A drunk lady in a jazz bar thought I was the bass player last night. She loved the way I played bass. Asked if I was doing another set. I said no. Then the music’s over? I said no again. Then they’re playing without you? I said yeah. Why? I was fired. Oh, she said, I’m sorry. I said I’ll be OK. Later, half way through the next set, I get a tap on the shoulder. It’s her. Hey! You’re not the bass player! I said I know. She blinked and wobbled, thinking. Then she figured it out. You’re you, she said. I said I was. She smiled. That’s good, she said. I thanked her. She was about to say something else when she fell off the barstool. I helped her up and slipped out the door.