misty.

I knew of a man once. He never gave his name. But I remember his songs. And of a girl named Misty.

I met him in the Memphis Blue - the club where I worked at. It was back in '48, three years after the War. Back when Harry Truman was still running the country, before folks got crazy over rock n' roll. He came in one winter night, with the snow padded on his porkpie hat and tattered grey coat. We thought he was a junkie; Glinda and me. He would walk in, order a Jack Daniel's, then find himself a corner seat - always the same one - by his lonesome self, and kept as quiet as a shadow till the end of the night. Just one drink for the whole night. And he would listen to the band that was playing that night. And he didn't just listen to the music, he felt it. I still can't find the words to describe it, but you would know if you were there. He didn't tap his feet or hum to the tune, but you knew it, as if you could see the timbres of the melody vibrate in his soul.

This went on for awhile. Glinda said he was always polite, though he never spoken a word. We assumed either he didn't like talking, or that he was mute. It didn't matter, after all, he didn't gave us any problems. He would just sit there, watching the band play with his mournful eyes, his hands on top of each other. Sometimes, when the band played a sad number, he would close his eyes instead, looking as though he was anywhere else but there.

Then one day, he came up to me. It took me by surprise of course; we never figured he could speak, remember? He talked slow and gently, as if he was afraid of waking a baby up. He asked me, if he could play with the band. He said he could play the saxophone. I said sure, the band could use someone who was good with the brass. And he thanked me, almost shyly. I asked him how much did he wanted to be paid, because the Memphis Blue wasn't exactly posh. We didn't get alot of patrons, and sometimes things got so quiet it was just us and the band. And he told me he was willing to play for free. I asked him if he was crazy, and he laughed and said no. I told him I wasn't gonna shimmy off a guy like him, and maybe we could pay him in meals. That he accepted. One dinner with a glass of Jack Daniel's by the side. I asked him why didn't he want any rubes - was he rich or just charitable? And he looked at me, his eyes clear and hazy at the same time, and answered simply:

"For Misty."

I didn't get it then. But I wasn't going to turn away a chance to spare a few blanks on the tally books. Like I said, we weren't exactly posh. The next night, he came in - still with his porkpie hat and tattered grey coat - except this time he was carrying a case with him. He took his sax out, and a right beauty it was. He must have polished it a dozen times a day. It gleamed like gold in the shadows of the club. He told me it was the one good thing he had left in his life. Then he joined the band, seeming to fit in comfortably. I remember the first night. We only had ol' Joe and his missus, Addy, and Jimbo, Zeke and Bo, who always came as a trio. They were just having a few drinks, and it looked like they were gonna go home in an hour or two. Then the band started played, a fast number at first. He didn't play yet. I was afraid maybe he was gonna stall, maybe he wasn't exactly a player. I got worried. Then after a two more swings, they got into a slow blues number. And he played. And it was sublime. When he played that sax of his, he was in a world of his own. I never heard anything that mournful coming out of a saxaphone before. It crooned of the loss of a loved one. It sang of those fallen in the war, those lost forever. It sang of tears and rain, of hurt and pain. Everyone sat still, and listened. Even Johnny on the piano paused several times to let him do his thing. No one had a dry eye in there that night, and no one really knew why. It was his music, so beautiful, yet tragic and true. When the band finally finished their gig and he stopped playing, everyone knew better than to clap. This wasn't a performance. That man poured his soul out that night, and we were simply picked to be it's audience.

And since that night, business at the Memphis Blue picked up. Some nights we even had to turn people away. Everyone had heard about his soulful music, and everyone wanted to listen. It was as if it was a remedy for some of them; as if his music preached into their existence. There were no words to describe those nights. Whenever he took the sax, everyone sat and listened. No one would order while he was playing, and nobody left till he stopped either. It was good times for us. And after each night, he would eat his dinner quietly, and leave after finishing his drink and thanking the cook. It was an unspoken agreement - he didn't seem to want to give answers, so I didn't push him with questions either. After all, like I told Glinda, a man's private business was his own business.

It was that way for awhile. Until one night, almost a year since the day he stepped into our club. He was doing his thing, and everyone in the club was familiar to us; that was how good it was. Then right at the end of the night, when the band was wrapping up, he spoke into the mike. He spoke softly, almost whispering in fact. But it was alright, because he had everyone's attention anyway. He said, he wanted to play one last song for us. Some of them were rather surprised - I knew I was. The band took its cue and sat out to watch him. He picked up Sonny's guitar, a stool, and sat down at the front of the stage. We couldn't see his eyes or his expression, for the place was always dim, and his porkpie hat had cast a shadow over his face. And before he began, he dedicated the song to Misty. Ahh, mysterious Misty, how we wondered who you were!

And then he sang for the first time. His voice was almost like ol' Blue Eyes, except it was woeful. And he sang his heart to us that night. I wish I could remember the words to that song, for I never knew a sadder song. He sang of her, of a love so deep, of a loss never forgotten, and of a wound re-lived and grieved a thousand times a day. And I swear, he made the saxophone weep its melody with his playing. And I remember feeling tears secretly falling, even though I never felt myself crying. The song was heartbreaking. And when it had finally ended, its haunting melody continued to linger in the air. No one moved until he picked up his saxophone and left the stage, as if they were somehow enchanted by a spell. And it did felt like it. It was something we could never fathom, yet we all felt it and we understood.

He didn't take his dinner that night. While we were busy tending to our folks, he simply disappeared out of the door, without saying goodbye. And when he never came back the next few nights, we knew he had left for good. Most of our customers left after he didn't return the next few days. But it was okay. They weren't really there for the drinks, we knew. They were there for him. There wasn't any hard feelings about his sudden departure; after all, we never did agree on any contract, and strange as it may sound, we were never really friends to begin with. He was but a stranger we had taken in as family, and when he left, it was as if he never came in the first place. But I've never forgotten about that stranger, the quiet man who could move grown men and women to tears with his saxophone. Nor of Misty, the girl he sang and played for. The girl he would always remember and love, and because of his songs, so would we.

. Arigato .