Blog Post #10: The Acai Jazz Bar

I’ve been having a recurring daydream lately. I’m about 10 years old, and I wake up from a nap. I’m in the backseat of a taxi, stretched across all three seats. I’m groggy waking up, and the clock on the dashboard reads 9:00 pm. The taxi pulls into the parking lot for the local library. Next door is a jazz bar. A woman opens my door. She has large gold earrings and a deep maroon top. Smiling, she extends a hand to help me out of the car. Without a word, she leads me into the jazz bar. Although I’m only 10, I’m allowed in because inside is an acai bar instead of a drink bar. Looking around, the place is dimly lit, with warm yellow lamps in the corners. Colorful, whimsical artwork fills the walls. Mismatched pillows are arrayed on the couches and armchairs, the tables are small and have swirl details on the legs. There aren’t many people inside. The band is small- a pianist, a double-bass player, a drummer, and a saxophonist. They’re playing a slow, laid-back tune, the saxophone is smoother than the night air outside. Behind the acai counter, a young man, perhaps 25 years old, stands swaying to the music. He’s wearing a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled, and a grey sweater vest . An older couple sits at a small round table, heads bent in conversation as the band plays on. A girl with curly red hair sits at a table nearby, enjoying some acai. She’s wearing a forest green dress, the ruffled layers flowing out around her. Her bowl seems to have edible flowers on top. The woman heads to the acai bar, and I follow. There’s already a bowl waiting on the counter for me. The bowl is slightly lopsided and made out of wood. The colorful toppings of kiwi, blueberries, mango, shredded coconut, peanut butter, and pumpkin seeds cover the top of the three acai scoops. I can barely see the berry-colored acai peeking through the toppings. The woman hands me the bowl, her earrings swinging. The weight of the bowl tells me whoever assembled the bowl was generous with the acai, and I’m excited to dig in. The woman walks through some doors near the back of the room and disappears. I sit on a squashy armchair close to the wall. Setting my acai on a table, I try a small bite. It’s cold and refreshing, the fruit flavors dancing on my tongue. The sweetness shakes off the last of my naptime-grogginess. The time flows and the band plays on. When the last of my acai has been scraped clean, I lean back into the armchair and fall into a deep sleep…

I’m not sure why this scenario keeps popping into my head. I was never in such a situation as a 10-year-old, or ever. Perhaps the mysterious yet warm nature of the daydream gives me a sense of comfort. The tangible sweetness of the acai and the freedom of the jazz make it seem like I’m really inside the daydream. Or perhaps, my brain is telling me I should fulfill such an experience. I’m not sure an acai-jazz bar exists, but perhaps I could combine the two myself. On a Sunday night, as Monday draws near, it’s thoughts like the acai jazz bar that put my ever-running mind to sleep…