The Singer

The Singer


By Ravenquill


The sounds I was hearing – the soft "tink-tink" of silverware tapping on china, the murmur of the diners broken occasionally by laughter, and the jazz music coming from the stage - reminded me of one of the dinner clubs in an old movie.


The food was mostly Italian, and the music was a mix of pure jazz, blues and old big-band favorites. The five-piece band were all older black guys, and it was evident they’d played together for a while. It was also evident they played mostly for the fun of making music rather than for the money. There wasn’t a sheet of music anywhere, and the sound was fantastic.


I was there because I needed someplace to eat dinner and didn’t fancy the atmosphere of the restaurants in the hotel. I was staying there for the annual conference of suppliers of hand and power tools to industry and the hardware store trade. As head of marketing for my company, I had to attend, but I could at least enjoy my evenings as I saw fit. I told the desk clerk I liked jazz music, and she’d given me directions with the assurance the food was great.


I was halfway through my chicken alfredo when the sax player stepped up to the mike.


"We thank all you folks for comin’ to hear us, and we’d like to try out somethin’ iffen you don’t mind. A while back, the owner of this here club said he’d like to hear some singin’ when we play. Well, we went out and found us a singer. Her name’s Jesse, and she’s purty good. Come on out here, Honey, and show these folks whatcha got."


The bite of chicken breast fell off my fork somewhere between my plate and my mouth. I’m still not sure where. I was too busy looking at Jesse.


She wasn’t the young, blonde, tight-bodied twenty-something singer I'd have expected to show up in a Nashville club. This woman had the smooth, full curves that grace only women who’ve lived through some of life. The black dress she wore reached almost to the floor, and when she stepped, one nylon-clad leg flashed from a slit that ran from the hem almost to her waist. What she was showing of her legs was balanced nicely by what she was showing of her generous cleavage. Waves of dark brown hair cascaded over the swell of her breasts and framed a face that showed some years, but wore those years with the confidence and grace only found in beautiful mature women.


When the first few words of "Sentimental Journey" left her lips, it became obvious to me that Jesse wasn’t just another amateur. If I closed my eyes, I could see Peggy Lee, or Helen Forest or Doris Day singing. Jesse was that good.


The band did another six songs with Jesse and then announced they were taking a short break. Shortly they were all grouped around a table near the stage and placing their orders with a waitress.


That waitress had to pass my table on her way to the bar, so I called to her as she passed. Janet, as her nametag proclaimed, turned quickly and stepped to my table.


"Sir, I’m not your waitress, but I’ll tell Lisa you need something."


"No, I just wanted to pay for the singer’s drink, that’s all. And if you’d tell her I think she’s great, I’d appreciate it."

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