7th Street Seranade

The guys in the brass jazz band are at the northwest corner of 7^th and F, sweaty and ready, but they’re not playing.  It feels like a double 95—degrees and percent humidity.  One guy sits on a stool at a snare; the trombone players and tuba player stand, mopping brows. It seems these guys only come out when it’s hot. They’re all looking across 7^th Street to the primo spot, right at the top of the Gallery Place Metro where a steady stream of hot humans exiled from the cool dark underground face the six o’clock heat.  Under the scrap of shade beneath the Verizon Center sign a solo guitar player wails on his electric, riffing against a recorded track.  The brass guys are watching and listening, envious or patient.

As I cross 7^th headed for the Metro one trombonist blasts a single note.  A warning shot across the street?  I slide the sunglasses off my damp face as I pass into shade.  As I step on the escalator I hear the trombone again, and then the guitar answers.  Now they’re in call and response across 7^th Street.  I should have turned and gone back up.