asks before he can respond.

"What!?" He sputters out, his cheeks hot and red.