"Leather jacket. Check. Sunglasses. Check. Red loafers. Check," said Pop, methodically checking off his attire in the mirror.

He pursed his lips and turned his head left to right, inspecting himself through squinted eyes. "Yikes, nearly forgot the pork pie."

Pop did a slow jog to a coat rack in the corner of the room, and used the tips of his fingers to flip a small round hat off the rack and onto his head. "Bingo."

After straightening up the hat in one last go over, Pop walked to his bed and unclicked the black case sitting there. It had a metal engraving that read, “Hittings.” He opened the lid, revealing a shimmering gold saxophone, perfectly polished and alluring. He smiled down at the instrument, running his finger along the curved neck, humming a little tune to himself. "You ready for tonight, baby? We are gonna blow those jazz freaks out of the water."

Pop clicked the case shut, slung it over his shoulder, and left the apartment. He ran down the old wooden steps, painted blue in another era, and each footstep slapped and echoed through the corridor. One of the tenants on the fourth floor opened their door as he ran past, and Pop had to spin to dodge the door in time. “Quit that stomping Hittings! And walk down the stairs slower, if you wake my kid again I’ll flatten that sax!”

“Apologies Mrs. Clamming, late for a show!” yelped Pop as he continued blasting down the stairs.

His ritual at this point on the 2nd story was to drop his porkpie hat to the lobby. As soon as he let go, he hopped up onto the handrail and slid down, both feet in the air as the wind blew through his hair. When he landed, the hat floated softly down onto his head. He turned towards the lobby’s mirror, straightened it out, and walked outside.

After waiting on the curbside for a few minutes, he pulled out his phone and went through his contacts, until he found the name “Bummer.” He tapped the name and lifted the phone to his ear, and started pacing down the sidewalk. “Voicemail… Dang it… Yo, Bummer, it's Pop. Hoping you are close man, the gig is in 45 minutes, we’re gonna miss the warm up. Call me back, stat!”

Pop kicked rocks into the street for another five minutes, and his heart sank as he realized that he wasn’t going to make it to the performance. Just as he turned back towards his apartment, his phone began to ring. He answered it so fast that the phone sliced through the air and made a whip sound. “Bummer, hey, are you close, whats -”

“Sorry Pop, I have a feeling that my dog might not be feeling well, so I can’t come out tonight. But don’t worry, I arranged for a bus to come pick you up!” Bummer blurted excitedly.

“Bummer, they won’t be able to play without your standup bass, you can’t just… *huff* Fine, whatever, but I don’t see any bus, and it’s going to have to take me straight to the venue, what bus does that!? This really bites, that audience needs my sax, they NEED it! I even heard that top jazz talent scout Bongo Wheaterman is going to be there!”

“Just trust me and get in the bus. It will sort everything out for you.”

“There IS NO BUHH-”

Pop’s jaw dropped as a small yellow bus pulled up in front of his apartment building. It wasn’t just small, it was about the size of a bar of soap. It let out a very tiny honk. “Is this some kind of joke? Dude, I need to get to the show. How much did you spend on this toy?”

“Pop, it's not a joke, just trust me, they are a very reliable company! I have to go, my dog just looked towards the window. Good luck tonight, buddy, give the band my best wishes!”

Bummer hung up on him and now he was standing in front of a miniature bus. Pop jumped a little when it honked again. Pop walked over, bent down, and the bus doors opened like they would have on any normal bus. He poked his eye through the door and saw a typical bus driver looking very annoyed. “Come on kid, I don’t have all day,” moaned the miniscule motorist.

Pop looked frazzled, and began, “How do I-”

“Just get in the freaking bus, kiddo! You’re not my only stop!” Yelled the driver, clearly ready to get back on the road.

So Pop put his head against the door and crawled in. In a second, he was on the ground of a normal size bus, looking at the same driver. “Lucky for you, your pal already covered the fair. Now get behind the line.”

Pop got to his feet and found a seat towards the back of the bus. It was completely normal sized on the inside, and completely empty of other passengers. As soon as he sat, the bus took off at an extreme speed. You’d think looking out the window would be an extraordinary sight, but in fact, it was just giant concrete curbs and the bottoms of other tires. Pop held on tightly to his saxophone, as the g-force was intense and he didn’t want it to smash against the back of the bus.

Pop also realized that he may even make the end of rehearsal at the rate they were going, it was the most perfect ride he’d ever taken. He couldn’t see well, but since they hadn’t slowed down yet, he assumed that the bus didn’t need to stop at traffic lights. This brought a genuine warmth to Pop’s heart, as he had retired from driving a few years back, after going into a blind rage and driving off the road because he hit twenty-five full-cycle red lights on a Sunday night with no other cars on the road.

The Bus came to a smooth halt, and the driver beckoned Pop to come to the front. “Alright kiddo, wait until there ain’t nobody walkin’ by… Okay, go on, get off my bus and have a great night!” said the bus driver, more jovial than before.

Pop walked down the step and out of the bus door, and found himself on the sidewalk right in front of the jazz venue. He couldn’t believe it, he was normal sized and arrived earlier than if Bummer had picked him up on time! He clutched his saxophone, and- “Wait, my sax… It's still small!” Pop shrieked, his stomach was instantly in knots.

He quickly turned to the bus, which let out one last petite honk before speeding away. He looked at the street with a miserably sullen face. Just then, a long white limousine pulled up in front of the venue. The driver got out and ran to the back to open the door for the passenger, and a red carpet rolled straight from the car to the door of the venue. It was him. Bongo Wheaterman, the man who shaped the careers of every jazz musician in the city, exited the limo in pure white faux-fur clothing, from his jacket to his shoes, even his hands were gloved in the white soft material.

As Bongo made his way down the carpet, he looked towards Pop and gave a tap to his sunglasses, barely revealing the tips of his eyes. “You’re Pop Hittings, aren’t you? I’ve been looking forward to hearing you play. I’ll see you inside,” said Bongo, with the smoothest, richest voice imaginable, leaving no room for Pop to respond before continuing down the red carpet.

Pop watched Bongo enter, and then fell to his knees in anguish. He opened his sax case, and pulled out the little gold instrument, which was no larger than a flake of scrap metal now. He attempted to play a note, but lost the saxophone on his tongue. It tasted sour.