The sax was so soulful on the jazz quartet’s version of Stanley Turrentine’s “Sugar” that it required someone with a dancer’s Serengeti-cat gait to strut by. No one with a sensuous, rippling form and delightfully clinging clothes was there to illustrate the music. I was disappointed. The walk-on part was there for the taking. Just needed the right woman or man. Instead, a small group for someone’s birthday gathered at a corner of the bar. They were a pain in the ass—drinking water, soda or air, demanding service, and leaving the bartender’s tip jar empty. They weren’t interested in listening to jazz. They talked loudly and there was a woman among them who cackled like a spotted hyena choking on a mouthful of African thorn beetles. She is one of the reasons why The Doorman will not be licensed under the conceal-and-carry law. However, there were plenty of jazz aficionados here. Two young guys had sat at the bar. The bartender signaled me for a confab: “Did you card them?” I said I hadn’t but that they comported themselves with sufficient maturity that I knew they’re of age. “One is just a few months legal and the other kid is 22.” I figured the bartender told me that as a way of complimenting me on my astute perception. When the young men left they mentioned how much they enjoyed the music and that they feel like they have old souls when it comes to their taste in music. “Next time you come,” I said, “say ‘old soul’ or ‘dead hyena’ and I’ll waive the cover.” Dead hyena, they asked? “Inside joke, but it will work!”
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