When We Were Young by jason Jepson

Underage

            I’d left the small town blend, and my life was starting to change. Placebo was caught with an ounce of pot and some ecstasy. He was in jail. Gloria dropped out of college and was trying to make it as an actress in LA. I thought about Tactic's last words before I moved away, "You’ve got to find your niche."

            I’d been living in my aunt's attic room for a few days while my parents and I waited for the new house to be built. I wasn't looking forward to the real move because I’d be out in the suburbs away from the action of downtown. I had enjoyed living in the city rather then suburbia. One night I went to a bar that Captain told me about.

            The days were still long, and the heat was directing our every move, but it was dark now. As I stood on the sidewalk outside a jazz bar, God's headlight helped reveal the silhouette of a woman's legs as she bent down slightly to pick up the last of her groceries to put them in her car. The few remaining summer nights were making way for fall.

 “Compose yourself,” I thought, “you're nineteen, trying to drink at a jazz bar. They won't serve you at the bar, so sit at one of the booths and look busy.” I entered the double-swinging doors and noticed they were decorated with the letters R and R. I’d like to think they stood for Rest and Relaxation; instead, they were the first letter of the owner's name, an Asian man with a stained apron who was always willing to talk to the paying customers.  I didn't meet him during my first experience.  But when we did meet, he didn't fit my stereotype of a jazz bar owner. But anyone could tell he was proud of his bar.

            The cocktail waitress, a queen from Afghanistan, came to me with a smile. She wore a revealing, low-cut dress, which helped fill the tip jars at the end of every night. "Would you like a menu?"

"No, I'll have a beer,” I answered.

            I ordered the cheapest one they had. She left with my order, and my eyes followed her firmly sculptured legs as they skipped down a set of steps. Suddenly they were hidden behind the bar. She didn't look suspicious, but the doorman did. He sized me up, and I gave him a nod. The cocktail waitress finally came back with my beer and smiled.

            "When does the show start?" I asked confidently.

            "Usually about 10:30," she said.

            "Thanks." I smiled.  Not busted yet.

            It was still early, and I was the only one in the bar except for an older couple sitting on stools in front of the bartender, slurring the language of a potential divorce. I couldn't make out the language yet.

The band members arrived one by one. The alto saxophone player opened his case beside me.  Like the bottles of whiskey behind the bar, I stared straight ahead at the scene unfolding before my eyes.  He took out a rag and wiped off the excessive fingerprints on the instrument and smiled at the trumpet player, taking off his hat as he entered the bar. The drummer set up beside the window and had a conversation with the front man, who played the tenor saxophone, but there was no sign of the trombone player. I was the only one who seemed to notice. They finally  walked to the stage in a slow pace, each instruments whispering faint warm-up sounds

            The front man took his position at the soundboard, and the drummer played the cymbals, molding a soundtrack as the crowd stepped in, looking for an escape from their daily lives. The trumpet, alto, and tenor played chaos, while the drummer switched to the snare with a bass drum, forming a drumbeat that sealed in the already drunken voices of the crowd. I was not going anywhere.

            I counted the beers I drank and realized I was running out of money, but the show hadn't even started. The cocktail waitress came back to check on me.

            "How much is one beer?" I asked

            She looked at me as if beer was shooting out of my ears.

            Realizing the question sounded slightly underage. I explained to her that I just moved here.  

            "Two bucks." She stride away as the band played a song by Sonny Rollin off of his Saxophone Colossus album. I was hooked.

            The trumpeter played a solo. He walked around the bar with his stiff cheeks and profusely sweating forehead, making eye contact with everyone. Everyone was forced to listen. I thought he sounded like Lee Morgan. The other musicians did the same thing, not competing with each other, but telling the story of their shitty work week.  There was still no sign of the trombone player.

            As the cocktail waitress checked on the individual booth, Lee Morgan's wonderful imposter was in the aisle and blocked her from getting out, so she sat down next to me. She smiled and I smiled back. I wished I had money for more PBR, and the last thing I wanted was to be sober in a jazz bar--underage. The last few sips created a bittersweet taste for alienation and the jazz.

            Suddenly the trombone player walked through the swinging doors, already in sync with the other members of the band. I quickly knew I would became a regular, as the whole place erupted in applause, and the jazz band howled throughout the streets of Richmond. The melody echoed throughout the bottom of my empty beer can. I was content.

            When the intermission was called out by the tenor saxophone player, I asked for my bill as the cocktail waitress passed by.

            "You mean your tab," she corrected. “I’ll get it for you."

            Since the band had stopped playing, the bartender had turned on the stereo.  Sinatra sang “The Good Life.” I paid and felt bad for leaving a shitty tip, determined that I’d make up for it next time.

            I went outside, where two band members were drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. Another musician came out and told them he was going across the street to buy a hot dog at the convenience store.  I talked to the remaining musicians and asked if they would take requests when they began the next set.

            "Sure, what would you like to hear?" one asked.

            "`Blue into Green’ by Miles Davis,” I answered.

            They smiled at me. One of them knocked on the window that said "Rick's."

            The band leader, the tenor saxophone player, came over. He opened the door beside the window, where the band loaded their equipment in and out of the bar.

            "This gentleman has a request," said one of the band members.

            "Really? What would you like to hear?" asked the leader.

            "`Blue into Green’ by Miles Davis, and could you dedicate it to the cocktail waitress with the black skirt?"

            "Sure thing."

            The band members went inside to start their second set. I stayed outside, staring and watching as the band leader announced that tonight, and every Friday and Saturday night, featured vocalist Miss Lady E would perform.  I could hear her opening lines of “Summertime,” and I walked to my car, hoping my request would make up for the dollar tip I left the waitress.