The movie that played out before me was wonderful. The actors and actresses played their parts and all with the mellow sounds of the jazz trio’s soundtrack. As the doorman, I have an enviable front row seat. The jazz club represents the very best of the American ideal as far as diversity. Case in point: a table of four—two young white men with their girlfriends (or wives?), one Hispanic, the other Asian that were served drinks mixed by a gay man and served by a black man. There were seated next to a table with a black man and a white woman who in turn, were next to a table of four women, three blacks and one white. It was all so wonderfully natural and uncontentious. It was—at the risk of melodrama—a mini-fulfillment of MLK’s dream. While controlling a smile of delight at this scene on my stoic doorman face, a fairy-tale princess entered the club. She had long, wavy ginger-color hair and gray eyes that were both alluringly soft and boundary-line clear (it was almost as though her eyes said, “Yeah, I know I’m from a children’s fairy tale, but don’t ef with me, ‘cause I’m friends with the bean-stalk giant…understand?”). I fell in love with her as she left a trail of stardust and butterflies in her wake. The night ended with a deal I made with a young man who promises to come the next night with his girlfriend. I am to make a show of welcoming him as a VIP regular. Tomorrow I become an actor, as I collude with him to create a scene that will either impress or entertain his girlfriend.