Arturo’s

Time Travel is tough. I mean that in the simplest, most innocent way possible. To bottle an aura from another decade and uncork it for use on a nightly schedule instills a sense of magic.

A sashay through the doorway of a proud jazz club and I’m greeted by a burly man with jet-black slicked-back hair, accompanied by a single hoop earring. He offers an exuberant “Welcome!” as he escorts me to the bar. In true jazz fashion, the place was dimly lit with a magenta haze weighing down eyes to the stage. The members of the band looked like their instruments just as dogs and their owners; the drummer round and robust, pianist slender and soulful, bassist shrouded in hair-string, and saxist adorned in ‘cool.’ Brick walls covered in aged memories provided sanctuary for this little place– but had enough bravo the Rat Pack could stroll in at any moment. Soft sullen notes sounding from sax, horn, and checkered ivory followed lead of bass and drum. Conversation ebbed and flowed with tune.

It was the regular crowd tonight– an old tuxedoed man with a Johnny Walker smile sat in the corner watching two figures cloaked in black. Another man sat in a booth whose intense gaze followed a woman’s sway of sax. This was zone.

“Whaddayah have?” asked a slender man behind the bar who I could only guess to be Arturo himself.

“Pinot”

“Comin’ right up!”

A black and white photo of a young mustachioed Arturo hung from the top beam of the shelf. His intense, intentional gaze had been softened to a twinkle by Father Time. He was happy.

And so was I.

The first song ended and it was right to. 

Moments like these can’t live forever– they shouldn’t.

-mac mullen