Winston was sick of it.
Tired of the squabbling. Of the bass player who couldn’t remember which nights they practiced. Of the drummer who thought he had a voice. And so tired of the weddings. Brick House was a dynamite song. In 1977. When the Commodores performed it. And yeah, he loved playing it. The first three-hundred times.
If music becomes rote, is it still music? During the final set Saturday night, Winston forgot the lyrics to Uptown Funk. Mumbled his way through two verses. Nobody noticed.
On Sunday morning, he rose before the sun. Finished dressing and laced up his boots. Grabbed his trumpet case. Then cut through the mist and shook off the breezy cold.
On the bridge, as the sun fired its first shot of daylight over the horizon, Winston opened his case and belted out the first notes he’d played from his heart in years.
The first cop who showed up blocked the right lane of the road, brought down his windows, and never left the car. It was the third cop on the scene who finally made him quit. Winston, soaked in delicious sweat, climbed in the back seat.
He beamed like the sun the entire trip home. He was in love again.