A Lesson in Jazz
Her smile was almost flirtatious.
If she had held it a second or so longer, perhaps it would’ve been. But it gave way, right at the ends.
To a smile of warmth.
That was the feeling of the place you found yourself in. A few transfers and an unexpected detour on a cold winter morning, and you were at The A Train Cafe. The building for it had an odd shape, as if it were a part of the house in Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends. And just like Foster’s, it was welcoming and full of characters.
She was smiling at two middle-aged punk rockers who were standing in front of her register. One wore gray hair down to the collar of his leather jacket with complementary black jean pants. The other sported a short buzz cut and let his visible tattoos speak more for his punk image.
As you made your way to the counter, the long-haired man made a quip about something the three of them had been talking about, and looked directly at me, inviting me to riff on it. I quickly shot back a response, a witty pleasantry. Not my best lick, but it would do.
Continuing the mood, I asked the host about the menu and put in an order for a simple breakfast.
Stolen Conversations
The regulars steadily ebbed and flowed, the pace of conversation matching their pace of entry. They fully filled the space, ingrained into the cafe, hard to distinguish from its inanimate parts and from one another. You saw a number of families, some with children, and all varying in age. Couples sitting next to each other watching the world go by through their phones, other couples daring to make eye contact and talk. A few were there on their own, like me.
Amongst the many patrons of The A Train Cafe, it was hard to let go of the punk rockers. At their core, they embodied the type of working-class Northeasterner that defines so much of our region’s culture. Not born into the wealth of an extraction economy or from a family from one of the mansions dotting the coastline hills. And with that—perhaps to spite that—they’re some of the most well-read, cultured people on the planet.
It started with things too personal to share out in the open. Addiction, mental health, the deep struggles of a musician; stories about fighting for family and not giving up on those you love. Just two men, talking over coffee about the most vulnerable things in life.
It felt wrong to listen, as if you were stealing bytes of their existence. But they were only a few seats away, and the emotion carried the conversation well over its intended boundaries, embedding into the cafe.
“I’m at fifty-one songs since last October, mixed thirty-eight of them”.
“Nice.”
“Yeah, got a lot of Latin stuff too”.
They proceeded to engage in a deeply technical conversation about Latin American percussion.
I walked around as I waited for my food, exploring the paintings and pictures along the wall. Familial pictures from a small town in Europe and impressionist murals of jazz musicians performing made up most of the decor. The sounds of a jazz guitar gently played from the speakers, following me, blending with the conversations.
I found myself in front of a poster by the entrance. I had noticed it on the way in, too. It looked familiar but was hard to place. There was a picture of a blurry but formidable crowd at a platform, and towards the bottom edge, in focus, a man in a hat. They were waiting for a subway, perhaps the namesake of the cafe.
The host, waiting on patrons and also walking around, took a moment and stood there too. Gazing at the poster, she mentioned it was something her husband liked. It was his jazz guitar serenading the place, along with her in-laws from a small town in Italy on the wall. He is a big Duke Ellington fan, she said, as she turned back to bring the food I ordered.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was AI.
The eggs and toast were seasoned with care and cooked perfectly. Somehow, they were only a little over $5 with tip. I got to enjoy them alongside more conversation from the punk rockers.
“I had to go to a funeral the other day.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, it was at this Black church. It was real sad and all, but the band… I mean. There was this drummer…”
“Mmmm…”
“He was in the pocket so hard basting all these fills. He was playing 42nd notes with one ffff… my foot would’ve fell off”
“Oh jeez.”
“Yeah I mean, you kinda forgot why you were there. You’re just watching him play, you know…”
An hour has passed faster than expected. I cleaned up the silverware, passing by more folks and families coming in.
I thanked the host, and as I turned to exit, to face the harsh cold and all the choices I had made that had brought me there, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking.
All those moments, all their conversations?
Is that the grand plan? Is that the design?
To steal them all