Clear, warm Spring eve and there's no telling how busy the
club might be. A man wearing a plain baseball cap is seated at the bar near the
door. I remark about the pleasant weather to make him feel at ease. He uses my
vague remark to pivot into a series of questions while interweaving
autobiography, intending to impress. He's a retired architect from a successful
firm that has his name on the door. He plays jazz sax--both tenor and soprano,
and he lives in a nice condo with some name like Vantage Peak or Exclusive Heights. He asks pedigree info about the club, the
music, and the quartet playing tonight. I catch myself on the verge of defending
and bragging. I don't and slip into my doorman-don't-know role, to allow him to
feel smug and superior. The facelift blonde with her over-plucked brows enters
with a different man than previous visits. She oddly vacillates between
prancing cutely like a 16-year-old and acting aggressive like the prison yard
alpha. She's scary weird. In between a Coltrane and Monk songs, she springs up
from her table and storms assertively toward me, then veers sharply to go to
the bar. I couldn't tell if she was going to cuff me or kiss me--either
behavior would be in character. I look out the window and above the neon
tattooing the darkness I see a full moon, which may explain a lot. There's a
woman sitting at a table of six who clearly has been touched with lunar madness.
She hasn't stopped blathering since they were seated and guffaws loudly every
20 to 40 seconds. I fantasize that they come, muzzle her, and strap her into a
straight jacket. Size Medium will work.
