Sax Man

(Previous installment)

But the morning rush slowly dwindled, the streams of office workers giving way to scattered clumps of tourists coming in on the train from the suburbs for the day. Though these people often had time to stay and listen, and even toss some change, they came by too infrequently to justify Henry staying around. By ten a.m. he had to be far to the east, on Michigan Avenue, changed into his uniform and ready to open and close doors for hotel guests for the next eight hours. As he packed up his saxophone and stuffed his middling take into his pants pocket, chasing for a few feet a dollar bill caught in a quick gust of wind, he realized without even checking his watch that he had barely an hour to spare. Barely an hour to ease his thirst.

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