"Excuse me sir, but do you use that stage?"
Irritated, the owner of the bar looked up to see who was bothering him this early in the day. Sure, he was open for business, but no one except the professional drunks came in this early, and he had a way of discouraging them. He wasn’t even sure anymore why he came in at the same time every day….
An old man stood there, clutching a case of some kind in one hand, the other holding his hat to his chest. He looked about 70 or so, tall, thin to the point of gauntness. The dim bar lights gleamed softly off his bald head, and highlighted his bright blue eyes. He might have been colored, save for those eyes, or a darkly tanned white person, or maybe even Hispanic, it was hard to say. The owner looked around to see if he had dragged anyone in with him, then put down the account books he’d been working on.
"No, we don’t use the stage, haven’t in a long time. Would have torn it up, but it cost money I ain’t got. Why, you got a band of old folks with ya?"
The old man smiled gently and set the case down on the floor near him. He put his beat up fedora on the bar and sat on a stool. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a dollar and slid it across the bar. "Glass of water, with lots of ice, please?"
The owner stared at the money for a moment, then pushed it back. "Sure, no charge for water, at least not yet. It ever comes to the time when I have to charge for water, I’ll burn the place down and move." He filled up a glass with ice cubes and water and set it down.
"So, why you asking about the stage old timer? You got some kinda musical instrument in that case there?"
The old man smiled and nodded, "yeah, got some music in the case. Just looking for a place to play until my next big gig comes up. Should be any day now."
The bar owner looked around the empty bar, taking in the smoked-stained ceiling, the dirty floor and cracked counter top of the bar itself.
"Ya know, this ain’t the best neighborhood around. Most of the buildings around here are deserted and falling down. The police only come down in pairs of squad cars at a time, and they sure don’t hurry to get here. My customers are usually the bottom dregs of society and you sure ain’t gonna get rich playing here, as I can’t pay, so you’d be doing it for tips and drinks."
The old man looked around the bar himself, seeming to take it all in for the first time. He turned back to the owner and stuck out his hand. "Seems like a fine place to me. Remember playing at joints like this one all over this area. Yours is the only one left though. Didn’t think I’d find one to practice at before I do my big show. I don’t need money, and I don’t drink, so except for some ice water, I won’t cost you a thing except the electricity it takes to light up the stage. Don’t even need any sound equipment."
The owner took the old man’s hand and shook it. "Okay, deal. You can start any time you want. I’m open from about noon to whenever the cops shut me down at night every day except Sundays and Mondays. That okay with you?"
A pleased smiled crossed the old man’s face. "Why that’s perfect! Tell me, why aren’t you open Sunday’s or Monday’s?"
"Sunday’s I take Mom and my sister to church, and Monday’s are so slow it’s not worth being here."
"Oh? And do you bother going to church if your mother or sister are sick? I mean, do you go because you want do, or out of a sense of obligation?"
The owner picked up a glass and started polishing it. "Not sure, to be honest with you. Been times when I’ve wanted to stay home and sleep, but it’s kinda automatic to get up and go. Never seen a reason to break the routine and it’s never occurred to me to wonder if I’d go if they didn’t want to."
The old man put his empty glass down and picked up his case. "You want to hear anything in particular. I can play just about kind of music you want."
The owner looked up from his cleaning, "Yeah, know John Coltrane's ‘My Favorite Things’?"
"Hey, how’d you know I had an soprano saxophone in my case?" The old man smiled in delight and slid one of the chairs from the main floor up onto the stage. The owner had to search to find the right switches to light up the stage, and at that, about a third of them were burnt out. He made an embarrassed noise and grabbed a package of bulbs from the back room while the old man opened his case and put his saxophone together.
"Don’t worry none about the lights, I don’t figure they’ll be admiring my old face too much," the old man said, his fingers flicking lightly over the keys of his instrument. To the owner’s experienced eye, the saxophone looked practically brand new, shiny and bright with polish and love.
He finished replacing the burnt-out bulbs and returned to his books. The old man ran through a few scales and practice riffs, and then suddenly went straight into ‘My Favorite Things’.
The owner looked up in astonishment, as the music filled the old bar and surrounded him in its embrace. He stood slack-jawed as the old man slid effortlessly through the song, then took off on an improvisation that left the owner dumb-founded.
"How…? How…? Why aren’t you playing the fancy clubs out in the suburbs!? You sound so much like Coltrane, I’d swear you’re him except I know he’s been dead for over 40 years! I heard him one night at a little club in the early ‘60s, and you sound so much like him it’s frightening!"
The old man smiled, and then started playing a slow blues riff he was apparently making up on the fly. The bar owner slowly returned to his books, watching the old man out of the corner of his eye. He played for over an hour straight, with just the owner for an audience, and then came up to the bar for another glass of water.
"Ya know, no one is gonna be here for maybe another hour or so, you don’t have to play yet if ya don’t want to."
The old man looked around; "you’re here, aren’t you? I figure you’re someone, and a person who’d take time out of his day off to take his mother and sister to church deserves a little something. Besides, need to get warm up for when the crowds arrive."
The bar owner shook his head, "ain’t gonna be no crowds, least ways not the way you’re probably imagining them. We’ll get maybe ten, fifteen, possibly twenty at the most here tonight, and they’ll be nursing drinks as long as they can at that. Hope you weren’t hoping for a standing-room only crowd."
The old man smiled and returned to his chair and put the saxophone away, then picked up the case. For a brief panic stricken moment, the bar owner thought the old man was mad and leaving, but he turned back with a smile.
"I’m going to my room for a few minutes, going to pick up my other instrument. This seems just a little refined for this crowd you seem to be expecting."
The bar owner sighed quietly to himself and sat on his stool. "Yeah, any kind of saxophone would probably be lost on them, yer right about that. Whatcha gonna bring back?"
The old man looked around the room, "Probably my guitar. Seems to be that kind of bar." He smiled again to rob his words of any potential offense, then left the bar.
The owner sat down to his books again, wondering how to make ends meet this month. He had been at it less than ten minutes when the old man came back in the door, carrying the same case.
"Decided to stick with the saxophone this evening," he asked?
The old man shook his head and went to the stage, "No, this is my guitar, an old Gibson 12-string. Case looks almost exactly like my other case I guess."
The bar owner looked and sure enough, though it looked like the other one, there seem to be subtle difference. He shrugged his shoulders and went back to work.
The old man tuned the guitar; displaying the same skill with it he had with the saxophone earlier, running effortlessly through several partial tunes. "Want to here anything special", he asked?
The owner figured to stump him, so he dredged up some old memories, "Yeah, Charlie Christian, know anything about him?"
The old man smiled his same gentle smile and started playing. The bar owner’s jaw dropped as the old man sailed through ‘Flying Home’, then slid effortlessly into ‘Tea for Two’. By the time he’d finished, some of the regular locals had showed up and were lined up at the bar, listening raptly. Scattered applause greeted his efforts, and the offer of a drink, which he turned down.
The bar owner sent over a large glass of ice water, then started in on his customers. An hour later he was startled to discover he had over thirty patrons, and most of them were gathered around the stage, listening to the old man play. He moved through most of Christian’s songs, then some of Ornette Coleman’s stuff from the Free Jazz movement, then into some improvisation that once again left the bar owner in open mouthed wonder. By the end of the night, he realized that over forty people had passed through the bar, yet not a single fight had broken out, and he couldn’t even remember hassling with anyone over the price of drink, nor having to cut anyone off. The old man left quietly, in the company of a couple of the older regulars. The owner sincerely hoped he’d be back the next night.
Two weeks passed in kind of a hazy bliss for the bar owner. He’d never had such a quiet time while being so busy. More and more people showed up to hear the old man play, and the bar owner had been forced to ask his lone barmaid to work more than Friday and Saturday nights. He noticed though, that while the number of patrons coming in had increased, their actual consumption per person had decreased. He could not remember when he’d gone two weeks without having to haul someone outside so they could throw up and then stagger away, and the police hadn’t been called once. The old man seemed to have an endless supply of instruments, playing an alto saxophone one night, a tenor saxophone the next, then another guitar, a beautiful Martin Flat-top the bar owner would have been terrified to take into any public place, let alone a bar. A clarinet, a fiddle and a mandolin made their appearances on the stage other evenings. The old man could have been playing any of the high flying clubs in the rich suburbs and making a mint, but he choose instead to hang out in the downtown slums.
Then, one warm Thursday night, the old man brought two cases with him, the usual one that he carried all his instruments in and a fine white and gold case that he kept behind his chair. He seemed slightly nervous throughout the night, nothing the bar owner could put his finger on, but nevertheless, he seemed ill at ease about something.
His instrument of choice this evening was a small zither, on which he played old Greek folk tunes and dance melodies. He always seemed to be watching the door and the bar owner wondered if he was expecting someone important to come and listen to him play. If so, the bar owner knew that whoever heard him would hire him in a second, and he’d be gone the next day. He glumly polished his glasses and wiped the counter, waiting for a high roller to come through the door.
Just after midnight, the old man stopped playing in the middle of a song and stood up. He carefully put the zither away and opened up his other case. The bar owner walked out to the stage, concerned.
"You feeling okay old-timer? Or is there someone in the crowd you’re gonna play a special tune for?"
The old man smiled sadly and pulled a beautiful golden trumpet from his case. "Yeah, you could say I’m gonna play a special tune. You ready for this?"
The bar owner stepped back as the old man seemed to fill out and get even taller. His trumpet seemed to glow on it’s own accord and rays of light bouncing off it sparkled on the ceiling. "Ya know, all this time, I’ve never bothered to ask your name. If you’re getting ready to go play your next big gig, I suppose I’d better find out who you are."
The old man smiled and brought the trumpet to his lips. "The name is Gabriel, friend. I hope to see you soon." And he started to play...
The End??
Bio:John works for a Fortune 250 computer company in middle management. He has played most of the RPG's that ever existed and especially enjoys AD&D, BattleTech and Shadow Run.
E-mail: jonjack1@home.com
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