The sax player set his tenor horn gently on his desk, stretched and yawned after a long day of practice. It had been scales and arpeggios all day long but he wasn’t content at the slightest.
His passion had subsided over the past weeks and months, following his departure from the big band.
There had been a fight, a big one. That dragging drummer just couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
Now he had no steady job and his only income was what social security could provide, aside from his few students, all lazy kids.
He sighed and did the dishes before grabbing a back of potato chips and salsa and a cheap but ice-cold beer, to finally sit down after the long day, kick back and relax. As far as that was possible while feeling completely miserable.
He turned on the TV and settled for some kind of war movie.
The main character, pretty and supple as women in the 50’s movies tended to be was a war nurse tending to the injured soldiers returning from the front.
He barely followed the plot, it was some kind of romantic comedy and he nodded off slowly into sleep.
“Private Jackson, sir, can you hear me?”, a gentle but firm voice woke him up again.
He was lying on a stretcher, a needle in his arm, the sound of artillery in the distance.
“WTF?” he gasped, as the beautiful nurse held him down.
He was bleeding from his stomach, no small wound and damn, it hurt!
No saxophone, no potato chips, no beer. This was the real deal, real blood. Oozing out of his veins.
He fainted back into oblivion, afraid but focused on the lovely face of his caretaker.
Only to wake up back in his apartment. He touched his stomach, relieved, it had been a dream.
The next day he came home from practicing, he followed the same routine to a fault, as on any of his boring evenings. This time there was no war movie, some science fiction series about an alien race invading earth, nothing to get excited about. And again, the weariness of the day caught up with him.
“Commander Jackson, they are closing in, what should we do? The Xarnagh leader wishes to speak with you. Oh please, can you save us?”
He looked around, again at the pretty lady who had been a nurse to him and without a second of hesitation he stepped up the chairs to the command chair, just as some kind of missile hit the room.
Sweating, he opened his eyes.
No, still just a sax player. With chips on his non-injured, non-decorated belly.
Who was that woman that she made such an impression on him?
He checked the TV guide but couldn’t find what he had watched.
Had the dreams started earlier than he thought?
Very carefully, that night, he grabbed the bag of chips and the beer and very carefully sat down at his coffee table.
Gazed out of the window and watched the TV, which was still turned off.
This time he would be prepared. He grabbed his trusty saxophone and held it firmly by his side.
Yet, the hard work of the day sent him to slumber at some point and off he dozed.
“Jackson, how swell of you to come! Baron Heath will be pleased to have you in the band! I’ll see you on stage.” He stared at the nightclub, smokey and full of entertainment-eager people. “Wait a minute, what’s your name, darling?”
“My name is Music, don’t you know? We are married, you fool, 20 years already. Yet somehow, I often get the impression you are not in love with me anymore, no matter which dress I wear or how I do my hair. What do I have to do to make you fall in love with me again?”
“Nothing.” The saxplayer smiled. Checked his reed. Straightend his tie and joined the band.
The next day he woke and wondered about the power of dreams.
Music was still the love of his life. What a gift.
He felt ready to woo that beautiful lady again.
And he left his apartment, tenor sax on his shoulder.
Humming Stardust by Hoagy Carmichael.
Time to play.
Wherever and whenever.
As long as she was around.
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