The door opened, he came in with the bitter cold, a stiff wind and a pea coat. I hadn’t seen him in twenty years. The bitter cold and the wind I saw a half an hour ago.

There was a three piece on stage assaulting the unkindness of customers with Rush covers; Crunchy chords, big hair, and that sort of scratchy screechy vocal that passes as hair metal archetype. Ok, maybe it was a murder of customers, I have a hard time telling ravens from crows; to me they are all black birds and when a bunch gets together something is dead or dying.

He shook my hand and pulled me in for one of those half hugs. It’s the kind of hug men who don’t hug do to show old allegiance, a remembered closeness.

“Anybody still do jazz around here?” he shouted near my ear.

Then Tom Sawyer ended, there were a few scattered claps among the crows or ravens in the ringing silence, the band took a break.

“You mean the planet earth?” I said, shouting a bit myself.

“Same all over I guess, how you been man.”

“Fine, you?”

“Fine? You’re fine,” he shouts out to the ravens not paying attention “Hey, y’all, he’s fine,” they continue not paying attention, circling, circling “Me? Up to the elbows in gizzards and pussy, abandoned by god in the heart of the wastelands or the Waist of the Heartland, strung out and hung to dry, back stabbed and brutalized, reamed without cream, ragged and torn and left in my own juices to marinate, how am I? Fuck. What’re we drinking?”

“I was just having a beer, you, I’d guess peyote tea.”

“Heh. Given the Jazz answer I’m afraid to ask what’s on tap.”

“Good to see you Frank.”

He smiles, broad and warm, as the snow melts into the wool of his pea coat. “You too Matt. Long time.”