At the end of each song he lays the saxophone on his lap, leans over, and spits into a tin bucket. The floorboards under his chair are worn from years of so many sets of heels tapping syncopated rhythms all anchored to this same spot. His toe breaks through the sole of the boot, yet the shine remains jet black and sharp. Droplets of blood attach to his saliva like red delta mud after a storm. He knows, but his face stays stoic—skin stretched tight accentuating his angular features. His back stays straight as he bends over the bucket to look.
The herd of tourists clap then quickly head for the exit; soon another group replaces them. He shifts his weight and slowly turns to his bass player and drummer, and in a raspy voice says, “Round Midnight in E flat.” As he settles into the melody his blood and breath combine to form notes emanating from his gut spiraling into the atmosphere we share. Swirling melodic riffs that grab at the fibers of my soul, filling it.
After his solo he spits again. A small stream of blood remains on his upper lip and hangs there. He wipes it with the back of his hand and flings it down. The saliva lands on his boot; his eyes connect with mine. With a trembling hand he lifts his whiskey flask to his lips, takes a swig and winces. My cell phone vibrates. “Dad, how are you? Great news! I just got word from The New England Conservatory and they’re offering me a full scholarship. You’ll need to rent a white tuxedo and bow tie for parent’s week.” I close my eyes and wait for the music to begin again.
Grey Sparrow Journal 