Sax Man

Few remembered the old songs that Frank played, and fewer still would appreciate them enough to spare any change as they passed by. The saxophone case rested on the sidewalk, opened wide to reveal only a few scattered dollar bills and a handful of small coins. Four or five dollars for several hours of work. Because as much as he loved the music, as much as it satisfied his soul and made him the man he was, it was indeed work. Standing at the railing, hot or cold, rain or shine, the wind from off the river usually whipping at his face, honking out the same standards for hours on end to the mostly indifferent glances of business people hustling to the office. He had been riffing on "Round Midnight" for ten or fifteen minutes and needed a break soon. He had been playing without pause for over an hour and needed a break. Even Coltrane would step away from the stage now and then, he thought to himself, taking a break as the band continued on, settling in at a table filled with well-wishers and enjoying their praise and a cold highball. But on the bridge Frank saw neither praise nor refreshment before him, just a few minutes to rest his mouth before he would continue on.

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