https://Voice.club - The jazz player leaned back in contentment, letting the sweet sounds flow effortlessly from his trumpet.
“Don’t know the words to this one,” he thought. “Don’t really need to know. Words can get in the way.” The trumpeter liked to communicate with memorable melodies, glowing harmonies, and fascinating rhythms. “Someone to Watch Over Me,” he thought. “Great title - one of Gershwin’s finest.”
“Sure would be nice, to have that powerful someone. Life has its razor sharp edges - can cut up a man pretty bad.” He let the song slowly die away as he watched the faces around him soften with the music. “Too bad it’s just a song.”
As he lowered his instrument, he heard someone call out to him.
“Hey Pops, come here! Got something to tell ya!” A voice came from the shadows. The man wore a red and blue checked flannel shirt, an odd choice for still-warm late October. His dark hair was frizzled, and he sported a two-day-old stubble. Another homeless person asking for money. The jazz man sighed and started to turn away, but the transient shouted again.
“Come here, man! Now!” There was a sense of urgency in the strange voice, gravely and rough. The street musician rushed toward the bellowing man, who suddenly grabbed him and dragged him several feet. Moments later, sirens were wailing and a policeman was standing over him. Behind them, a heavy vehicle had smashed the nearby storefront.
“My God! Where is that man? He pulled me out of the way, just in time!” The jazz player looked around in confusion.
The onlooking crowd got quiet, and the policeman turned a little pale.
“Can you describe him?”
“Oh, he was a bear of a man, needed a shave, voice like Louis Armstrong.”
“Wearing a checkered shirt?”
“Yep. Blue and red.”
Someone in the crowd whispered. “Satch.” Everyone agreed and nodded.
“I want to thank him.” The street musician clamored to his feet, searching for his hero.
“You can’t. He died eight years ago, celebrating Halloween. Stumbled into the street, got smacked down by a hit-and-run driver. Only comes back when he’s needed.” The crowd murmured, remembering.
“Then here’s to Satch.” The musician lifted his battered trumpet and played his heart out.