We knew that the best and worst decision that Big Al’s ever made, at least as far as business goes, was hosting an open mic on Thursday nights. The best came from a local funk band called “Inner City”, who for whatever reason were never actually booked at any clubs and never got a record deal; the majority of their fanbase were Thursday regulars of Big Al’s. They played nothing but covers, but we all clapped and sang and hacked along anyway because we heard everyone inside the bar say it was good, and then assumed that they must be good. A Thursday night was never boring when Inner City was playing.

The band members themselves stuck out like notes on a music sheet; all dark, with thick mustaches and tight afros. Looking out into the audience was like shining a light onto a tray of pale, shiny maggots, all dribbled in sweat and drunk, blinking at you like babies. Inner City seemed even more out of place when looking at the flat brick wall behind the stage, where there was an array of photos of every act that had played there, only four of which were black, and one of which was just a photo of Inner City. Every photo of a non-white act had the owners of Big Al’s in it, white themselves, with an arm wrapped around a black shoulder, smiling like parents. The band barely even felt like they belonged in the venue, with square oak pillars guarding the bar, shoved into the corner of the tiny room. The lights were dim and yellow; comfortable, but not necessarily inspiring people to get up and start dancing. It all looked so cramped from outside the window. We always wondered if that stuff called country music would’ve fit better there. But the funk always prevailed.

The most popular songs that Inner City would play came from Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain, specially picked out from their lead guitarist, Tommy. Even we knew he was a catch. He’d always strut in on Thursdays, a vest adorning his shirtless, shining pecs and abs, the only man exempt from the “No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service” rule. The shirtless vest made appearances even in winter. He always looked sweaty, but in a good way, like he was never too hot, and the women in the audience would always run up to him and talk and laugh and subtly drop a hand on his bicep when he told a joke. Their drummer always seemed a bit jealous of this attention, and would try rolling his kick drum through the door like a barrel to make the ladies laugh. They never did. He couldn’t play the guitar, at least not like Tommy, and Tommy played a mean “Maggot Brain”.

The rest of their set consisted of such classics as “Can You Get to That” and “Hit It and Quit It”, where they would always bring people up to sing with them. After a solid thirty minutes or so, in which no one challenged them for hogging the mic, they’d give thanks, get a standing ovation, grab one drink each, and leave, along with half the patrons of the bar. The main show was over.

Always, the next act, and the reason we watched, was “The Toad”.

That’s what everyone called him, at least. He never spoke, no one knew his actual name, and no one particularly cared to. They must’ve thought he was toad-like. Five feet, a bald head that had been firmly squished into his neck, and a torso built like a balloon. The color of his skin was a dark brown, and yet had a tinge of green complexion, plus there were warts on his cheeks and around his lips. Even his irises were split into two dark half moons, and while no other feature of the man’s face resembled that of a toad, whenever he blew into his trumpet his maw swelled into a croaking ball of pure amphibian.

Whenever he walked onto the stage, the atmosphere of Big Al’s crawled away with Inner City. Pure silence trying to drown itself in the shallow rays of golden light, always failing when The Toad began blaring sharps out of his trumpet. One would’ve thought that the decoration of Big Al’s would’ve fit nicely with The Toad, the shine on his instruments being that of clean cut brass and you were right up next to the instruments and the sound quality was God-like. Even the man himself, his complexion, looked pleasant up against the red brick. None of this helped his reputation, as apparently everyone inside Big Al’s on Thursdays considered his set to be pure dogshit. 

“Hey Toad!” we heard a heckler say. His voice was loud and annoying enough that it came through the window and into the outside. “Why you always gotta play by yourself?”

The cat wasn’t popular enough to put together his own band, or perhaps his jazz leanings didn’t leave the impression of success on anyone he asked to perform with him. He was forced to perform with his own record player, which he would drag in behind him and put on whatever Miles Davis LP he was enjoying that week, and then proceeded to frantically blare into his trumpet as the music played. No one, us or the patrons, were sure if he maybe couldn’t hear too good over the turntable, and wasn’t able to keep up or play the correct notes. Most people came to the conclusion that he was just plain crazy, that Al’s just lets these wackos in off the street with no filter and that maybe open mic Thursday’s wasn’t worth it for Inner City. The audience would always just stare at him, visibly on edge, never sure what the Toad would do next, and praying that the belt on the record player would snap and he would have to go home early. Instead, his set would end with one of the seven remaining people in the bar gaining the courage to boo, after which everyone else breathed a huge sigh of relief and joined in. The Toad would at least get the message to stop playing, but rather than leave he would just frantically look between the owners and the photos of acts on the wall, until an owner pointed their thumb at the door, and he would finally pack up and leave.

One night he left Big Al’s with Kind of Blue tucked under his arm, and instead of walking endlessly down the street to God knows where, we all stood in front of him and blocked his path. Looking up at him, eyes closing one at a time, occasionally moving a foot to a more comfortable position. He didn’t seem surprised in the slightest.

“We like your act, mister,” we all said in unison. “Maybe they’ll like it more if you do something a little more funky? That’s what Inner City does! And do something that whites will like, too!”

The Toad just stood in front of us, dead ahead stare and still like a statue carved of marble. His only movement was his right eyelid moving slightly up and wider. We considered it an acknowledgment of our knowledge, and we began jumping happily up and down.

Waiting to see our favorite act, we all stood in front of the only window at Al’s, wide and large for a gathering, and directly stage right. People stared at us as they walked in, scratching their heads, pointing, with one man telling us to shoo. We didn’t, as we had to see our prodigy in action.

We were respectful enough towards Inner City, applauding after every song, even though no one invited us to go up and sing, but once The Toad finally came up on stage, we were ecstatic, hooting, hollering, hopping so much against the window that one of the owners had to come out and pound on it until we stopped. We did. Everyone waited for The Toad to begin his set, as we all saw a new record in his hand that no one recognized. It was a flat grey album that read King Crimson|Earthbound. We assumed he had the perfect pick in his hand, and that everyone in the audience would love it.

At the very least, we can say it fit the way he played his trumpet. The record player immediately began to spew out an abhorrent concoction of fuzz and funky gunk that only a cassette tape next to a live stage could produce, and you could hardly tell what was The Toad’s trumpeting and what was the saxophone leaking and drizzling onto Al’s floor. It was the track “21st Century Schizoid Man”. We could hear it from outside, and we all jumped in fear. Everyone inside covered their ears, and it seemed they at least didn’t want The Toad to waste his time, as everyone cupped their hands around their mouths and booed, louder and angrier than they ever had before. Someone came up and unplugged the record player, which The Toad didn’t seem to notice, as he continued screaming through the end of his trumpet, and it didn’t sound all that different than when the record was on. An owner stepped in and grabbed the trumpet with a closed fist, pulling it away from The Toad’s lips. The Toad’s lips still sputtered and blew out air, and he started looking back and forth once more between the owner and the wall of pictures. The owner pointed to the door.

We watched The Toad walk to the door and leave, knowing to immediately walk up to us and stand like pure stone once again. Nothing about him moved, not even his eyes, except for his chest and mouth, which pounded out hot air. We all just sat there and grinned sheepishly.

“We thought it sounded good, Mr. Toad.” His eyelid then twitched. An acknowledgement. He then walked out of sight.

The last time we saw him the following Thursday. We had gathered outside Al’s once again, all seeking out The Toad’s tune, and the usual crowd came in for Inner City. We were so bored with them at this point. We just wanted to see The Toad succeed. Inner City’s set hadn’t even changed in the past month, yet everyone kept applauding.

Although, something was different about them this time. They actually stayed after their set ended. We all pressed our heads against the glass, and heard patrons of the bar telling Inner City that they had to wait and see the next act. As if summoning him, The Toad walked onto the stage with his record player. He was covered in a thick layer of sweat, appearing not to have showered since the week before. The members of Inner City all groaned in unison, which made us laugh. They said to the patrons that this wasn’t worth their time, but everyone inside insisted that they stayed. Reluctantly, everyone turned their heads to The Toad, who was just setting his needle on the record. The audience leaned back, hands over their ears, expecting to be blasted by King Crimson.

Instead what came out was a recording of cicadas on a hot summer day. A few frogs chirped in the background. You could even hear a bird calling every now and then. A repetitive drone that fit The Toad just as well as any other record he had played. And he lifted his trumpet and began to blow.

He played a solo for about two minutes, and it was a melancholy, yet hopeful river of green and blue, which danced with lilypads and dragonflies and ended in a waterfall. It seemed to stream and curve and snake around every patron of the bar. They all touched it and they all swam in it. We thought it was wonderful.

The solo ended and The Toad unplugged the record player and immediately glared at the wall. He wanted to reach out and touch it but for whatever reason couldn’t. No one in the audience said anything. They all stared at him, mouths wide open. No one moved.

Tommy stood up, and everyone, all of us, The Toad, and the audience, looked at him as every step he took towards the stage seemed to play out in slow motion. The Toad locked a stare with him, eyes blinking once at a time, swallowing, breathing. Tommy chuckled, and put his hand on The Toad’s shoulder. 

“The old girl ain’t what she used to be.” Everyone in the bar heard him, sighing with relief, and began to boo The Toad offstage. Tommy and one of the owners both pointed their thumbs to the door. The Toad packed up and left without hesitation. We began to shout in anger from behind the window, all leaning against it like a horde of zombies. One of us, a brave soul, yelled that one day Tommy would end up just like the Toad. The owners banged on the window.

We only stopped once the Toad came outside. None of us knew what to say in a situation like that. And we could tell by The Toad’s face that he had something to say, but chose not to. His right eyelid moved downward for a moment and then returned to its original state. He then turned and walked away.

The last time we heard anything about The Toad was where his apartment actually was, because the weekend after his final performance, he jumped out of his window and landed on a spiked outer fence below, impaling his body in seven different spots. We were inconsolable, shocked, and we learned before anyone else. We all rushed to his apartment, hopping there as fast as we could before any sort of ambulance or police car arrived. We saw his body barely lit under the looming white of the street lamps around him, his belly already sunk all the way through the spikes to the ground below. He had croaked.

We all held hands and closed our eyes. Many of us began to cry. When we were finished, we all climbed onto his body, all facing different directions, hands and feet spread out, and we began to sing The Toad’s river into the unlistening night.