CoffeeBeanShop

Thursdays

by Kevin Everett Jackson Self (Honorable Mention - no bio available)

We are sitting in the coffeehouse again, this time listening to a group of old men playing swing music. The old jazz sound the flappers of the 20s would have danced to. There is a piano, a sore-armed trombone, a trumpet, a guitar and the clarinet. Together they sound like an old music box that is pulled from the attic and wound. Despite the age, the tempo is perfect and the sound hasn’t changed.

The men play perfect music with big smiles. The trumpet chimes in with a piercing squeal that fades into a long mellow tone. The piano man and trombonist talk between measures and watch the other members play before crashing the chords and rejoining the swing.

The music is an added bonus. We come to the coffeehouse ritually on Thursday nights. If we didn’t set aside a time to enjoy each other, the corporate life we choose would consume us and suffocate. Our Thursday night escape keeps us breathing – together. At first they were meticulously planned with a set time and place, much like our day jobs. Gradually it became more spontaneous. That is when I knew our Thursday’s were working. When there was nothing scheduled about our escapes. No deadlines to be met. We go with the wind to where ever we find the inspiration to write about the way things should be, and sometimes about the way things truly are. Recently it seems the coffeehouse offers us everything we need. We go here because we choose to, not because the itinerary calls for it. I think about this as I watch her sip her latte.

I try to write but find myself lost in the music. The trombonist brakes the vocal silence and belts out a Louse Armstrong type note with a raspy base voice. The wrinkles on this face scrunch and his eye squint as he cocks his neck and belts another perfect-pitched floater that hangs on the air like a dying balloon and catches the attention of every soul in the room. His face turns blue before he releases the note and cheers come from the small crowd that has gathered to hear the old men play. He smiles to gain exposure and his trumpet comes back in carrying the melody.

My eyes can’t keep up with the clarinet’s fingers, as if the man and the instrument have morphed into one being and are now making music as easily as my heart is beating. All of the band members play with that ease, the ease that comes with age – the ease that comes from routine. I can only imagine when this gang was younger and in their prime. When coffee was only a nickel and playing through the night in a smoke-filled bar was the climax of every weekend.

The men’s wives were sitting at the table next to us. Between songs I hear pieces of the stories they were telling. They laugh and speak of the places they enjoyed most over the years. It is obvious they, too, have seen it all and been everywhere the men have been. Like a pack of wolves, these old men and their wives have lived the better part of their lives together – feeding off each other for comfort and support. With 50 years of memories, this has become their family.

I look at her sitting across the table, still sipping her latte, and wonder where we would be in 50 years. She is beautiful. Her face always lights up when listening to big-band jazz. She is the one who introduced me to it. I have never met anyone so attached to music – so aware of its presence. I watch her head move to the music as though it was being pelted by notes from the trumpet. I can feel her foot tapping beneath the table and know she is admiring the clarinet. She always admires a good woodwind, and this guy can play. I watch her eyes follow his fingers as they danced down the clarinet. She smiles and her fingers start mimicking his. She is always happiest when listening to music.

The piano man yawns, showing his age, but compensates with a hand-over-hand series of sixteenths. The trombone misses his cue and sits there rubbing his arm instead. The trumpet picks up the slack and drives the song home with a muffled blast that would brake windows if he let it fly.

The music comes to a sudden stop and the spell is broken. Those in the coffeehouse awake from the trance and are once again aware of their lives. The audience begins stirring as the piano man arches his back and stretches his fingers. He stands up, runs his fingers across the top of the piano and walks around the corner for a break. The trombone comes over to his wife for an arm rub and the trumpet fills the silence with a solo.

He is the veteran of the group and his ability demands attention. When he plays, people listen and watch his every gesture – the way his fingers move, the way his eyes tell what note is coming next. He sits in the stool and plays from the heart. The other members of the group speak quietly among themselves, never taking their eyes off the trumpet. The audience shifts in their seats and unknowingly breathe the excitement. All eyes are on the trumpet and he plays magnificently. Fast then slow, soft then loud – and the crowd loves every second.

He holds his last note while each member of the group slowly and one-by-one steps into his tune. The clarinet squeaks its way into the mix and the trombone follows suit. The piano man returns to his bench with a pot of decaf and positions himself comfortably – watching the other four members come alive. The trumpet’s last note quietly slows as the piano burst into play with scales that run the length of the piano. The small crowd erupts when all the men are back in swing. The trumpet takes a much needed breath and the crowd awards him with a quite applaud of his own.

The trumpet rejoins the group and I look at her again. She is sketching the clarinet with the new set of pencils she bought for herself. I am amazed at her ability to duplicate on paper what she sees. She has a style of her own that captures the warmth of a moment. She rarely draws faces but catches the essence of person so perfectly one can recreate the moment by looking at the picture. I remember the candid sketch she drew in Italy of the old lady and her daughter. It brought tears to the eyes of the old lady when she gave it to them. They didn’t know she was drawing it but I know they would never forget that she had. She is truly gifted. I know the clarinetist, as he is at this moment, is being immortalized in her sketchbook – and it makes me smile.

The trumpet blasts another floater and I am lost in the music again. The clarinet misses an entrance – his face gives away his every mistake – but he jumps back in and quickly finds his rhythm. The finale is building as an energy sweeps the room. The men are now dancing in their seats and playing to their limit. The music whales and the crowd is swinging. You can smell the coffee in the notes they play and it sounds good.

The piano picks up where the clarinet leaves off, the trumpet follows the trombone in a perfect blend and the guitar is strumming from a parallel universe. I see the piano man wink in our direction as the trombone punches out a series of blows with the trumpet echoing.

She has finished her sketch and is enthralled in the music. She looks over at me with excitement in her mocha-colored eyes and she grabs my hand. She smiles at me and goes back to watching the old-man-swingers groove in unison. “Baby,” she says still watching them play, “they are on tonight.”

It's a good Thursday night.

© Kevin Everett Jackson Self. All Rights Reserved.

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