Chicago Winter 2018

by Ron Lauderbach

The Uber drops us at a club where a single
incandescent bulb flickers over the name
on its door. Like in a Rod Serling scene,
I imagine it gone tomorrow, but there are
five Yelp stars and it’s snowing, so we
enter and find hard seats in the back. Joe
talks to the waiter and orders a bottle of
Macallan 18. He pays with a couple of C notes
and from our new plush chairs up front, we talk
to the musicians. A trumpet player tells me
he bought his horn from Wynton Marsalis.
Me and the Macallan believe him. The next day,
by the Bean, I can’t remember the name of
the club but I can’t forget that jazzed
trumpeter who loves his shiny horn with
a calligraph WM engraved on the bell.