A Crowd Makes A Man

            I remember how silently lively this place used to be when I wandered in during those long nights when I needed a place to relax. The overhead lights would shine a cool navy, and the only other semblances of brightness would be the stage lights lining the edge of that round stage at the far end of the room. The club would be packed yet silent as people from all walks of life sat in their seats quietly as they waited for the nights performer to be on stage. They’d have their cocktails and hors d’oeuvres in hand, quickly making their way through their light meals as to not interrupt the soothing ambiance that would soon radiate around the building. It had been an unspoken rule among us so-called music connoisseurs, though when the notes started weaving through the air, any sort of reserved critique went out the wide window facing the street, along with the blinking neons of the “open” sign that beckoned those night wanderers to enter.

            His name at this club was “The Smooth Operator”, a name bestowed by the lonely club owner who found his footing only within the confines of these walls. Outside of this place, he went by a plethora of other names, all of which fit him. 

            All eyes were on him as he would saunter out onto the stage with a swagger befitting only someone who knew they were to be the center of attention. The heels of his leather boots would click against the creaking wood as he tailored each step to silence the audience. A pair of freshly ironed slacks were tucked over a humble, shadowy purple polo that only shined under the dim lights of the stage that were positioned to point at his torso, or where his fingers would be clicking against the brass he brought with him. A black case in his hand would always match the fedora he wore, a trademark of the Operator as it were. 

            When the heel clicks came to a halt, whatever faint finger snaps remained would come to a halt. The albedo of his obsidian skin would bring the lingering attention of the crowd to him as he had yet to speak a word. He’d then top his fedora, and recited his introduction with the velvety voice so many has found warmth in. 

            “Good evenin’ ladies and gents. It’s so good to see so many familiar eyes mixed with some new ones. Tonight’s vibe is brought to you by the Smooth Operator, courtesy of this dear club. Now, prepare to have your ears pleased and your minds at rest.” And with a smile of his pearlescent teeth, he’d place his case down and brandish a gilded saxophone from inside, placing the reed to his lips and beginning the night for so many of us.

            Now however, in some sort of cosmic irony, the club’s familiar silence was bastardized by the lack of life. From the doorway, I could see the dead stage now lit only by the light shining from outside the wide window, only now it had no one to highlight. The tables littered about the floor before the stage were empty with chairs cold to the touch. The quaint bar to the far right was fully supplied, yet completely barren except for a thin layer of dust caked along the counter and glass bottles full of ripened whiskey. 

            Without anyone to be a customer, there was no one to fill the club. The empty streets running along the entertainment block was telling of how many filled the shops and bars lining the sidewalks. 

            It had been weeks since I’d been here, the longest stretch away in over a year. The time between my visits had been muddled with searches and questions about what I was missing. 

I had left the club that night with only the faintest scent of alcohol on my breath. I drove home with the rare elation I only garnered on these nights. The notes I assumed had come from the Operator’s smooth tunes danced around my brain on repeat like my own personal concert, and I hummed these false notes as the wind blew through my open windows and played with the strands of my hair.

When I’d made it home, I sat unmoving in my car as my eyes were locked onto the window four stories above me. The prison of my own creation awaited me, but why did I have to return? I longed for the Smooth Operator to return to the club so I could sit on my stool in the back, a simple Long Island in one hand, and my other hand raised high and waving to the tune of the saxophones notes. I had no idea the length between our session would be so long at the time. 

I let out a deep sigh and entered the building for my trek up the flights of stairs. Once at my level, I walked through a hallway of locked doors and beats of loud music vibrating through my feet as I made my way towards the only dead room present. Once at this room, I took out a single key from my back pocket and slid it into the doorknob. 

            I went straight the kitchen and sat in the only chair that I owned. Between my cheap salt and pepper shakers was a single orange bottle with a label that read “Trazadone” on it. I opened it up and took two of the pills instead of my usual one. I then rested my head on the table, and my world went black. 

            When I woke up, I immediately knew something was wrong. I groggily looked around my empty kitchen, but perked up when I couldn’t feel anything rumbling in the floor. My eyes widened and I ran into the hallway outside my door. It was silent. 

            Every door was opened at varying levels of ajar, and random items littered the floor like bear tracks leading towards the stair way. I followed them towards the stairs, and saw more apparel strewn across the wooden stairs. 

            I followed the trail outside and the sun was shining directly in my face the silence seemed more deafening than usual. I saw birds flying overhead, their beaks flicking free their chirps that I wished I could hear. The rumblings of engines were dead, and I couldn’t feel anything firing through my bones. 

            There was nobody in sight. The park across the street was desolate, and movement from anything other than things at the winds decree was absent. It was as if the world was frozen in time. At the time, I had wondered where everyone had gone.

            I walked along the street once littered with vagrants, and found nothing but used needles and scattered trash along the sidewalks and streets that were once constantly busy. I walked past all the brick apartments and made my way to the café that had found itself in the worst area of town. It had to be open at this time of day.

            But I was met with a shattered door and more emptiness abound. The chairs were flipped over, remnants of cash littered the floor, and all hints of food was gone from the display case. There were splotches of blood on the floor under blackened bullet holes embedded in the walls. And again, there was no sign of life other than a family of racoons scavenging through the destruction.

            The other shops were just as easy to enter and told the same stories. 

            As I stand in the doorway of the jazz club, I remember that even though it’s been weeks since I’d seen another person, the amount of contact with another person is still the same as it was. That was something to let out a faint chuckle for. 

            The door of the club was the only one in the span of dozens upon dozens of doors that wasn’t broken down. What was to be found in a jazz club anyways? The contents inside were all untouched, and it was the only place I’d been to where the silence and lack of rumblings felt natural. 

            The door had been unlocked and I’d found my way inside, and of course, it was all absent from life. I walked towards the bar and grabbed one of the bottles of Jack Daniels placed on the glass shelves, and took off the cap. I took a thick swig of the harsh liquor, and felt the burn run down my throat. In a not-so-unlikely twist, my face contorted to disgust and I placed the bottle on the counter and put the cap back on.

            I looked to the stage and saw a black case lying on its side. If it was what I thought it was, it was something I needed to have. 

            I unslung my backpack and placed it on the floor. A slew of items dangled around the sides of it, clipped onto any piece I could find to attach a new necessity. A flask, lighters, hunting knives, and a flare gun donned the outside of a bag filled to the brim with anything else I’d determined I’d needed. I unzipped the bag, and in a cushion of random clothes, I slid the whiskey inside and shrugged.

            I thought about putting the backpack back on, but I realized that the lack of weight on my back was something I’d missed, so I left it on the ground. I turned towards the stage, and scratched an itch under a beard I’d inadvertently been growing the past few weeks. I walked towards the empty stage, inching between desolate chairs and tables and hoisted myself onto the stage once it was within reach. Once standing, I turned towards the empty crowd and looked out over the abandoned seating area. I imagined a crowd of people lending me their eyes in the same solemn silence they had given him, and I felt the first smile in weeks creep across my face. 

            I reached down towards the case, and found myself taken aback when I saw the malnourished state of the case. There were patches of torn leather I hadn’t been able to see from the back of the club, and it was stained with sweat and creases that were so prominent, I wondered if it was part of the cases pattern.

I put my fingers on the two latches on the case and flicked them open while clicking my own tongue so I could feel the sensation of the process like I used to hear. Inside, was the crux of my worship. 

In stark contrast to the rundown case, the saxophone was pristine. The gold finish glittered under the light shining through the window, and the keys looked like they’d just been carefully dusted and cared for. It felt like a sin to place my fingers on the unblemished brass, but then I realized there was no one to judge me anymore, so I grabbed it with both hands and dirtied its surface with the smudges of my fingers. 

It was lighter than I thought it’d be. I had imagined the metal instrument was in need of herculean strength to play it, but it felt so fragile in my hands. I ran my fingers across the raised metal and clicked the springy keys with my fingertips, I wondered how crisp the clicks were. 

I envisioned how The Smooth Operator had held it, and maneuvered the instrument in my hand until I looked just like him. The reed was an inch away from my lips, and I looked out at the crowd again, and this time, I saw all their eyes focused on me from each table. They were patiently waiting for me to make my move, and I could see their irises under the dim blue light that was now shining from the ceiling. They held their finished cocktails in their hands like they’d forgotten they were there; all their senses were in tune with me. I had all their attention. 

I put the reed between my lips and felt the smooth wood rub against my flesh. It was a strange feeling, but eventually I found the right footing as I swaddled the instrument between my lips. I closed my eyes and let the feeling of the keys guide my fingers to their starting positions.

A new sensation came over me. A feeling of strength flew through my veins and the pressure of not just the keys, but the world seemed to be at my fingertips. Behind closed eyes, I knew all eyes were on me, patiently waiting for my tune to determine the vibe of the building. I felt a confidence knowing I was the one people were looking towards and anxious to hear what I had to offer. I chuckled to myself, I owed it to them to give them what they wanted.

I blew into the thin opening at the tip of the saxophone, and my fingers danced up and down the keys as if the movements had been there all along. I felt the music flowing through the points of contact and enter my body like oxygen, sliding through my being until the music entered me and mixed itself with me. I felt the vibrations of my notes in the back of my skull and, for the first time in years, I could hear the notes caressing my eardrums and firing through my skull as if it had all never happened. 

I opened my eyes to a sea of blue that swished through the air. The navy lights waved around the air like water as music notes slid out the cone at the end of the saxophone and swam into the blue like fish. The black notes danced in the air and let themselves be carried by the waves of blue as they cascaded in the air around the heads of my crowd and sept into their ears with ease. Their eyes silently cheered me on as they became one with my notes just like I had. 

I felt the music in my bones, and my body swayed with the notes I could finally hear reverberating around my skull. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever felt in my life. Was this what he felt every time? Was this what it was like to be seen? Was this the feeling of life I’d yearned for my whole life? The answers couldn’t come fast enough, so many feelings and words entered my mind like music notes until they all combined into one. 

A sole answer filled my brain and in one swift movement, I could see the sentence slide out of my head, into my mouth, and out into the saxophone as the keys bowed to my every whim. I could feel the thick letters sliding down the instrument until they exploded out while intertwined with my notes. They flew into the blue air and in a moment, a single sentence was a stretched out over my crowd, caught between the sea of notes and embedded in the air itself.

“This is life.”

And then it shattered into a million pieces.

I fell to the ground and felt something wrapped around my shoulders as my hands emptied themselves. When I opened my eyes, the air was back to the way it used to be.

But on top of me was a gasmask placed just under two human eyes that were filled with anger. I felt my body shake as his hands shook me on the ground. His face was right above me, and I felt the familiar rumbles of shouts tingling around me arms. Under his clear mask, I could tell he was speaking to me, but my hearing had left me once again. 

“I can’t hear you!” I willed myself to speak. I hoped he’d heard me. 

He stopped shaking me and just stared at me for a few moments before he lifted himself off me and took a few steps back. His was covered in camouflage clothes. I got up from the ground until I was standing eye level to him. I motioned to my ears and shook my head, hoping he’d understand what I was trying to tell him, and thankfully, he could.

He looked out over where my crowd was, but instead of a sea of admirers, stood a handful of men dressed just like the one in front of me, except their hands were filled with rifles. He shouted something and motioned towards himself, and one of them immediately walked over to him and tossed a pen and notebook to him. He scribbled a few things down, then flashed the paper right in my face. 

“We are military. Not safe here. Sirens went off weeks ago. Evacuation. You are bad at music.”