Mitch

Friday night rolled around, and Emily and I sat in our apartment. The time was 8 p.m., and while we were perfectly content to sit and enjoy each others company, we were also struck with the realization that it was Friday night, and we were sitting at home with each other. Which isn't a bad thing by any means, but after an entire day of sitting at home studying for a take home midterm I was ready to climb the walls and was itching to do something other than stare at my computer (and let's be honest, facebook friends don't really count on a Firday night). While not usually one to bend to social and cultural pressures and norms, Emily was also feeling the need to go be social, but the option of going to a party where she would be possibly meet new and interesting people and definately be subjected to drunken antics by usually intelligent people was not incredibly appealing.

We decided to get dressed up. Oh! I wish I had pictures to post. I, in a baby doll dress with short black leggings, fishnets and heeled black boots. Quite the outfit, and the only way to make it work was by wearing it with a whole lot of confidence. Or under a long thick jacket (it was very cold outside). But it was nothing compared to Emily in a black leather skirt and wide red leather belt. Oh-la-la! She claimed it made her look slutty, but really, is that such a bad thing on a bored Friday night? She looked great.

Now, dressed and ready to go, we decided we really ought to go somewhere. So off to the trains and out to the West Village. Emily had seen a small jazz club hidden in a basement somewhere there, and so we made our way to Small's Jazz club, a delightful little dive that made me feel like I was in a Woody Allen movie (speaking of which, I took one of those love life quizzes and if my love life were a movie it would be Annie Hall. I am pretty sure that is not a good thing.). But before we got into the club, we had to wait in line for a while.

And that is when we met Mitch.

Mitch is the doorman, bouncer, money-collector, jazz expert extrodinaire who sits at the bottom of a very steep set of stairs, tapping his toes to the sweet smooth sounds coming from the club. He wears his hat like a 1940s movie star, at a jaunty angle, except that his is a knit beanie with a shiny button on top. Maybe it was his eyes that gave him that Humphrey Bogart air, big and soulful with eyelids half closed, like the world wasn't going to rush him. What I do know is that his running conversation with everyone and with no one in particular was one peppered with information to fill books on jazz, group theory, and the slang of one smooth alley cat. You should've been there with us, as Emily and I sat on the stairs waiting and trying to not show too much leg, listening to a jazz ballad and Mitch assuring us that in jut moments, when the song is over, the "ballad effect" would take place, which meant that people would be so moved by the beauty of the music that it was almost painful, and would decide to put their jackets and scarves on and make their way out the door. And lo and behold, the ballad effect took place, with a series of couples coming out, brushing past us as they meandered up the stairs, still tapping their toes to the strains of music following them. A regular, an old man with a blue coat and a little wife to make sure he made it up the stairs after one too many drinks, handed Mitch a $5, his usual tip after a good jazz show, and the two exchanged banter on the proficiency of the sax player. People wandered out, and Emily and I wandered it, leaving Mitch at the door to enjoy the music alone, or maybe not alone, talking to the pictures of famous jazz musicians who had once played that very same room.

The jazz show was all that he had promised it would be. the atmosphere, a tiny room, filled to the brim with music and energy from the live performers. And the ballad was so beautiful it hurt.