It happens. The jazz club doorman has an uneventful night. No close encounter of the 3rd kind. No visitor from afar. I could stop at the period of the last sentence, but things happen all the time. Nuances of life. Sure, there were a couple of guys—players—who hemmed and hawed at the door flashing their wads of cash while yammering into their cells. It was early and we needed bodies, so I waved them in. “Welcome gentlemen—hope you’ll have enough time to enjoy a beverage before being pulled elsewhere.” They stayed for the first set and slipped me fives on the way out, as though they were big tippers. I’m learning the game. There was the young perfect cutie with her boyfriend. I stared at her perfect features, perfect skin, perfect hair. Then stared at her photo ID—perfect features, perfect skin, perfect hair. I was getting caught in a loop—the perfect her and her perfect ID photo. “Everything is perfectly fine,” I stammered. The night was clicking down when a young guy appeared with urgency in his face. I pointed him to the Men’s Room. When he finished and was exiting, I stopped him… “You gotta stay—it’s a Grover Washington tune and the tenor wails.” He did and the tenor did wail and I felt no guilt about forcing culture on this disenfranchised youth. Somewhere, somehow the magic will click deep inside him and he’ll go, “aha.”
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