Diary of an Aging Writer

Cameron slumped down on the bench in front of the Club Midnight in Yokosuka.  He gripped hold of the mouthpiece and neck of the saxophone and groaned. Damn! He was the featured soloist in the last number of the quartet’s first set. He had worked it all out in his head how he would play the tune. Duke Ellington’s Solitude. He gave it what he called a Billie Holiday interpretation. The reaction from the audience disappointed him. The few that applauded clapped as if responding to Pavlovian stimuli. Only one woman showed signs of sincere appreciation. The Club Midnight was nearly empty when the Quartet got ready to play their first set. Customers sat at tables scattered around the room exchanging conversations accentuated by laughter. At the bar, a man in a three-piece blue suit humped over a foamy draft beer. He was letting loose a stream of complaints about the unfairness of life. The bartender was listening with a wary expression.  “People are still scared of the COVID,” t...

        "Nigel Heller has returned, I tell you! I swear, man, it's true. I seen him."        "Nigel's dead, Horace. He got killed when his kitchen stove exploded." I wiped mustard from my chin and belched. The onion rings mixed badly with the craft beer.         "Barney! I saw him. I saw him." Horace cupped his hands around his beer mug, as though clasping an amulet to protect him from the Evil One. "He was in the woods."       "The woods? You mean the Washington Memorial Woods?" Kathy asked.  She was shaking her head in disbelief. "You were always afraid of shadows, Horace."       "You don't believe me. Come on. I'll show you." He stood up with frenetic force and tipped his chair over.       "Your brother's gone off his rocker," I said.       Horace ran to the exit and turned around. "Come on!"      "He makes me so mad," Kathy said. ...