Three men stand by a revolving door. One shifts the guitar case strapped to his back. The hard cloth shoulder strap cuts through his blazer's shoulder pad, causing discomfort. He voices his concern of the gig, of missed notes and botched solos. He is worried.
The next grips and regrips the handle on his violin case. He nods sparingly, barely understanding his band mate. he cares not for the band or the way things worked out. He cares only for his next paycheck, his next meal.
The last tugs on the strap gripping his broad cheat. The black case. He had been admonished as a child: who would want to play the saxophone. He cursed his work ethic situation.
But they always manage to get into situations where they wish you not to be. They did it every night, drank away their sorrows, and did it all over again the next night. Every night a different bar, hotel restaurant, small pub, every night the same dreary patrons, the same smattering of applause.
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