Beginner's Luck

All this also reminds of a trip I made into the city as a 16 or 17 year old with the expressed purpose of playing at a jazz club jam session. I think the place was called Bomack's. I was dating a girl named Molly Stout -- who was, oddly, a little stout -- and I asked her if she would come with me because I was a little afraid. When we got there, I was afraid to get my sax out of the trunk. We entered the club. We were the only non-blacks in the place, and there was a pretty full-fledged jam session going on. The stage was lit brightly in yellow and at the mike was a good tenor sax player of middle age, wailing away on a spirited blues / r and b tune. There was more than a handful of musicians standing around him, getting their axes out of their cases, sitting at tables with their glowing instruments in their laps and sipping on a cocktail perhaps to deaden the nerves, or ward off withdrawal. I wished for a spirit then. Molly and I sat down and looked at each other. She has a beautiful face, round like an apple, plump lips, diminutive nose shaped like a ski-jump, and well-tended-to, sandy brown hair that rises from the front of her head in a wave and falls quickly around her chin. She's got a warm, knowing smile. When I remember her now, I remember her face in that club, the dim light softening her features. Soon enough a big guy set down napkins on our table and brusquely asked for our IDs. "Over 21," he said, and we had to go. On my way out I passed a large table of teenagers digging the music. And that was my first, and I think last, attempt at playing jazz in Detroit. On the way home I think I touched Molly's hand and thanked her for accompanying me on such a silly brainchild. Still I thank her.