by Maggie Tisbury

Created on: July 07, 2011   Last Updated: September 30, 2011

"Like I said on the phone, pay is one quarter of the door and three drink coupons."

He looked up and nodded, his reed between his lips as he twisted the saxophone pieces together. The sax resembled its owner, a little dented and faded but sturdy.

"We like you then we put you on the list and maybe call you again when we have no-shows."

He nodded again and fit the wet reed onto the mouthpiece. 

"You don't say much but that's okay. Long as you can play." Stan dropped the drink coupons in the open sax case and walked away.

Beneath his fingers, the keys sprang up and down silently as he warmed up, his mouth formed loosely around the reed but not blowing any air into it. The metal of the horn gleamed dimly, its surface burnished from years of playing on street corners and in subways, the keys muddied with a history of notes played in grime and smoke.

Someone yelled "Time!" behind him and he stood, shaking the creak out of his knees and hips and hooking his neck strap to the instrument. He positioned himself to the right and behind the singer, himself a dimly gleaming instrument who had seen better times. It was a good crowd and there was a slight hush as the singer's voice broke in husky waves over the room. It was an old familiar song, battle-tested in saloons like this one for decades and the band, a rag-tag group of pickup musicians who didn't even know each other's names, found themselves easily slipping into the rhythm together.

On cue, he raised the saxophone to his mouth, warming the reed with his tongue before spilling the first amber gush of notes into the room. He pictured smooth golden malt whiskey poured from the bottle in a candle-lit room as the sounds of the crowd and the city dimmed and disappeared. This is why he played, he thought, as he felt himself shimmer and fade into the music, as the horn itself became more alive than he was.

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