“…man, if I ain’t composin’, I’m decomposin’…”

It’s been 25 years since I met Joe and we had only one conversation.  Some things stick with you.   

I heard him every time I had gone to visit my grandmother in the nursing home.  One of the nurse’s aides told me he played every day, she said that when he was  young Joe toured the country with some pretty famous jazz bands. 

        One day I’m standing outside my grandmother’s room when I see Joe down the hall.  Joe was a slight man, maybe five foot nine, with a frame that surely once carried more weight than it did that day.  His long face was grooved with time and carpeted by stubble the color of charcoal ash.  He was crooked at the waist as he slowly shuffled his feet toward my direction.  I saw the horn in his right hand, brass that once gleamed in the stage lights now tarnished a dull greenish brown. 

When Joe was close enough to hear me I asked, “You going to play?’

“Yeaaahhh”, Joe’s raspy voice conjured images of a smoky Speakeasy.

“Tell me about your horn.”

“…man, if I ain’t composin’, I’m decomposin’…”