2 A.M at the Cat's Pajamas

2 A.M. at The Cat’s Pajamas begins in a roach-infested apartment with three record players and no milk and travels through a pack of actors catching snowflakes on their tongues, beneath the crushed cigar ends of all the city’s bars, through the bedroom of the city’s meanest girl, over the memory of a withering marriage almost saved by salsa, past a pile of apples shining under a heat lamp, the chintsy star at the top of grocery store holiday display, beyond the sill of William Penn, to land on the faded floors of a tired club where a Cuban Jazz band has begun to play, its lead singer pumping and keening into the mic.

You should come.

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