saxophone player on Ross Island Bridge

He was playing his heart out. Always does. Running up and down the scale effortlessly as he improvised. I saw him from a distance at the West end of the Ross Island Bridge. Guiding my car down the curve I stopped beside him and reached out my hand. It wasn’t much but it was what I was able to give for the moment. He thanked me profusely.

I should be the one thanking him. He plays in rain or shine and never takes a negative attitude anytime I have seen him over the last few years. Tomorrow I intend to look for him. Get out of my car. Hopefully hear his story. When I find him tomorrow or at some future point, I will let you know what happens.

He captures my imagination because he works hard at doing what he apparently does best: making music. No signs, no aggressive panhandling. Just pure jazz and blues, playing from a musical score no doubt lifted from the pages of his life experiences.

He has a story burning to be told. Unvarnished. Real.

I make no assumptions as to what it might entail. I’m frequently on the wrong end of misguided assumptions, even recently in fact. Why do we feel no compunction about casting dispersions on people who live outdoors? Makes me angry. Enough said. I’m going to log out and think about that amazing, relaxing jazz I heard from my friend on the bridge just minutes ago….


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