long, long time. Do not listen to much music, these days. Some
you cannot help but hear. But not like this.
Piano guy does OK with it. Hey. What do I know?
Then at the end, Saxophone comes storming in. Making an ass of himself. Fully lit now. No pain. Showing up Piano. The crowd
sees it. Trumpet and the others jump back onto the bandstand, get ready to start. Saxophone is standing in front of it. He
and Trumpet are going at it. Trumpet all quiet, talking so you do not see his lips move, just the goatee bobbing up and down.
This guy has some control. Can appreciate this. Sax is screaming, but he is facing away from the crowd. The words do not come
through. Do not need to. Muscles in his neck as tight as cables.
Saxophone jumps onto the stage. Glares at them all, one at a time. Clips his sax on that string they wear around their neck.
Runs his fingers over the keys.
An awkward pause. Saxophone turns to Piano, like he is telling him start already. Piano just stares back, then points at something.
Saxophone looks down. He is holding the sax but it has got no mouthpiece on it. Just this open neck. And, swear to God, he
leans over and looks down into the hole. Like the top part maybe fell in there. Pats his pockets, getting frantic. Looks high
and low. No mouthpiece anywhere.
Jumps down from the stand, unclips the sax. Turns back to the bandstand. Slings it over his head. Smashes it down on the edge
of the bandstand. One time. Two times. Three times. Little pieces flying off. His face is purple. Drops the sax. What is left
of it. Wrestles with the string around his neck, tries to tear it off. Ducks his head through it. Flings it at the bandstand.
Aiming away from them. Knows if he touched Trumpet he would be toast. Something about Trumpet. One of those guys, if it came
to it, he would not fight the guy, just kill him.
10:10 A . M. : Saxophone gets halfway to the door. I sneak a peek at Laura. Her head is down, but her eyes are up, watching. Just her cup
of blood. Sax turns around. Heads back toward the bandstand there. Veers right, goes around the back. Tossing coats up in
the air. Finally finds his. Heads around the front of the stand, sees his sax lying there. A twisted lump of metal. There
is a pause there. He turns his back on it.
Turns toward the door. He is taking up the whole spotlight now, squinting in the glare. Starts to force his arm into one of
the sleeves. Gets the wrong sleeve, the wrong arm. Whips it off. Knocks a round of drinks off a table up front. Big crash.
Sticky liquor everywhere. Starts to look for the sleeve. Every eye is on him. Thinks better of trying to get it on. Slings it
over his shoulder. His keys go flying, coming out of a pocket. There is a laugh from the crowd. Then it stops, quick. Like
watching someone slip and fall on the ice. Can’t help yourself.
He looks around. Daring the keys to be found. Sees something a couple of yards over to his left, on the floor. Now he is on
his hands and knees. Finds the keys. Stands up. One schmuck applauds. The sound cracks the silence. Saxophone looks for the
clapper but the spotlight hits him and he cannot see and he’s got tears running down his face. He heads for the door.
There is a guy there. Leaning on the door frame. Some kind of suitcase in his hand. Tries to dodge Saxophone. They feint back
and forth. Guy in the door stands aside and ushers him through. Like a matador. Cannot see his face. Average size, average
build.
Saxophone almost rams into him, anyway. Gets past. Sprints out the door.
The room is silent, then a hum of whispers.
Trumpet leans in to the mike. There is a pause. The crowd settles. “That was Mr. Jeff Fahey, formerly on tenor saxophone…” There is a sadness in his voice, no anger at all. Cannot bring himself to hurt the guy. Even when he has been a total
asshole.
Picks up a little card from on top of the piano. Turns to the band, tears it slowly in half. Tears the halfs
you cannot help but hear. But not like this.
Piano guy does OK with it. Hey. What do I know?
Then at the end, Saxophone comes storming in. Making an ass of himself. Fully lit now. No pain. Showing up Piano. The crowd
sees it. Trumpet and the others jump back onto the bandstand, get ready to start. Saxophone is standing in front of it. He
and Trumpet are going at it. Trumpet all quiet, talking so you do not see his lips move, just the goatee bobbing up and down.
This guy has some control. Can appreciate this. Sax is screaming, but he is facing away from the crowd. The words do not come
through. Do not need to. Muscles in his neck as tight as cables.
Saxophone jumps onto the stage. Glares at them all, one at a time. Clips his sax on that string they wear around their neck.
Runs his fingers over the keys.
An awkward pause. Saxophone turns to Piano, like he is telling him start already. Piano just stares back, then points at something.
Saxophone looks down. He is holding the sax but it has got no mouthpiece on it. Just this open neck. And, swear to God, he
leans over and looks down into the hole. Like the top part maybe fell in there. Pats his pockets, getting frantic. Looks high
and low. No mouthpiece anywhere.
Jumps down from the stand, unclips the sax. Turns back to the bandstand. Slings it over his head. Smashes it down on the edge
of the bandstand. One time. Two times. Three times. Little pieces flying off. His face is purple. Drops the sax. What is left
of it. Wrestles with the string around his neck, tries to tear it off. Ducks his head through it. Flings it at the bandstand.
Aiming away from them. Knows if he touched Trumpet he would be toast. Something about Trumpet. One of those guys, if it came
to it, he would not fight the guy, just kill him.
10:10 A . M. : Saxophone gets halfway to the door. I sneak a peek at Laura. Her head is down, but her eyes are up, watching. Just her cup
of blood. Sax turns around. Heads back toward the bandstand there. Veers right, goes around the back. Tossing coats up in
the air. Finally finds his. Heads around the front of the stand, sees his sax lying there. A twisted lump of metal. There
is a pause there. He turns his back on it.
Turns toward the door. He is taking up the whole spotlight now, squinting in the glare. Starts to force his arm into one of
the sleeves. Gets the wrong sleeve, the wrong arm. Whips it off. Knocks a round of drinks off a table up front. Big crash.
Sticky liquor everywhere. Starts to look for the sleeve. Every eye is on him. Thinks better of trying to get it on. Slings it
over his shoulder. His keys go flying, coming out of a pocket. There is a laugh from the crowd. Then it stops, quick. Like
watching someone slip and fall on the ice. Can’t help yourself.
He looks around. Daring the keys to be found. Sees something a couple of yards over to his left, on the floor. Now he is on
his hands and knees. Finds the keys. Stands up. One schmuck applauds. The sound cracks the silence. Saxophone looks for the
clapper but the spotlight hits him and he cannot see and he’s got tears running down his face. He heads for the door.
There is a guy there. Leaning on the door frame. Some kind of suitcase in his hand. Tries to dodge Saxophone. They feint back
and forth. Guy in the door stands aside and ushers him through. Like a matador. Cannot see his face. Average size, average
build.
Saxophone almost rams into him, anyway. Gets past. Sprints out the door.
The room is silent, then a hum of whispers.
Trumpet leans in to the mike. There is a pause. The crowd settles. “That was Mr. Jeff Fahey, formerly on tenor saxophone…” There is a sadness in his voice, no anger at all. Cannot bring himself to hurt the guy. Even when he has been a total
asshole.
Picks up a little card from on top of the piano. Turns to the band, tears it slowly in half. Tears the halfs
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