Thursday, March 5, 2015
It's my birthday, we step in..
Big band, jazz, swing. An orchestra, filling the room with black and white music.
The green letters glow in the darkness.. The music beckons.
Time has stopped here.. Couples on the dance floor swing, swing, swing to the music.
Liquids in martini glasses sway.
Time has stopped, somewhere in the 30s.
I look around. This magical place.. feels like irregularity in reality, a surreal, out-of-time pocket carved in the city.
We find a table and sit down. A man who seems to be in his early 50s sits right across from us. Wearing dark shades.
We immediately strike up a conversation. It's clear that he is a regular, and he's comfortable here in his own space. He says he comes every Thursday night.
Snippets of dialogue reach my ears in between the joyous outbursts of trombones and trumpets:
A tipsy, long haired woman approaches B, tells him to dance with her. He politely refuses.
So many stories here.. I understand why Murakami owned a jazz bar for many years before deciding to become a writer.
The singing woman smiles at us under the black tulle of her hat. She sways. Couples sway. The olives in martini glasses sway.
We stand up. Everyone swings to the music. We are in a wrinkle in time, but also surrounded by the realities of the twenty first century. I look at B. I smile.