Felix the Cat

Smoke billowed out of the jazz club as Felix opened the door and slipped inside out of the November chill. He had his horn beneath his gray tweed jacket, where it rode securely - and warmly - on its lanyard, beneath his left armpit. The room was hot; he folded down the lapels, unbuttoned the coat and let it hang open, so that the teal blue silk of his tab-collared shirt peeked out.

The heat was more than just hot air. It was the sound that rode out of Hesk McCann’s tenor sax. That sweet line rolled off the reed and swirled the smoke into paisley patterns of melody that brought a surge of warmth from inside Felix’s chest to join the crowd’s groove.

Hesk saw Felix come in. The sax man flipped him a wink, and a bob of his horn accented the complex trill he was keying. Felix grinned back, and began to weave through the crowd toward the stage. The rest of the combo - piano, bass and drums - gave him a nod or a wink as he shucked his jacket and draped it over a bentwood chair off stage left.

Felix brought his horn up, limbered his fingers on the keys, and wet his lips. The tune closed out with a killer flourish, and Hesk motioned him onto the stage. The little beard on his lower lip nearly brushed the mic, as he introduced him.

“Folks, we got a special treat for y’all tonight, straight out o’ N’awlins. Give it up f’ mon frere... Felix da Cat!” The crowd gave him a round of curious applause. Nobody up here in Yankee land had ever heard of him.

Well, dey’s sho gone hear fum me now, guar-on-teed!

He put his trumpet to his lips, and blew.