Jazz…After Hours

He’s like a slowly dying Barbara Streisand meets a high Lady Day. A few snide comments arise from agitated audience and he ducks the saltshakers and napkin holders aimed for his head. “And then, a’one, a’two, a’one, two three! Ba-da-da, ba-da-da, boopie-di-deee”, he plays on to the crazy bee-bop beats in his head, gets hit in the arm with a leg from one of the tables in the crowd and only plays louder. “Riki-tiki-ta-kaaaaaaa, boop-di-do-daaaaa!!!” The crowd is audibly booing and hissing by now, the night manager is getting restless. He knows something must be done…quickly.

Naked jazz becomes the only answer. He grabs his rip-away pants, pulls them straight towards the crowd. Ripping velcro and his pants are off, wailing ri-ti-ti-ta beats in circles around his head, the crowd scared into silence. “Ta-ta-di-daaaaaaaaaaa. Boo-nop-di-bop”. Off comes the silk shirt, the polished black Florshines, the lanky purple dress socks. Just his old white hammock undies swingin’ in that smokey jazz night fever and he plays on and on, harder and louder than ever before. He hears a man yell from the back to put on his damn clothes, that he’s burning his eyes out. So he takes them off. White undies shot straightaway at the man’s head, the man screaming like a banshee and running out of the club.

The night manager stares at him, this jazz man with his boys dangling, his bee-bop swayin’ and he’ll play on and on until that early light starts to shine through those velvet red curtains.