These Sunday Brunch Jazz Hounds

     I look up from the bar and see the stand-up bassist’s face shaking and quaking.  His huckleberry hound jowls jiggle around, his eyes shut tight in concentration and his fingers dance and squibble.  Bum bum badum dumming all over the place.  Luckily his white fedora with the black ribbon is pulled down tight on his sweaty brow, or else it would be in danger of flying off in a fit of jazz frenzy.  The guitarist sits behind him with a maniacal smile noodling along softly.  His old grey eyes grow wide, like a zealot's as he sits noodling waiting for his turn to shine.  The sax man in the flowered shirt keeps time with his polished black shoes.  I sip my bloody mary and wonder what I have gotten myself into.  The early morning summer wind blows in the bar door, taking with it a stack of cocktail napkins.  I watch them float down the bar, and see the bar keep grab a salt shaker to use it as a paper weight.  Just then the sax man begins to blow from his stool.  His legs dance out from under him.  I wonder how he stays on that stool with all that music and movement coming from him.  I finish my drink and pay.  These Sunday brunch Jazz hounds are too much for me today.