The Jazzman

Lisa & I catch the jazzbus just after class lets out early Friday afternoon. The snow is gathering on the ground at measurable heights and it stings our eyes as we walk North into the wind. We gallop toward the bus stop, shuffling our feet through the snow, and arrive just as the doors of the bus open and then close behind us. A calmness surrounds us as we load on. Everyone looks peaceful and warm to the sounds of smooth jazz softly playing over the bus stereo. This bus is the antithesis of the Breckenridge ski bus that thumped and bumped jam music at deafening volume the whole way up the mountain. Here the Minnesota winter wonderland plays her cards just outside the bus windows but we are inside listening to jazz with the jazzman. Rumor has it, Lisa tells me, that if you talk to the jazz man (even just once!) he will remember you, brake for you, and honk at you if he sees you on the streets. Unfortunatly we are too far away from the jazzman to test this urban legend. He disappears into the wintery fog and snow after Lisa and I exit our mellow state of mind. We are left to slip and fish tail the rest of the way home.