No Need to Look

I was below in a basement listening to jazz, with its stone walls, small windows offering a glimpse of the successive steps of passerby's on the downtown streets above, and open spaces mostly lit by candles and a neon sign illuminating a green cocktail glass hanging over the stage. No, it's not a coffee shop, but I'm sure they would throw on fresh pot of liquid pick-me-up for the band if they needed it, but they don't. I was drinking whiskey on the rocks.

I have just sat down while the other settled patrons clap for a drum solo that has just ended. The bassist takes his place immediately after as the lead instrument. He resembles a heavier set version of the violinist from Dave Matthews Band; elegantly braided clean dread locks, a pair of dark sunglasses (in the dark), and a huge grin on his face as he traveled up and down picking away at the length of the fret board without ever looking at his quick moving finger placement. Throughout his entire musical improvisation he seemed to be staring at everything, and nothing at the same time. After earning his own personalized claps and soft whistles, their song ended, along with that set. He set his bass guitar down, stood up, and waited for the drummer and pianist to take each arm while guiding him to the bar. He was blind. But, boy could he play. To this bizarre bean: you know who you are.