“Everyone doesn’t understand…” and his voice descended into a confidential voice volume. He had walked into the jazz club with his mismatched companions. He grabbed a table up front. He is short and portly. His lady friend is tall and anorexic-looking. Their third wheel looks like a sumo wrestler. They came for jazz and were more than welcome. There were two other couples in the evening that initially looked like they didn’t fit together. But as a wise friend once proclaimed when I had a laundry-day complaint about matching up socks: “Any two socks make a pair.” I noticed the mis-matching—or to be fair and accurate: the matching, which was noticeable because the club wasn’t at its busiest. I began to appreciate the rich tapestry that is humanity. They were friends and enjoyed each other’s company, so what right do I have to comment? The band sounded great—piano, drums, bass, and trumpet. A little later in the eve, a young tenor raced past me at the door while taking his sax out of its case. He jumped into the song they were playing as though his turn for a solo had come up. There was nothing jarring about the timing, it sounded just right… very tight.
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