#58

The room was sweaty and neon and full of older aged people. They were all there to see him play. He was coming out of retirement for one night only. A ring of light brightened on stage, and the man arrived behind his saxophone. The instrument was dull and tarnished but still induced a frenzy among his diehard fans when clipped the horn to the leather string around his neck. He too looked dull and tarnished but they chalked that up to a life well lived.

The spotlight above him and the smoke machine placed offstage made it look like he was thawing out under an ultraviolet sun. They liked the way the light let them see the pits on his face and the veins in his hands. They liked to know he was mortal, just like they were, though some pretended he would live forever like a god.

He folded his hands into a prayer and bowed to the crowd, then waited for silence before blowing silent hot air into his mouthpiece. He closed his eyes. (He always played with his eyes shut, dulling one sense to heighten another.)

His lips hardened and sound filled the room.

The familiar notes of his first hit usually sent the crowd into a roar of applause, and behind his closed eyelids he thought of it as the sound made when one goes over the waterfall. He loved that sound. But the audience remained silent.

So he continued, improvising here and there to let them know this was something special, but still, no response.

He let his eyes open a crack, just to make sure there was really still an audience in front of him.

What he saw were dozens of faces darting and swirling, unable to focus.

What he felt was the uncomfortable choke of the fly that had been buzzing around the stage before it went straight into his mouth as he parted his lips for a momentary refill of breath.