Considering last night’s blah combined with the scammers at the door, I figured that tonight could only be great… and it was. The jazz quintet delivered Herbie Hancock, Sonnie Rollins, Les McCann, Dexter Gordon, and Grover Washington. The place was packed with gentle jazz lovers. It was a pleasant, beautiful crowd. After midnight I got a small group, followed by several more, who were all young—just barely north of 30. They were all good looking… as though a casual fashion wear catalog had spilled its models into the club. They had arrived in that final hour of music where I customarily waive the cover, which I did for them. I was still at my post and thinking it was almost time to fold up the easel-sign outside and turn in my wad of door money when one of the cute young women from the group handed me five bucks and said, “The band is playing so hard, we want to pay for at least one admission.” That simple, symbolic, single gesture smashed my humanity-is-no-better-than-pond-scum sensation I had lingering from the night before. Fortunately, I fought my spontaneous reflex to hug her and lip-smack her cheek. As one would expect, I comported myself within the limits of The Doorman and allowed an ever-so-slight-smile to form on my face and said: Thank you m’am, this unexpected generosity is greatly appreciated.
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