The Doorman’s Diary: 2.2-3.11

The jazz club was swarmed with exuberant early 20-somethings. These customers, who share birthdays in the late 1980s, all appeared to know each other. It wasn’t clear how they ended up at the club. Over the course of the night, I interacted with three cute young ladies from the contingent. The first asked me if I’ve ever heard of Lawrence University? “Yes, I knew Lawrence when it was Lawrence College, are you attending?”  She said that she had graduated last Spring from that small liberals art college with its respected music conservatory and that the club reminded her of school because the music students were always putting on free concerts on campus with many being jazz. How cool is that, I thought. In my second encounter, the blonde lass walked directly up to me, straightened the knot on my silk tie, and brushed the lapels of my tailored black jacket with her soft hands. She then stared into my eyes with her dilated baby-blue peepers and said, “You look… you look… incredibly awesome!” I said, “I know… I AM the doorman.” The third interaction pulled everything into perspective. The cutie was leaving with several others when I asked if everyone had a good time. “I love this place… it’s so… so… totally retro… all this old music. And people listening to it like they really like it.” It suddenly became clear. In the jazz club, to this young crowd, I am in a diorama… a historic time capsule… much like the woman dressed in a Pilgrim petticoat churning butter at Historic Williamsburg or a guy plodding along with a musket at a Civil War reenactment.