The Lonely Saxophonist

I watch as two women walked down the midnight street with uneven steps. They clutched their handbags against their breasts as they looked about warily. One burst into nervous laughter as the other hurriedly leaped to cover her friend's mouth. Then, she broke into laughter too and they swung their arms around each other stumbling on down the midnight street.

The music didn't stop there. The smooth jazz swung up through the trees into the summer air. It swung around the lit street lamp from the wooden door of the club on the corner and mingled with the breeze, the silence, the smells. The music never stopped on a Saturday night. A steady stream of jazz floated through the atmosphere well into Sunday morning when God's frown marked the sky.

Now a man came out. A nice suit. Penny loafers. Sweat under the armpits. He looks both ways. He starts going one way. The opposite way of the girls. Then, he changes his mind. He turns around. Pulls out his gun. 5 - 8 - 5 - 2. He's down the same way the girls went.

I used to play at that club. Played the sax right alongside some of the best in the business. Not anymore. 3 - 10. Not since I can't say 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 anymore. We had some times. People came to hear. People came to meet. People came to live.

She came one day. Just right through that wooden door. Swung it open with a smile on her face, sex and drugs on the brain. She watched me all night. My fingers flew all over my instrument. The sounds came easily. Afterwards a bottle of wine. Face full of smiles. 4 - 8 - 6 - 2. Beautiful music is what it was. Beautiful music that will never be heard again again. Only on that night, only in that mood.

Bang, bang, bang. Three shots right on cue. Head, chest, gut. A piercing scream. 1 - 9 - 3. Bang, bang. Twice in the head. Blood everywhere. Then jazz. Just the jazz.

I wonder what she's doing now. Probably twisting some man's chest hair. Wrapping it around her finger and yanking it just to hear him scream. Cigarette in one hand, dick in another. Maybe fiddling with her hair while she moves to the rhythm. Up, down, in, out. That's where she is. Keeping the rhythm. Keeping the jazz alive until Sunday morning when God's frown comes around.

Woowoo woowoo woowoo. The sirens fall in line. The race is on. Around the corner, down the street, up the lane. Cut that turn. Watch that pothole. Hearts are falling out of rhythm. The wind rushes past me. It carries the jazz out farther, louder.

It's always been around. 3 - 9 - 5 - 1. It used to be just in my head. I would pause and it passed off for a stutter. A third-grader with a stutter. It was cute. I grew up. My speech improved. I hid it. I hid it well. I knew just how many words. Letters. Syllables. I could use in a sentence. Just the right amount. No more stutter. Just a natural break in the rhythm of speech. Perfectly acceptable. Perfectly passable.

Click, click, clack! Click, click, clack! The stretchers rub across the pavement. The papers would get it all wrong. A jazzed up story: "One leg stretched across the pavement. One hand outstretched and clasping an invisible partner. A twisted jitterbug. The other just out of reach. Hunched over. Legs in the air. Hands on the knees. Dancing the Charleston in the face of death. A love triangle. A lesbian love affair. A head full of dope." There they were, perfectly straight on the stretchers. Machines beeping, voices murmuring, minds racing, electricity buzzing. All trying to keep the rhythm.

We had our good times too. There was one night. 5 - 8 - 5 - 1. Hell, it was all one long night. There were moments though. Each one with its own little note on the counter. She loved to do that. Never told me where she was going. Just notes on the counter. Note after note after note. There was one note though. Sounded good. Made all the rest around it kind of stand out too. It was perfect for the occasion.

"Sex and music," she had said. "Only times I'll have a cigarette. Just to relax a beat and catch up with the rhythm." She has one left before I leave to see some guys. I came back in the evening. Empty house. Red Mary Janes lying in the closet. House full of silence. A sad, scribbled note on the counter: "Went out for cigarettes. Love, me." It didn't add up. 2 - 7 - 4 - 2.

The jazz is coming now. It's one A.M. and the night has just begun. Three cops stand in front of me, tapping their feet and rolling their eyes. "What did you see?" He's fat and bald. Can't keep the rhythm.

"Guy came out in a nice suit and some penny loafers."

"Yea?" He's looking down at his paper like he can't even hear the ruckus. It's flooding my ears though. Might as well go with the music.

"From what I saw, they had some kind of love triangle goin' on. Girls were pretty keen on each other. I saw one put her hand up the other one's dress." It's the lie they want to hear. That put a little pep in the old man's step.

He winks at me, "Oh yea?"

"They were deep kissin', holdin' each other like they were dancin'. Fella Just pulled out the gun and shot 'em dead."

"You were up here on your roof the whole time watching?"

"Yea I saw the whole thing. Shot 'em dead. 4 - 6 - 2."

"What was that?" A raised eyebrow. A foot paused mid-tap.

"Shot 'em dead, I said. Three in the first one and gave the second two." The foot taps again.

"She deserved it anyways," I say. "The way they were touchin' musta made him hot. Fella was deaf with rage. Couldn't hear her explainin'. Bitch deserved it."

"Excuse me?" "That musta been goin' through his head. That's all I'm sayin'. Fella wasn't thinkin' straight. Could see that from here." I feel like dancing. The music's so loud now. I can't even hear what he's asking me.

My mind floats back to her. The numbers started then. Right around the time I confessed. We had just made love. She was lying on my chest. Curling the hair. All that jazz. I see a flash of deep purple in her eyes. It just comes out all natural: "I love you. 1 - 5 - 2." A smile. No, a smirk. She tugs at the hair until it comes out. I grit my teeth. She rests her head back down. "1 - 5 - 2 too," she says towards my crotch.

Oh the jazz was wonderful. It came out of the radio. Next to the bed. We spent the rest of the night making all the "I love you"s in every Stevie Ray Vaughn song into "1 - 5 - 2"s.

Oh, there were upbeat times. There were downbeat times. Then around 2:30 there was the busiest time. The night stalkers came out and filled the club on the street. The dope was passed around. The music was the strongest it had been. Open up a new bottle of wine for the band, they're getting sloppy. Let's have a good time tonight. Let's dance a little. Get a little close. Make some hasty decisions. Fall into bed with someone attractive. Have a little excitement. Speed things up. Then feel the heart beating against your side. Keep the rhythm. Tap along. Dream. Arise from the dead the next day. Start it all over again.

A mysterious woman walked up to the wooden door. Average height, frail build. Clad from head to toe. Dressed for rain. Red Mary Janes. Bow! She shoves through the door. Swings wide open. Smile on her face. Grabs the first man she sees and starts lindy hopping across the floor. Everything comes off. The coat, the hat, the gloves, but not the shoes. Never the shoes. She scuttles across the floor. Runs her finger along the curves of her breast.

I wonder what she's doing on a night like this. I should give her a ring. 1 - 7 - 3 - 1 - 2 - 2. Maybe not. When I was a child there was one thing that kept me safe. The music kept me from being nervous.

Maybe I should give her a ring. 5 - 6 - 0 - 0 - 3 - 2 - 1. We haven't talked in so long. I don't even know if she's the same. We all change so quick. Careful measurements. A little bit higher here. A little bit lower there. Slow down a moment. Speed it up. But it's not really like that. Some of its got to be improvised. Some of its got to be you or you'll just be singing that same old tune your daddy sang. That just won't fly.

Brrringaling, brrringaling. The jazz is coming out at a feverish pace. "Mmhmm." Groggy.

"Hey, doll. How you been?"

"Who is this?" Cold as ice.

"It's me, baby, remember? It hasn't been that long has it? Have you forgotten already?"

"John, is that you?"

"Say, I've got my saxophone out and I wanted to play for ya. What do ya say?"

"What saxophone?" Her voice is quieter than I remember.

"Yea, just come on down to the club. You remember where it is right?"

"Club? What on earth are you talking about John?" A sigh.

"You know, the club on the corner. The place where we met. I used to play the sax there." Silence. "Come on, sweetie, it'll be a swanky time."

I swear I could hear a man's voice in the background.

"Swanky? What on earth has gotten into you John? Look, this is the last time I'm going to say this. Are you listening?"

"Of course, doll, lay it on me." The wind gushed out from the club again and blew past me. The mysterious figure was fully clad again. Her head was bowed to the pavement. A finger in her ear. I swear she was trying not to look up at me.

"Okay, John. One more time and I'll call the cops again. I'm sick of this bullshit. Leave me alone. We dated for a couple months about three months ago. Deal with it. I gave you a chance. You're not my kind of guy. I was just trying to be nice. Now we know that it won't work out." She was lying.

The jazz floated out of the wooden door again as a man came out. He rubbed the shoulders of the mysterious woman. She continued to look at the ground. "Just come on up, doll. I'll play a little sax for ya. Nothing more. No harm in that now is there?" I was talking to the mysterious figure now.

"Yes there is, John. You don't play sax. You don't play any music. You count letters. You're fucking insane."

"Aw, now you're being a little harsh there, babe. I know we've had our differences, but we both know I can play sax better than any of these amateurs they have comin' to the club these days."

"John, that club has been closed down for ten years. It used to be a pizza parlor for fucking sake. Get your act together. You're going fucking nuts."

I leaned over the ledge of the roof a bit farther to watch the man kiss the mysterious woman gently on the neck. "You know, if you're with a man, I would understand. He could come, too. I'm not doing this to get back together with ya, sugar. It's just for the jazz." I heard a sniffle. Something wasn't right.

"No, John. I'm not coming. Not now. Not ever." More sniffles.

"Well why not, baby?"

"Because you're fucking crazy, John. You don't even know who you are. You don't know me and I don't want to know you." She was balling now. I knew she was lying, though. We had a kid.

I hesitated a moment. "1 - 5 - 2," I sputtered.

I heard a sharp gasp. "1 - 5 - 2."

"Stop John." "1 - 5 - 2."

"This is goodbye, John." "Aw, now baby don't be so harsh. Just lemme see my kid every now and then. That's all I want." All I heard was crying on the other end. I knew this was hard for her.

"Now listen John. I sent some cops up there about an hour ago and they said that they talked with you about this and thought that they had gotten through to you." She paused a moment and drew a breath. "Some ladies walking down the street said that you were sitting on your roof and looked really disturbed. The cops said you were ranting about some guy with a gun. John, I need you to get down off your roof please. Either that or fucking jump because that would make my life ten times easier." Click.

Something was wrong. The rhythm was thrown off. Everything was off-beat. That's when I heard it. It was just about the sweetest sound I'd heard all night. As I was staring at that mysterious couple, I heard the saxophone loud and clear. Low, lonely sounds. Lovely, beautiful sounds. I stepped up on the ledge of the roof to listen. Just as the man whirled the mysterious woman around to meaningfully embrace, the saxophonist started growling. I took a step. And from then on, its been all jazz.