Trumpet

He blew that horn and staggered across the stage, overwhelmed by the rhythm of the drums and the bass. Gregory Burkinder was a veteran trumpet player, entrenched in the jazz tradition, who loved his art with everything he had.

The bartender took a clean, damp cloth, and wiped the counter clean. There was little debris or dirt, but he was nearly obsessive about the state of his bar. No one was allowed to overdo it with alcohol, and there would always be fresh, fancy cardboard coasters, the fruit garnishes were carefully cut and refrigerated, and all the glasses sparkling.

The diners at the supper club were also well-tended; they had fine crystal glasses, clean and polished silver, and unchipped dishes, replete with meals like chicken piccata, Maine lobster, and sauteed vegetables over rice pilaf. Each table had a vase with a freshly cut red rose.

It was brisk outside, flurries of dancing snowflakes, icy banked roads, black skies peppered with white stars, and a car cruising by every so often. There was not a pedestrian in sight. Restaurants in the area gave off warm glows of ambient light reflecting off the steamy windows made bright also by candles on tables. It was a wintry scene.

I was upstairs, out of the shower, shaving my face in preparation for the comedy routine I’d bring to the stage after the jazz show. I was the dessert accompaniment, and the crowd was going to love me, I hoped. I knew what was going on downstairs, because I’d seen the scene countless times when not on the dessert show roster. I toweled the residual shaving cream off my face, and finished preparing for my debut.

It would be my first foray into professional stand-up comedy.

The Rug is slated for publication in 2024…

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