Generation Gap

Joe sipped his whisky. It burned on his tongue like the sound of the blues player rolling across his ears. He gave fervent thanks his ability to appreciate the music hadn't diminished over the years. He sat at a small table to the side of the club close enough to see the saxophonist's fingers blur, but far enough away to allow the harmonies to absorb texture from the conversations surrounding him. He let himself blend into the background, just one more old man in a room of old people. Occasionally someone would sit at his table, but after a glance from Joe, would move on to another table or back to the bar as if something about Joe made them uncomfortable. His job and his age had that effect on people. The waitress came with the next round and he nodded at her. She smiled at him, giving him another chance to admire her. Whether her teeth were real or not, her dentist was a genius. Joe looked around at the club. The octogenarian crowd, still full of themselves after making it to retirement, filled the club. The only Youngers in the room were the musicians and the bartender with the discreet caduceus on his shirt and the medical kit hidden behind the bar. The set concluded, and the player came over to Joe's table. Joe waved at him to sit. With a nervous glance the younger man took a seat. The musician attracted some attention. A few raised eyebrows at Joe, others just shifted their chairs to turn their backs. The other musicians were backstage, probably in a stark concrete room. No Youngers would dare come to the tables unless someone like Joe invited them. New retirees didn't like rubbing shoulders with youth. "That's sweet playing, son," Joe said. "Thank you, sir. I love the music." He wiped a faint sheen of sweat from his face. Poor kid was hardly forty. "My name is David." He twitched nervously as if trying to find a spot which made him invisible. Joe waved the waitress over. "Some water for my friend. Music is thirsty work." She brought the water, but set it in front of Joe, refusing to acknowledge the younger man. Joe sighed and pushed the glass across the table. The musician lifted the glass and drank it at one go. He blushed and put the empty glass back on the table in front of him. "I can't tell you how much it means to me that you came, sir." "It's my job, David. But your playing has made it a pleasure. Tell me again about what made you call my office." "I love playing, I love the music. But I have a problem..." Joe waited, sipping at his drink. It had tasted better with the music. Conversations provided white noise in the background. Finally, the young musician looked up, smooth face carefully blank. "My contract is for music, and just music. I don't mind giving music lessons to the club's owner, but she wants more than music. It's flattering, I guess, but it's creepy. Look at me. I'm only forty. I still have children at home. What does she want with someone like me? Not like there aren't all kinds who'd love to give her what she wants. I just want to play my sax and go home." Joe sighed and looked at the sax player. "Do you want a different contract?" "No way." He flushed. "I mean, this is a great job. I get to play music, and mostly whatever I like. It's just...." His blush deepened. "...if she would just leave me alone." "All right, son, I'll have a word with her." The musician sat back in relief, and Joe sipped at his drink again. He levered himself up with his cane and walked toward the office. The door was closed, so he rapped on it with the head of his cane. He heard a scuffling behind the door and a moment later it opened. She wasn't as attractive as the waitress, but she didn't need to be. He saw too many like her. Only a decade past retirement herself, she reminded her customers of their old existence along with the perks of their new lives. Like a lot of people her age - figuring now she'd made it, she could take whatever she wanted. Joe walked into the office without saying anything and looked around. Well set up, if a little soft for his taste. He noted the couch against one wall and frowned. The cushions were still returning to their shape. The door beside the couch hadn't quite closed. "May I help you?" Her voice was a carefully contrived contralto. "You can keep your hands off the saxophone player," Joe said. "What are you? A prude? You don't like the idea I still have needs?" "I don't care about your needs. Just keep your hands off people who aren't willing." "He signed a contract!" she screeched, forgetting her contralto. "I can break him just as easily as I made him." "He signed a contract to provide music for your club. There is no clause forcing him to provide s****l favors to the owner." "So what? Everyone knows it's part of the deal. I give him a job, he gives me what I want."