STEVEN WEISSMAN

A few times a week, you set up beneath the overpass at South Jackson Street and Eighth Avenue, playing your saxophone by one of the giant painted pillars. You aren’t busking for your next dollar—there’s not a tip basket or open case to be found. And I presume, based on how you always stand at a certain angle, facing away from the street and passers-by, that you’ve chosen this particular spot for its excellent acoustics. The perfect echo of notes that comes spilling from your horn, no real songs but lovely ambient sound, breezes into my nearby window and always makes me smile. I will miss hearing your saxy serenades when I move away next month, and I hope that whoever ends up in this apartment after me gets as much enjoyment from your sax as I have.



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