Everyone’s scared of death, he said. It’s natural to be afraid of the unknown. We go through life listening to mystics or mistakes. Those that know and those that don’t. We make our choices, the fat man lit a cigarette and handed one to me. We lit them both with the same flame from a Zippo. The lighter closed with a snap. He nodded his head to the music playing. John Coltrane dishing it out with Central Park West. I want this played at my funeral, he told me. Followed by Goodbye Pork Pie Hat by Mingus, he smiled, stuck the cigarette between two teeth.

The Bible says praise him with song, I whispered, taking a drink from my pint glass.

I think that’s what Coltrane and Mingus, all those cats did. Praised him with song, he held his rocks glass to the ceiling. They knew. They weren’t scared. But, they were prophets. We’re just simpletons trying to stay on a path. Some path through Chicago, New York, New Orleans, San Francisco, Paris, into the heartland of Iowa where the children cry at night, St. Louis cats jumping to rhythms laid down years ago and muted trumpets playing in bars across this land, all over, all over. This is the gospel my son, he said. This is the gospel.