Repair and Regroup

When I roll off the pad, the first sip of the bot cures me instantly of the rot I hold inside. Three PM creeps up faster than a crack addict in the alley. I look at the chair and note that my suit’s still there, pressed and ready to dress. Time is short and I put my shades on before I see something in the light that sends me back into the pit.

Saxxxx wakes up right after me and I blow a few centering G’s to give me strength in the knees. I have to leave this room and that takes a lot. Subtone Bb turns the door knob like an abusive father and I’m out into the house. Green walls sound grey through the RayBans and I arrange to have a meeting with a horse.

Five PM wakes me up in the easy chair and the only thing not weary is my hair. Four quick C sharps stand me up and I sit down to breakfast: cheerios with a whiskey back. Time to go meet a man.

Staccatto taps of my heels notify people to get out of my way because given their druthers, they’d stand there like any other, transfixed by the cold hard Saxxxx that plays itself so early in the day. When the sun goes down, I’m on the bad side of town and looking up the man that keeps me down.

I turn and face into a brick alley dotted with dumpsters and cats. I let loose on Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring and out pops Johnny. In cold coded tones of a harmonic scale, I let him know my checks and balances. He drops the pack in the bell of my sax and I thank him with a Stevie Wonder masterpiece. The Saxxxxxxman bows and gets onto a bus to make the babies dance and the old ladies crawl.

Afterwhile, back at the ranch, 9 Pm sneaks up on me as I pan fry steaks with a scintillating high D. Thomas Edison’s wax reels would melt if we met. And eventually his intrigue would give way to a sagging fatigue of the fighter who can neither take any more punches nor sit down.

I roll out of my apartment on dubs letting the music drag slack in the trail of my saxxxxx. The girlies start to drip out the windows ruby red drops of lipstick and love. Grand Earl Duke Viceroy Ellington drives over my head in a Cartier Cadillac as I let moonlight serenade play out in its own sweet way over the street.

At the club the bouncer steps aside when he hears the fat base pumping out of my grind. Specially reinforced keys made by NASA are the only thing that keep my horn from disassembling itself. I walk past owner, patron and Mexican bus boy to take the stage. When I turn about the winkywonky lives of the patrons disappear and without my shades, I would burn holes in each one of them. But they say below flashpoint for a while until I start letting the right notes slip in at a safe frequency. When the first table gets overturned, I take that as cue to be slightly more inflammatory and I let call from the SAXXXXXx the entire catalog of booker T on Staxxxxx.

Drained and dried after a binge of catastrophic proportion, I step off the stage, untie the horse’s bridle and leave the club.

Hassan’s rumpus room would start to look like the Playland Ball pit at Mickey D’s if the camera were to follow me out into the wees. But I can permit no more scrutiny tonight as I have several bullet wounds from which to recover and many hearts to sew back into whole.