He sits in a little old wrought iron chair, black with intricate, French-inspired design work. He's sipping out of a paper bag, a drink by the same name of the street he's on. He's sitting, and watching. Watching life whizz by him, wondering why his is standing still. His hands are dirty, his clothes worn and his face drawn. He looks in need of sleep. He asks a passing young couple for some change, they give him a dollar but he sees the judgement in their eyes. He straightens his old cabbie hat and sits up a bit.
On the corner, a band starts to set up for an evening show as the street lights flicker on. The neons spring to life all around him. The band starts to play…jazz, lively, just like the city. The piano beckons, the trumpet tempts, the sax calls his name. He gets up and starts to leave…stops, turns back. He starts walking toward the trio of sharply dressed men. He stands and watches among the crowd that's forming. His toes tap quietly on the sidewalk, his hand beating lightly against his thigh, keeping the rhythm. Five or six songs pass.
The final tune starts, and his breath catches in his throat. He swallows quickly as a tear springs to his eye. It's a song he knows well, one that speaks to his heart. This song is meant to be sung, not just played, he thinks. He pauses a moment, considering his options. He sets down the bottle in his hand, and steps forward. He stands in-between the band and the semi-circled audience. Everyone stares. He begins to sing, right on cue. The men in the band smile and continue on, a little more lively now. The man sings with such emotion, such an obvious understanding of the lyrics. The music ends, everyone applauds. He tips his hat, first to the crowd, then to the band, and starts to walk away.
"Hey, Pops! Wait a minute man!" calls the trumpet player. The man stops, and walks back to them.
"That's some voice you got there, old man. How come I ain't seen you out here crooning' before?" asks the pianist.
"Well, thank you boys. But I don't perform…not anymore. I used to, but that was a different life. Hell, that was a different world." the man responds, allowing a slight sadness into his voice.
"Say, how did you even know that song, anyways? Don't nobody play that no more! We only know it 'cause my daddy used to put the record on. But even then, no one else knew it," the trumpet player says.
"Well…I…I wrote that song, son. A long time ago, back when I was like you. I was in a band then…we used to kill 'em! We'd have Bourbon street goin' so loud!" he laughs at the memory, and continues, "But that was years ago, back when I knew what mattered. We were gonna big, man! The whole damn world was gonna know who we were! But then this shit came into my life…" He looks angrily at the bottle shaped paper bag at his feet, "I messed it all up. Everyone would be playing our songs, but I didn't care. All I cared about was where my next drink was coming from. I could have been the King of New Orleans, and I gave it up for that." A tear or two slip from the old man's eyes.
The band members look at each other, surprise in their eyes. They can't believe that the beaten down man they're looking at is THAT man…that legend! How can it be?! The pianist starts to speak as he looks back toward a man they all worship…
"Say, man, why don't you come back down here again and…." he trails off as his eyes finally reach the spot where his hero had been standing…it's empty. The man is gone. All that they can see of him is a dark shadow under a far streetlight. The wind picks up for a moment, and an empty glass bottles rattles as it rolls into the street.
