Scribbler's Cafe

Snap: D2 Coffee and Jazz

My secret jazz bar hole in the wall is filled with women tonight. The joint is tiny - as small as my bathroom. There is only enough room for three narrow stools at the counter and one table with three chairs pushed together like a bench. Bill Evans plays on the record player. Bill Evans. Records.

There are four of us tonight: me, the bartender, and two other women who sit on the tall narrow stools. One cradles a sleeping babe and sways to the gentle piano.

I sit at the table and take out my paper and ink. The other women know each other. They chat softly while I scribble. The baby awakes. Ohiyo, the bartender whispers. Good morning. The nighttime darkness closes in outside, but we are exempt in this warm cavern.

The woman with the child in her arms keeps the babe enthralled with a folded square of bubble wrap. I want to tell her that my child loved that stuff. The sentiment forms in my brain in rough Japanese, yet my throat fails me. The autumn damp has stolen my voice, despite my certainly close reasoning in forming the difficult words.

The woman on the stool hands the baby to the bartender, pays her bill, and leaves with a cheerful bye-bye. I am surprised. The baby is on duty tonight. I imagine a childhood spotted with memories of a dim room constantly full of tumbling jazz, soft female voices and warm gentle hands.

posted by Scribbler @ Friday, October 07, 2005