Mr. Jazz man

"Farragut North," says the wizard behind the grey metal door.
"Exit left." His voice is very reassuring, like a caring grandfather.

The masses congregate in the dim fluorescent light by the doors. I move slowly, but with intention. There is an older lady in red, really thin. She moves slow too, but in quick little steps. A younger attractive brunette is in the way. She doesn't quite know where to go, but is considerate enough to pretend to get out of the way. I smile and say, "excuse me." as the doors open.

We cattle out of our respective cars into the huge dark barren tunnel of Farragut North's platform. Everything is a different shade of grey and brown. Black suites, clicking heels and beige all whirl in and around the moving escalators. We move in narrowly defined paths like blood vessels bringing life to a deadening vein.

We get to the second set of escalators, the ones that lead us up and out of the cave, and I hear jazz. One man is playing the saxophone on the outside. I stop a second and look up. He's doing a Davis. I think Kind of Blue. I think slow smoke and polished black shoes. Two rows of escalators take people up in the grey wet sky. I make my way onto one and just let it ride. Each second the light gets lighter and the music gets stronger. There he is. A skinny black man in a disheveled blue, green and yellow sweater playing his saxophone. His eyes are closed and his cheeks are puffed out. It's city jazz. It's the jazz you'd expect to hear on a cloudy, grey day like this. It's sad and beautiful. Thank you, Mr. Jazz man.