Music Man

A/N: Jazz is written by Soriams. I'll indicate writers for the first few chapters, but I suspect you'll be able to catch on to our writing style soon enough. 
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Jazz stood in the dim alley outside the open door to the kitchen, forcing himself to stand still and not fidget, worse yet, forget and lean up against the wall. The last thing he needed to do was ruin his suit, it was the only one he had. Instead, he fiddled with his instrument case, turning it over and over between his hands. The only blessing was that the late September sky above was clear, the rain from the week before finally leaving him in peace. Even then, it was much colder than he was used to, and he had turned up the collar of his overcoat to keep the wind away from his neck.

This was it, he had worked so hard to get to this point. It had been a long road to New York from New Orleans, up the Mississippi and down the Hudson, but he was convinced it was the only thing he could have done. After his father died, he just couldn't stay there anymore, and he ran, and in a very real way, he never stopped. At first, he just disappeared into the crush of chaos that was the streets of the French Quarter, just another faceless, hungry kid. He could have ended up like so many forgotten orphans, but what Jazz had on his side was a brilliant smile and wit that soon saw him as a favorite side kick to any of the street performers. By the age of nine he could work a crowd as well as anyone, articulate and charming, he more than earned his keep. By twelve, he had worked his way through Baton Rouge and into Memphis. He managed to talk his way into the back end of Beal street, fostering a growing love of music, he would help musicians move their equipment and hide backstage, feeding off the blues and evolving music forms. He was finally earning a living now, but every penny that wasn't spent on food went went to his passion. It took him two months of living on filched table scraps to be able to buy his first instrument, six more before he could tear himself away from it long enough to work. A year later and he was good enough to talk his way into paying backup to some of the musicians, and he started to work his way north.

In and out with musicians and occasionally landing a gig or two on his own, Jazz eventually found himself in Chicago. Out of his element with the shift in culture, he fell in with an unlikely group of allies: French Canadian immigrants. A native French speaker, he quickly found himself at home with their warmth and hospitality. He was sixteen by then, and very much focused on his music, and had taken up residence with an old married couple who took pity on the boy with his bright smile and knack for talking himself both into and out of trouble. An vet from the great war, the Canadian had been interested in music himself in his youth and had played with the band when he served and with some nostalgia he made an attempt to pass on what he knew to Jazz. It was then that discovered several things, not only could Jazz not read music, he couldn't read at all, and he couldn't have even if he wanted to. His eyes were bad enough that without glasses he couldn't even properly read the street signs around their tiny apartment. Living with the condition all his life, he never knew that there was anything different about him, and he had adapted so well that no one had even noticed up until that point.

Somehow between the three of them they managed to not only find an optometrist willing to see him, but actually afford the lenses he needed. Being able to see opened a new world for Jazz, and he learned everything he could from the kind couple and in addition, he started reading everything he could about the world. It was then that he fell in love with the idea of New York, the city of opportunity and mixing pot of cultures. It seemed like the hub of the entire world, everything new and exciting came from there and he wanted to be a part of it. Saying goodbye to the only people he had ever thought of as family was hard, but he knew he had to go and falling back on his old ways, he traveled down the Hudson, tagging along with anyone who was willing to take him the next mile.

Arriving in the city immediately landed Jazz in Harlem, and just being able to read made him a valuable commodity among the other residents. He found work easily and now surrounded with culture and constant nightlife, he truly prospered. He began to play, not just gigs with other bands, but as a headliner. He was writing his own music and playing improv at lounges all the way from Harlem, to the East End and Brooklyn. To be honest, the success was more than he could have ever dreamed, but this, this was something altogether on the next level.

Pushing his glasses up further onto his face, Jazz peered in through the kitchen, watching as the wait staff and cooks busily worked to prep the meal for the event inside. A benefit for the Carnegie Foundation, the people who would be eating that food all had more money in their back pockets than he had seen in his entire life. And they were giving him a chance to play, to actually perform for them. The benefit itself was something to do with a Harlem revitalization project, which he guessed was a good thing, and he tried not to choke on the irony of making the exact kind of person you claimed you wanted to help wait outside. Ironic as it was, from his perspective, it was just how the world worked. You did what the white folks wanted, and then got on with your life. It was safe, and by far better than trying to buck a system like that on a personal level and winding up dead.

Hearing a little commotion inside, he looked up to see one of the chiefs feeling up a waitress and receiving a cheeky smack in reply and he just smiled to himself, shaking his head. The scene brought up a dangerous line of thought that he had struggled with for a long time now and he didn't dare worry about it now, but watching the look he gave her as she walked away, he couldn't help but feel the tiniest bit of envy well up in him. Swallowing it back, he looked up when he heard someone call his name softly, and saw that one of the ushers had arrived. "Yeah?" he said, his softly accented voice seeming to give the man pause.

"They're ready for you. Please follow me and try not to steal anything," he said, looking him up and down before moving on into the building.

Jazz couldn't help but laugh softly at that and he shook his head, "Yeah, yeah, Ah can do that," he said, his voice almost lyrical as he teased back gently and followed him towards the green room.