Tuesday, January 31, 2012

The Saxophone Player

The man on the corner has been there for days, possibly months.  It’s hard for me to keep track.  He is always in the same bright yellow zoot suit.  Pressed to perfection and his matching hat pulled low over his brow.  I have never seen his face.  He stands in the shadow reflected by the streetlamp, a jar at his feet.  The saxophone he holds in his hands gleams brighter then his suit ever could.  And the low mournful sounds that are drawn out of it cause the passersby to drop coins, then shiver as they walk away pulling their coats tighter around them.  As the night passes, his songs recede to a more breathy cry then music.  I watch as he packs his instrument and picks up his jar to head for where ever he pretends is home.

He is waiting for someone, I know it.  I wonder who she is.  Is she the perfect girlmatch to his zoot suit slickness?  With bow topped heels and a polka dotted dress?  Hair done up in curls and bright red lipstick to mark his cheek with?  Will she waltz up one day and take him by the hand?  Will I get to watch them dance off into the night, see him toss his head back in delight at a whispered comment.  Finally see his face without shadow.
Maybe it isn’t a woman.  Maybe it is a man.  Or a family member or a long lost friend, who he has spend the last few years searching for and now simply hopes the call of his saxophone will bring them home.

For days I ponder this, creating scenario after scenario.  Then one evening, I notice the silence.  His spot in the lamplight is empty.  

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