The Music of the Dead

Midnight in New Orleans. The streets are empty. Windows are devoid of light. A sticky heat oppresses those attempting to sleep along this once-bustling market street.

Beneath a lamp-post stands a man. An old man, shoulders hunched with aged, basking in the sickly sodium glow. Wrinkles and lines criss-cross his deep brown skin, wounds from the war that is life.

A war that ended for this man a long time ago.

A battered once-white fedora sits upon his head, the crown beginning to cave in around the creases. He wears a vest of indefinite colour over a tattered grey shirt trailing threads from the collar and cuffs and covered in smears of something black. His black leather shoes are caked with tannish dirt. The left one has a hole in its sole. A bone-white cigarette rests between his lips, a lonely curl of vaguely blue smoke climing intrepidly from its end, past the safety of the light and into the black unknown above.

At his feel lies a black, or at least mostly black case covered in scuffs and scratches hinting at the pale yellow wood beneath the paint.

He removes the cigarette from his mouth, inhales deeply and expells a dense cloud, turned golden by the light, through his mouth and nose. The smoke swirls like a storm cloud in the faint breeze before rising and dissipating into nothing. He drops the cigarette to the ground and crushes it under his right foot, grinding it into the concrete with his toe.

Stooping down, he undoes a series of rusty clasps on the mostly black case and gently opens the lid. From it he takes a tarnished saxophone, holding it gingerly as you or I would hold an infant. Leaning back up against the post, he brings the mouthpiece to his lips and begins to play.

The music rises into the night air and weaves a gossamer web of story and emotion, swelling and fading, the tempo rising and falling. There is joy there, and frivolity, but also sorrow, loss and hard times, pouring out through the bell of the intstrument, contributing but a small part to the human symphony.

Across the street, a second floor window illuminates. A sillhouette briefly appears and then fades away. Seconds later, a man clothed in flannels and a fraying blue bathrobe steps out the door. He looks quizically at the musician. He'd never seen or heard the man before and didn't quite know what to make of it. Buskers were no rare occurrence - during the day - but to see one at such a late hour as this raised some questions.

This man in the flannels and fraying blue bathrobe worked a monotonous job at a monotonous office with other monotonous men and women. He normally would have been furious at the man for breaking up his one respite from the tedium that had become his life, but he heard something in the music.

Something soothing.

Something relatable.

Something that evapourated is thoughts of carelessly piled papers and incessently clicking keyboards and impending layoffs.

Something that resonated within the deepest part of his soul.

More people trickled on to the street:

A single mother followed by her three young children. The former with dark circles around her eyes and a thin face holowed by work and worry. The latter bright-eyed and restless - as children often are at the least opportune moments - with only a vague conception of their mother's daily struggles.

A shopkeeper, who has been working as a door-to-door salesman for a flashlight company since his store was destroyed in the hurricane nine years ago.

A recent divorcee, whose wife had grown tired of living with grocery store clerk, and who had been kicked out of his ranch-style home, forcing him to seek out a property that was somewhat less than ideal.

A homeless drifter that everyone called Sammy for as long as anyone could recall, who lived in the alleys and hidden places, keeping to himself, too proud to beg for his living.

They all gathered before the man in the light.

Another man came out of a building with a trumpet, and began to follow along.

And then an old woman with an accordion.

And then a man with a clarinet.

A few brought improvised percussion instruments made from coffee cans, plastic buckets and cardboard boxes.

Those who didn't have anything to play began to clap, and when the tempo picked up, as it is wont to do when there is an air of excitement, they danced.

The fever spread to neighbouring streets, and soon the small band of people became a large crowd dressed entirely in nightclothes. More players, more dancers, some singers too. 

In that moment, that one microscopic moment in the universe, they were, each and every one of them, connected. Connected in a way that transcended who they were. Inextricably linked by that little hidden spot in the brain that drives human beings to seek each other out and unite in revelry. 

Hours passed.

As the time neared 4:00 AM, the players and singers and dancers began to tire, and started trickling back to their homes, basking in the lazy, endorphic afterglow of an event that gave them joy for just long enough, from which the energy was now fading into satisfied relaxation.

The night would not fade from the memories or fables of the residends for years to come. 

A few tried to find the mysterious man who had started it all, the one beneath the lamp-post who had first kindled the spark that became a bonfire. He could not be found, many assuming that he had gone his own way like the rest of them.

Sammy, however, had no place to go, and in remaining where he was, he cought sight of something - someone - an older man standing slightly stooped in the light of a lamp-post at the far end of the street. 

He wore a fedora.

He wore an oddly-coloured vest over a tattered grey shirt.

His shoes were caked with tannish dirt.

He held a case in one hand.

A shadow was cast over the man's features, but Sammy could detect the vaguest hint of a warm smile. The man grasped the crown of his hat, and, tipping it respectfully to the retreating revelers, faded out into nothing, leaving behind nothing but air.