"That is for positive," Hotlips agrees sadly. "So what can I do?"
I am forced to admit that I do not know just what Hotlips can do. "However," I say, "I have an idea." And I call Mamie over and tell her the problem. "So you are a woman and maybe you know what my musician friend can do," I suggest.
Mamie sighs. "I am at a loss for words concerning what your friend can do, but I know just how he feels, for it is like that with me, too. I am in love of a handsome young musician who comes in here, but he does not take notice of me, except to order some beer for him and his friend."
I click my teeth sympathetically at this news.
"And I am too shy and dignified a girl to tell him," Mamie continues sadly. "So you see I have the same problem as your friend and cannot help you."
"See," I whisper to Hotlips, "it is perfectly normal."
"Yes," he hisses back. "But I am still miserable, and the only company I desire is that of Stella Starlight."
"Maybe it really is your trumpet," I suggest, not very hopeful, though.
Hotlips shakes his head. "Look," he says and takes the trumpet from his case and puts it to his lips, "and listen to this."
Inwardly, I quiver like all get out, because I figure that is just what the management will tell us to do, once Hotlips lets go. Hotlips puffs out his cheeks and a soft note slides from the end of the trumpet—low, clear, and beautiful, without a waver in a spaceload. Only a few people close by can hear the note and they do not pay us any attention, except to think that maybe we are a little nuttier than is normal for musicians.