As I stood in the propped-open doorway looking out at the city, I noticed them. A sparkle here, a sparkle there—fireflies! I expect to see glow worms in the country, even the leafy suburbs, but not in the urban maze. I took the sightings as prophetic… this night at the jazz club will be good. I ducked back inside to give the bartender my nature report. He was wearing a glum face. I asked..? “I don’t think the band is coming, it’s already past 8:30. I checked my antique gold filigree pocket watch (or maybe it was my iPhone 4) and it was in fact 8:33. “Don’t hack up a cow just yet.” Within 20 minutes, the jazz guitarist, who the quartet is coincidentally and conveniently named after, comes sauntering in all calm and jazz musicianish. Soon after, the alto, electric piano, and drums show up. At the 9:30pm start, everything was in place—musicians, cool-jazz-cat customers, the knickers-knotted bartender, the bored-but-cute waitress, and me, The Doorman. It was a hot summer night—both weather and music (you gotta like a jazz guitarist who slips in a little wah-wah to keep listeners alert). When the night ended and the front door had closed behind me, I looked, but the fireflies were gone. They were either snug in bed or flitting about at a different club.
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