All the patrons were gone, and the club was dark and dusty. Clouds of smoke gathered in midair and hovered like vicious ghosts above the floor. Most of the chairs had been placed upside down on dirty tables.
The bartender was cleaning glasses with a greasy towel and the waitress was clumsily handling a broom to collect the broken shards of glass that had accumulated over the course of the evening. It was now four a.m. and a heavy rain was falling outside. There were no stars in the heavens tonight.
“You headin’ home soon, pal?” the bartender asked. “We’re closed, you know.”
“I’m aware,” The cigarette man said. “I'm leaving.”
He crushed out his limp cigarette and poured the remaining beer down his throat. His gulps were big and loud, each sounding like the cry of a drunken pigeon that had lost its wing.
“We’ll see ya tomorrow?” inquired the bartender.
“Maybe.”
The cigarette man gathered his horn and jacket and fled the club into the pouring rain. There he stood, lonely and wet, without a thought. As he looked around, he noticed the absence of souls in the streets of New York that night. Not even a leaf on a tree was stirring. The only sounds were from the endless drops of rain hitting the ground, his jacket, and his trumpet case. Shivering from the cold air reminded that he was still alive, as he started his walk home.
Home was a hole-in-the-wall walkup with a tiny bathroom. The carpet was a faded beige that revealed tiny flecks of ancient red wine and soy sauce. The sofa was worn and shabby, as was the only table in the room, which was buried in old newspapers and jazz charts. He glanced toward the bed and saw a heaving blanket, breathing slowly and peacefully. He sighed.
He went into the kitchen and poured a glass of whiskey. Dirty dishes crowded the sink, while the rest of the kitchen appeared spotless and clean. Surprised, he returned to the main room and sat down on the sofa with a heavy thud. He looked at the ceiling and breathed in the smells of the room. The distant fragrance of perfume hung in the air like a sweet mist. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply before letting out a deep-throated cough. The heaving blanket girl rose and kissed him on the cheek.
“Babe, I’m so glad you’re home. My friend came over and brought dinner. There are some leftovers.” She took the glass from his hand, finished the drink, and began to shake. She kissed him again and returned to her blanketed space.
He sighed again. A mediocre gig can ruin one’s frame of mind for a few hours. A bad gig might destroy inspiration. But a lifeless gig shatters the soul.
Tonight’s gig was lifeless.
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