36
The day of the Tampa concert arrived like one of those dates that sneaks up on you without warning.
A private jet was waiting for us at Teterboro Airport, polished like a pair of Italian leather shoes, with a crew that could have stepped straight out of a James Bond movie.
But before we could fly south into the Florida sun, there was one last stop we couldn’t avoid: the Tropical Jazz Club.
Bernie was still “parked” in his room above the club, probably in the exact same position we’d left him days before—gin instead of oxygen, leopard-print quilt as a second skin. All we had to do was load him up and drag him to the airport, like badly labeled oversized luggage.
The room hadn’t changed, as though time itself had frozen out of courtesy.
Light filtered weakly through a faded beige curtain, just enough to highlight the dust floating in the air.
Bernie lay sprawled across the bed, one bare foot dangling off the edge, a gin bottle clutched to his chest. He snored softly, with the rhythm of an old refrigerator defrosting.
At the foot of the bed, his sax rested on a chair, tilted like a drinking buddy just as wrecked.
For a moment I thought it might be easier to take the sax and leave him behind—but no, the plan required the full set: Bernie plus saxophone, an inseparable package.
We lifted him as carefully as possible, trying not to wake him. His body yielded like a limp mannequin, folding in ways no human skeleton should. The stench of gin was so thick I got a contact buzz just breathing.
Down the creaky stairs, the bartender barely looked up, as if watching two women haul a half-conscious musician out of the club in broad daylight was part of the daily routine.
At Teterboro, the tarmac glittered under the blinding sun, the cracked asphalt reflecting off the jet’s spotless white fuselage.
The crew waited with professional smiles and dark sunglasses, prepared to handle anything…
or almost. Bernie, limp as a sandbag, was hauled to the steps with all the elegance of a badly planned move.
One steward took over with the calm precision of someone trained to handle fragile cargo: one arm under Bernie’s, one hand at his back, a quick maneuver, and he was lowered into a cream leather seat.
His head lolled back, mouth hanging open, like a fallen king settling in for a thousand-year nap .
The flight was a catalog of excess: champagne flutes refilled before they were empty, trays of strawberries polished like rubies, seats reclining at the touch of a button. Out the window, the Atlantic coast unrolled like an infinite postcard.
Tess held up the onboard menu, then turned toward Bernie, who sat with the sax propped between his knees and sunglasses sliding down his nose. “Bernie, darling, how about the oysters? Or the foie gras? We’re on a private jet—we have to live up to the occasion.”
Bernie grunted. A low, gravelly, vaguely threatening sound.
“Is that a yes or a no?” I asked.
“It’s artistic language,” Tess replied, as if she were translating poetry out of Morse code.
The flight attendant appeared with two glasses of champagne. She handed one to Bernie, who accepted it solemnly, studied it for three seconds, then drained it in one gulp and handed it back like it was cafeteria water.
Tess watched him with equal parts admiration and concern. “See, Bea? There’s no compromise in this man. It’s all or nothing.”
Another grunt. Then his head tilted back, his breathing slowed, and he started snoring again—still clutching the glass.
“Perfect,” I said. “A private jet, rivers of champagne, and we’re traveling with a giant teddy bear in alcoholic coma mode.”
Tess smiled. “The manual couldn’t have picked a better ally.
” She poured herself another half flute of champagne and leaned toward the window, as though she could read her destiny written in the clouds.
“Bea… tell me this isn’t pure magic. The power of books.
This,” she said, pulling the Countess’s manual out of her bag, “I got it free from the library. Free! And now, ten days later, I’m sipping champagne above the clouds. Isn’t that insane?”
I nodded, glancing at Bernie, head thrown back, mouth wide open. “Yeah. Hard to imagine a scene like this ten days ago.”
Tess leaned closer. “Think about how many people borrow books only to let them gather dust on their nightstand. I read one page and I act. This book has more power than a hundred motivational YouTube talks. The Countess says every page is a door, and me, Bea—I open them all. Even the ones marked ‘staff only.’”
I raised my glass. “Then here’s to the Brooklyn Public Library. Not only did they give you a job, they put you on a private jet—for the annual fee of ten bucks.”
“Staff don’t pay the fee. I got it all for free.”
“Wait—are you still technically employed there, or did you quit for good?”
“I’m still burning through my vacation days. No way am I gifting unused hours back to the City of New York.”
“Fair enough. God forbid you make a charitable donation to the municipal budget.”
Tess lifted her champagne with solemn flair. “Anyway—cheers to the library. Keeper of the world’s knowledge… and the launchpad to my personal glory.”
Without opening his eyes, Bernie muttered something that sounded like more gin before slipping back into silence.