There was one bar, a jazz bar, and back in the day, Carlos’s daddy used to play in it.
It went through some changes, padlocked for a while, then Carlos heard this Delroy dude brought it back. One piano and a singer.
“No horns,” Delroy said, “sorry.” even though Carlos knew damn well he wasn’t “sorry.”
Then some fancy, tiny lady opened a little brunch place. She was nice, Lydia was. Talked to Carlos, fed him sometimes, but he couldn’t really get excited about soy eggs.
Then another bar opened up where the dry cleaners used to be, and the block was starting to hop.
Carlos brought his trumpet, a stool, and a beige Fedora his aunt gave him, she said Lou Whitaker left it over her house after a party.
Carlos kind of thought it would have been easy for his aunt to find Lou at the ballpark and give him back his hat, but she loved tellin’ that story and she was dead now.
Carlos put a seed dollar in the Fedora and started relearning old classics, right on the street by the Crabin Building.
Carlos didn’t know what the Crabin Building was ever used for, but the name was etched dark and deep into the facade. Stairs had crumbled to not being stairs anymore, and every once in a while Carlos saw a rat peek out from the gaps in the brick.
He relearned Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy first. His dad had taught him that one from an old Abbott and Costello show.
After that, the songs started sprouting from his fingers and lips like dandelions in a side yard.
The drunks from the dry cleaner bar tipped better than the jazz club patrons, and Carlos was set to say something until he counted a warm Saturday night realized he cracked a hundred.
The white kids in the Badoo jerseys seemed to love The Hustle and he couldn’t miss with Miles for the older African American ladies that were going to the new French named ice cream shop catty-corner.
Someone barricaded the Crabin, threw up a sign that said “Affordable City LIving starting at 250k. ”
By the time the stairs at The Crabin were walkable, Carlos knew seventy-eight songs and was working on Penny Lane because a gorgeous woman with an upper lip full of mint mocha chip begged him for it.
Then they put an awning over the stairs the rats used to play in and Carlos saw furniture in the first-floor apartment.
Went downtown and pulled himself a permit, just in case. Damn thing cost him a whole Saturday night worth of tips, but he liked feeling that his ass was covered.
He slapped the sticker with his number on his trumpet case, leaned it against his stool so anyone who cared could see it easily.
Did a warm-up set, chilly night, corner not bustling yet, Fedora looking kind of forlorn with only a couple bucks in it.
Smelled weed on two guys walking by, kicked into Bugle Boy.
Cops rolled up on the curb.
Weed guys looked scared, Carlos felt sorry for ‘em.
Cops walked up to Carlos.
“Take your trombone and go, can’t be here.”
Carlos smiled, pointed at the permit, still blowing brass, thinking it was time to upgrade his mouthpiece.
“Not here,” the cop said. This is a no permit zone. No busking, no street vending, no rikshaws, no pedal pubs, from the Lodge all the way east to Cass. “
Carlos pulled the trumpet from his lips and swung toward the cops. Older cop had stepped toward him. The horn almost hit him, though Carlos had no intention of doing it.
Cop palmed his taser.
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