Thursday, September 15, 1977
The sound of Louis Armstrong’s trumpet pierces through the soupy air of the living room. Cigar smoke hangs just below the ceiling. The last of the twilight sun streams through the breaks in the curtains at the back of the dining room in the distance, barely impinging upon his field of vision. An unseasonably hot day is drawing to a close. He’s been coated in a thin layer of sweat since his 11:00 am Intro to Psych class. Not a proponent of air conditioning, he relies on the steady rotation of a wooden ceiling fan hanging in the center of the room for a modicum of relief.
He’s been nursing the Remy Martin for over half an hour. He takes another sip and places the snifter back on the coffee table. He considers relighting the half-finished cigar that sits smoldering in the ashtray. Thinks better of it, leans back in his antique easy chair, closes his eyes and lets the music waft over him.