Jazz Club

It played until my brain was fried with strong coffee spiced with jazz.

High notes bounced off the ceiling and walls in the small jazz club in Boston’s Chinatown, just out of sight of tourists.

But I found it… and now I was with it.

This was a piped-in soundtrack, but who cared?

I kept writing, fried, drunk on caffeine and the power of the music.

Suddenly, I was rudely brought down from my jazz high by a big guy in a starched white shirt. He tapped my shoulder, none too gently.

He must have been the bouncer.

“You aren’t supposed to be in here,” he told me.

I asked him why.

He smiled and grabbed me by my shirt front, propelling me cleanly out the door.

“Because we ain’t open yet,” he said.

I’d be back, Jack (I thought to myself).

The Jazz — even piped in — was worth it.

But next time it would be live.

How I loved it!