Crossroad Blues
Jazz was a fluted glass of champagne. Blues was a cold beer-- working class music.
Yeah, life was simple now. Teach a few classes on blues history, play some harp down at JoJo's, and just enjoy life.
He bought two quart bottles of Colt 45, one for him and one for the wino. The Vietnamese woman never blinked at his pantlessness. "Hey pal, here you go," Nick said, handing him the water- beaded beer. "Tanks, Chief," he said. Nice of the guy to say thanks. Proved he was all right. It didn't matter that he was homeless as long as he had some manners. Nick had seen some rich bastards not even thank a waiter for bringing them a meal at Emeril's.
The sunlight cut into Nick's eyes like a laser as he felt his way into the bathroom and onto the road to recovery. After showering, shaving, taking four aspirin, and draining a cold can of Coke from a vending machine, he felt a little better. Somewhat human. Still sorta animal.
Nick sipped his coffee and opened a packet of saltines. He put a little Tabasco on top, nice little pools of red on the salt. A good hangover cure.