June 4. George Coleman, Smoke Jazz Club. I had absolutely no idea what we were getting ourselves into. The atmosphere was stiff and touristy, the seats in the listening room tighter than airplane seats. I got up in a huff after a few minutes, paid the bill and left without even waiting for our food. I went outside and waited for J, but J didn’t come. So I went back inside and squeezed myself back between the people. J. took it funny now. A disabled man was ushered in, leaning on an aide walking backwards in front of him with his arms raised, stumbling forward with grotesque lurching movements. Apparently he had booked a seat far in front. No, he was seated in the center of the stage, it was George Coleman. The saxophone on his lap, staring blindly into the air. The first notes he blew to warm up didn’t sound like he would be able to last the evening. He barely managed to bring the instrument to his mouth. Then, when it started, it was like a bird playing jazz.