Charlie downs his booze and wipes his mouth
on his sleeve.
Larry sips and dabs a clean linen to his lips.
Glad to see you appreciate a good drink. More?
Charlie stews, indecisive. Larry fills his glass.
Here's to the best damn brass blower I know.
They drink. Charlie stands, bobbing on his feet.
My lips'r buzzin'.
Maybe I poured too much. How's your eye?
Let's have a look.
Naw, I'm fine ... jus' peachy.
I think I'm uh ... I'm a little
drunk. I better go. Thanks
for the dance, and for
takin' our picture, and
golly, everything. You're
just the tops.
This band is the best thing that
ever happened to us.
There'll be other bands.
Yeah. But not like this one.
Maybe they'll be better.
Never. Never in a million years.
Charlie watches the janitor push his mop.
He raises his trumpet to his lips and plays a
solo. His music is heavy with pent-up
emotion. It is melancholy and stunning.
Jack returns to the wings and discreetly
watches Charlie perform. His jaw clenches.
He strides back out and joins him.
They steal solo riffs back and forth. The
music becomes fragmented and angry -- a
fiery brilliance to it. Their growing energy
infects each other. Spent, they finish their
parts on trumpet.
The janitor applauds.
And good night!
They bow deeply.