He didn’t get excited any more. That’s how it felt today. That all the tunes had been played, all the shirts worn, all the venues visited. It hadn’t always been this way. Many times he had been inspired, felt the urge to play that sax, believe.

It had been a long road. From a hard upbringing, through the excitement, to this hotel room. As a child there had been food on the table - it wasn’t that sort of poverty. More a strict regime resulting from necessity passed down through generations. People like them didn’t expect to enjoy hedonism. It wasn’t their fate.

So, when success came, it was devoured. From the early years in small, sweaty basement clubs, blowing that sax like his life depended on it. He wasn’t going back, he was going forward. Spiritually and physically. From town to town, city to city, through larger halls. Always he was worshipped, the young stallion, the new hope.

He glanced in the mirror. His pale blue eyes, which once shone so brightly, were tired now. Lifeless. Sunken treasures, lost beneath the legend of the beat generation. They contained no hope, no fire, no dreams. Just a dark, forgotten reminder of what once was.

His hair lay lank. Overly long. Slicked back over his ears. He had been planning to get it cut but the days passed by. Left him standing. His moustache could do with trimming as well. He looked at it. Why was it there? It served no purpose.

The early morning sunlight came through the window. He leaned down and lifted up the bottle, putting it to his lips and feeling in his being the sweet taste of whiskey. He felt better for that, although the bottle would soon be empty and he needed more. He opened the drawer of the bedside cabinet. His wallet lay there, along with some loose change. He picked it up and was about to put it in his pocket when he was consumed with the instant recognition of a piece of card protruding from the top.

He pulled the photograph out. He had been carrying it around for years but rarely looked at it. There were two people in it. He was standing there, in front of Luigi’s Bar, with Marlene. It was over twenty years ago. Their two faces were beaming, buoyed by success, royalty cheques, acclamation. There was not a hint of self doubt. They were in touch with each other, the scene, the moment. His hair was cut neatly, quite close, framing his angular features. His shirt was crisp, pressed, unstained.

Things had been good then. She had treated him well, and him her. It wasn’t until his reliance on alcohol took hold that she began to question their lives together. The final straw was the empty bottles. The ones he had left in the wardrobe, on the understanding she would not see. He should have known better.

He had come home from a gig. It was a morning, like this. There, in front of him, on the kitchen table, they lay. All of them. There was a note with them. She couldn’t take any more, it said. She had tried, fought through the drunkenness, the inactivity, the faded awareness. It seemed that he had given up. But then she found this collection of trophies.

It was years ago. He had as good as forgotten. It was a scar, but a faded one. Something that had mattered but he had left behind. He knew it was long ago but there was something about it. The picture. The way he was standing, acting, laughing. That hit him hard as he sat in that room, gazing into the mirror, contrasting what he saw.

Why had he turned to the bottle? It hadn’t happened overnight. It was more a creeping anxiety. There he was, on top of his game, the new guru. Then younger players would arrive. Only a year or two his junior at first, before he knew it five years, and soon ten. In the blink of an eye, he was the elder statesman, the seasoned pro, the thespian whose lines were being repeated in a more up to date mode by a new generation.

He lit a cigarette. Took another drink from the bottle. There was a noise, much as at this time every day. His mind was distracted for a few seconds. There was a bird on the tree outside his window. A sparrow. He watched it as it went about its business. It didn’t have a care in the world. It was hopping around, squeaking, enjoying the day. It demonstrated a lack of concern, of self awareness. He was impressed by that.

He looked down at the picture of himself and smiled. He folded it in half and very gently tore it in two. On one side was him, on the other Marlene. He picked the photograph of himself up and placed it in his back pocket. Then he got up and left the room.

There was no one he knew around in the hotel. They were in bed, after the excesses of night. He wandered along, with more casual arrogance than he had enjoyed for many a day, through the corridor, past the tourists who were out to see the city from a double decker bus, through reception and onto the street. The sun was shining bright. It was hot. He felt the sweat start to emanate from his forehead. He turned left and headed off down the street. He took a tissue and wiped his brow with it. In a moment he was there.

He pushed open the door of the barber shop and took his turn next to two young kids. He was surprised they were up at this time. Perhaps they were on the way home like him. He sat and waited and watched it all happen outside the window. He picked up the magazines and had a look through.

In a while it was his turn. The barber asked him to come up and seated him. How was he? Had he been busy? What did he want today? He answered these benignly, giving nothing away. He showed the barber the picture of himself and joked about it taking a long time to grow. He wanted it cut like that again. The barber looked at the picture, then at him, and agreed. With the proviso he couldn’t be certain it would look the same. Of course it wouldn’t look the same. That was years before. And could he remove his moustache.

Half an hour later, he emerged newly groomed. Brand new, sharp haircut, and no moustache. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked good, accepting that wrinkles would be there and he may not be as athletic as he once was.

He headed back to the hotel room. He reflected on the despair of earlier and the new beginning of now. It was part of a cycle. There had been other times when he had felt exactly like this. Looking back they had been the critical moments. The end of chapters. The times when a particular mode was exhausted. When the trappings of an idea had held him back. Become a tie.

At such moments it was time to go. Know when the past was done. Move on. Retain his essence but feed his soul. With new ideas. New plans. New belief. It was the trappings that didn’t excite. Not the essence. Leave it and go.

It was at the moments of greatest disillusionment that something came along to inspire him. Uninvited. Unanticipated. Don’t look too hard, he thought. Just be. Remember the moment he had the first time. Or saw the goal. He wasn’t searching for it. But it was there.

He would do it his way. He wouldn’t listen to a word anyone else said, take not of a nuance of their body language or a movement of their speech. He would be his own person. Know what he wanted, act on his instinct, think how he wanted. Don’t ask permission. Don’t get hung up on a low remark. Don’t try to see the other side.

See it his way.

Accept that years meant aging. He would not be the young buck forever. Leave that to the new generation. They too could have their day. Discover new beauties, hopes and tomorrows. But in his soul stay young, stay free, stay sharp.

He looked at the bottle of whiskey. He thought about pouring it away, instead he unscrewed the cap and took a drink. He smiled. He enjoyed it more than for a long time. He thought about the sparrows. How they didn’t care. Maybe it was the way to be, to live for now. He picked up his sax and began to blow.