“Your scotch on the rocks with two dashes of coke, sir.”
The waiter made to go but I stopped him, feeling concerned about the solitary position I had taken in the vibrant (but not overly busy) cafe/bar. “This is the first time I have been in this joint you have here. It feels like I may be occupying a space better suited to someone enjoying a meal.”
“Oh no, sir” the waiter replied with genuine refusal. “Relax and chill out” he smiled.
“Ahh, you are kind sir. Nevertheless, I am just a party of one, and if you need to move me then feel free to do so … closer to the bar.”
The waiter laughed as he shook his head.
I didn't get the joke. “I'm serious.”
“Okay” he said, still laughing as he walked away.
After my fifth scotch, the Jazz notes spilling from the guitarist's fingers seemed to mould into a blur of notes flurrying about the air, attacking empty spaces left by the absence of competing voices pausing only for breath and a chance for their lips to covet glass tumblers.
I turned my head as though listening for the all-defining note, that one moment when Jazz transforms itself from scales, chords and modes into a lush forest of experience, a soul cruising ray of light...
A shadow passed across my vision. No, not a shadow – an image. An image draped in trench coats and cool. “Was this the chief of cool?”
“No you bluthering idiot. Put that bloody scotch down or you'll do yourself an injury.”
“It's okay ma'am” I spluttered back. “I'm experienced at this.”
“Drinking yourself stupid; yes, I know. The only thing you are experienced in is making an idiot of yourself. You don't even know who you're talking to.”
“It's Danne you idiot. Do I sound like a broad? Bloody hell!”