The jazz quintet must have had their Wheaties. They were on fire, playing hard. From the first notes, it was clear that it would be a good jazz night. The club didn’t do so well at the door… or at the bar. A woman came in the back door, so I approached her seated at the bar and asked for the cover. She snarled, “My husband will pay!” Not seeing anyone within six feet of her, I asked if he’s on the way? “He’s in the bathroom, tsk!!” I guess I should have known that. While walking back to my post, I encountered an old couple that had just come in, so I asked for the cover. The old guy barked, “We’re with Jack!” I was responding that “knowing Jack means jack-shit to me,” when he pushed his way past and the old lady scowled at me like I had tracked mud on her white carpeting. Clearly, they were with the woman and the restroomed husband. The water-and-soda-foursome left the bartender a couple of 50¢-off coupons for Krispy-Kreme doughnuts. Of course, over the night, I was responsible for a couple of no-pays. One was an earnest-looking man, who poked his head in and said “I just wanted to see what the place is like, never been here before.” I said, you won’t see much from the door, come in and have a drink, the cover is on me. He beamed and grabbed a stool at the bar. I got chatting with him later and learned he’s two years new to the city and is editor of the Episcopal Church’s magazine, which has been in continuous publication since 1878. He made a sacred oath to return next weekend with friends—“and we’ll all pay!” My other lapse of fiscal responsibility was a trio of later arrivals. They were out-of-towners who were a part of a huge family reunion that gets together every year at a different locale where family members live. This was our city’s turn.
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