Black Elvis by Geoffrey Becker

He hadn't smoked, had drunk only moderately, played basketball once a week with some other faculty members. His wife had thought he was kidding around. Their children were in college—the whole next part of their lives was coming up. They'd been having a beer and peanuts together at a pub, and he'd suddenly put his head down on the table and started to snore. She thought he was making fun of the story she was telling. By the time she realized, it was already too late.
    From within, Kaufman heard the muted, tinny sound of mandolin strings being tuned. One of them kept slipping; there was the gentle climb toward unison, a moment where all was right, then a quick falling away. Probably, something was wrong with the tuning pegs, and yet the guy kept patiently at it. Kaufman could see how that sort of thing could drive you nuts.

This Is Not A Bar
    I went to this new hotel downtown to hear my guitar teacher play. My girlfriend, Lorna, came along, although she doesn't care much about jazz—she plays classical piano. From the lobby, we made a left and passed along red halls with chandeliers lighting them, heading toward the hotel restaurant until we heard music. It was just a trio, upright bass and drums and my teacher, whose name is Arthur. They were set up outside of the eating area, in an open space between the entrance to the restaurant and a nice-looking bar about fifteen feet away, lots of burnished dark wood and brass fittings, which was completely empty. We took seats at the bar and listened.
    "They aren't very loud," said Lorna. "I'll bet those people eating dinner don't even know there is a band."
    It was a new hotel, like I said, and it smelled that way. New carpet, new paint, new everything. It made me a little headachy. So we sat at this new bar and listened for a while, waiting for someone to take our orders. After a while, a man came. He had a moustache, a thin one, and the badge on his suit jacket read "Manager."
    "I'm sorry," he told us, "but you can't sit here."
    "Why?" I asked. "We came to hear the music."
    "I understand," he said. "But this isn't a bar."
    "It isn't?" I turned and looked again. There were cabinets filled with liquor bottles, whiskey, vodka, various flavored liqueurs. There was a cash register, with one of those computer screens. Sprouting up from the center of the long, impeccably polished bar were beer taps with the usual brand names on them.
    "I know it looks like a bar," he said. "But it's not."
    "We're sitting here," I said. "Everything seems good to go. All we need is for someone to bring us drinks."
    "It's for show," he said. "There's another bar, a real one, in the Chesapeake Room, if you'd like to go sit there. It's just at the end of the hallway."
    I looked at Lorna, who looked back at me. She'd put on lipstick for this, and a pretty flowered skirt. We didn't get out all that much. "But there's no band in the Chesapeake Room," I said to the man. "We came for the band."
    "I'm sorry."
    "Really?"
    He nodded. I could see the situation wasn't something he was proud of. "Look," he said. "I'll tell you what. Seeing as how you're here specifically for the band, you can sit here."
    "Can we get a drink?"
    He thought for a moment. "Yes, of course. I'll have to bring it from the other bar. What would you like?"
    "A beer," said Lorna. "Rocky Oyster Pale Ale."
    "And I'll have a Beefeater martini," I said. "Olives."
    He was gone a long time. We sat, listening to the music. I held Lorna's hand for a while. We could see into the restaurant, and it was just us paying attention. There were a lot of mirrors in there, to make the place look bigger, and some tasteful little holiday lights had been wrapped around the fluted columns.
    "My mind keeps drifting," Lorna said. "I'm barely here." She took off her glasses and smoothed her eyebrows, then put them back on. "I think it's the improvisation."
    Between songs, I went up and said hi to Arthur, who seemed pleased to see me. He had on a white shirt and a