The Back O’Town Hustle

Ray wiped sweat from his eyes and checked his watch again. Two hours late. The saxophonist should've been here by nine, but the Quarter moved on its own time, especially in the July heat that made the asphalt sticky under your shoes.

The club owner paced behind the bar, glaring at Ray like the empty stage was his fault. Twenty people had paid cover charges, nursing watered-down drinks while the band—minus its sax player—tuned up for the third time.

"Where the fuck is he?" the owner asked, breath stinking of bourbon and bad decisions.

"Coming, Mr. Guidry. Said his car broke down."

"His car's been broken down since Nixon was president. Tell these people something."

Ray nodded and approached the mic. "Ladies and gentlemen, a slight delay. Band'll start in fifteen. Free round for your patience."

A few tourists in polyester shirts clapped. The locals just looked tired.

The club sat on the wrong end of Rampart Street, where tourists wandered by mistake and locals came to disappear. The sign outside said, "Authentic Jazz Nightly," which meant underpaid musicians playing the same five songs for people who couldn't tell the difference between Louis Armstrong and Louis Prima.

Ray went outside to smoke, watching a cockroach the size of a matchbox crawl up the wall. A taxi pulled up, and finally, finally, Jerome climbed out, saxophone case in one hand, plastic bag in the other.

"You're late," Ray said.

"Car trouble." Jerome's eyes were bloodshot, pupils like pinpricks.

"That car trouble come in a little plastic bag?"

Jerome smiled, teeth too white against his dark skin. "Man's gotta have his medicine."

"Guidry's pissed."

"Guidry's always pissed. Don't mean nothing."

They went inside, where the air was thick with cigarette smoke and spilled beer. Jerome took the stage without apologizing, put his sax to his lips, and the first note cut through the room like a knife through butter.

Ray watched the crowd's faces change. This was the hustle—keep them waiting, get them angry, then hit them with something so beautiful they forgot they were mad. Jerome could make that saxophone talk, make it cry, make it scream hallelujah even while his veins were full of poison.

The owner stopped pacing. The tourists stopped checking their watches. For two hours, nobody thought about the heat or the cockroaches or the cars that wouldn't start.

After Jerome counted his share of the door money—thirty-seven dollars for a night's work.

"Barely covers the cab," he said, stuffing the bills in his pocket.

"Barely covers your medicine," Ray corrected.

Jerome laughed, hollow and true. "That too, brother. That too."

They walked out into the night, into a city that would use them up and throw them away, and they'd thank it for the privilege. Some hustles you see coming. Others, you're born into.