The chill of New York drifted out of Orville’s mouth. The sound of traffic hummed in his ears. His footsteps crinkled in the snow as he headed down Bleeker Street to the blues bar he owned – The Bag Lady. It was still a classy little joint he had inherited from his father.

He pushed down his fedora to fight against the wind and tugged at the collar of his overcoat to cover the back of his neck. He felt like he was the Shadow.

The Shadow knows.

His round little glasses resting carefully on the tip of his nose, fogged up occasionally as his hot breath touched the glass. People swarmed around him. Most people hated the crowds, but this was nothing like a Friday night in The Bag Lady when Harvey Longnose played his saxophone and lured in the guests.

He stepped off into a quiet alley. Smoke rose from the vents from beneath the streets. His long fingers, bent from years of piano playing, fumbled for his keys. He could rattle away at the keys of a piano but to fit a key into a lock, it took him a few tries.

He entered into the side of the bar and pushed the button for the lift. He had it installed after years of sitting in front of a piano played its toll on his spine.

Orville took his hat off and combed his silver hair with his fingers. He was hungry to get started. His mind listed tonight’s playlist. His fingers tapped against his coat as if it were the piano.

He reached into his side pocket and pulled out a ziplock bag. He unzipped it and took out a small peeled loaf of garlic and chewed on it. 

The lift finally arrived and he longed to take the flight of stairs again. He wasted so much time waiting for the lift to open its doors and take him upstairs to his piano.

His business partner made sure the elevator music was Miles Davis. His trumpet filled the small space and made the slow rise to The Bag Lady bearable. He eventually moved further away from the crisp draft of New York and into the humidity of his bar. When the lift door opened, smoke barrelled in. He wrinkled his crooked nose, a reminder of his boxing days as a young scamp. He didn’t smoke a day in his life, and why would he? Everyone else around him did.

He instantly walked across the bar to the stage. The lights were dim and subtle. His eyes were on the prize. HIs beauty lay beneath a glowing spotlight waiting to be played. She was black and polished like his shoes. He sat in front of her and rested his fingers where they belonged. They said hello to each other and sang together.

Orville swayed and bobbed. He saw shadows of others approach the stage. No one said a word. They wouldn’t until Orville’s playing stopped. The shadows split. One started strumming the bass. The drums began to beat and hiss, and most of all, that saxophone rose its song to the roof. They played like this for awhile. Murmurs of people began to fill the seats. The cigarette smoke grew thicker. Clinks of glasses and laughter mingled in well with the touch of piano, the heartbeat of the bass, slow walk of the drums, and Harvey Longnose’s sweet saxophone.

Orvile smiled, flashing his pearly whites, his fingers fading the music away, and he leaned over to the microphone. Anticipation silenced the room.

Orville’s deep voice vibrated through the room, “Good evening and welcome to The Bag Lady.”

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