Pianoman

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Nine o'clock
Saturday

In one hand, he carried a black briefcase. The other held the edge of his thick black trench-coat, a feeble attempt at keeping out the bitter cold wind. A brief glance at his watch changed his purposeful walk into a run.
He was late.
'I've really got to remember to fix that clock'

The seedy blue neon lights over the piano bar door flickered a couple of times. He never failed to notice it as he went in.
No matter he was over twenty minutes late, he stepped lazily inside, hung his black trench-coat on the stand by the office door, pulled up a stool and rested his black briefcase by his feet, same as he did every Saturday night.
"Hey Taylor, you finally decided to show up,"
"Hey John," the barman didn't turn from the Bloody Mary he was in the middle of mixing. "Nearly got blown away in that damn wind!"
"Is that your excuse this time?" Tay just chuckled and glanced around.
"Do I need one?" the barman set the Bloody Mary in front a customer, one of the hundreds of faceless humans he'd served that day. Leaning against his mixing table, John stared, half in disbelief, half in awe, at the guy's quiet confidence; he knew as well as all the empolyees that the manager practically worshipped the ground this piano-player walked on.
"The usual?" was all John asked. He wiped his hands on the dishcloth, kept conveniently in his pocket, then dropped it on the bar.
"Yeah," as he went about making the Scotch-On-The-Rocks, John couldn't help but chuckle to himself; would the manager still keep Tay on if he knew the piano-man was getting his drinks for free?
"There you go, that'll be a half-decent song to start off tonight. And I suggest you get started soon,"
"John," Tay gave him one of his looks, "You know I don't like to start until the regular crowd's all here. What would they think of me if I started without them?" spoken like a true performer, couldn't give a damn about anyone but his avid listeners. He was a bit strange this one. Cared more about his 'fans' than the money he'd get at the end of the night, even if it was only a pittance. He made half as much again in tips.
"Oh well, your pay-cheque, not mine. Smoke?"
"Thanks, you got a lighter?" a plated silver lighter came out of the barman's pocket and lit the piano-man's cigarette. Taking a long drag, Taylor felt his too-tired muscles relax. Once upon a time he hadn't been able to understand why people smoked. Why pay to die? But at this point, the de-stress factor far outweighed the health risks. He knew he'd stop one day. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe in ten years. One day.
"Man, that's better. Can't start without a decent fix," they both chuckled, somewhat ironically. They both knew that the scotch and the cigarettes had nothing to do with the performance.
"Tay, this place is killing me," the smile ran away from John's face. The piano-man just sighed; why did the guy have to torture himself like this? "Dammit, if I could get out of this place, there'd be no stopping me, I'd be on the first plane to Hollywood –"
"And what would you do?" Taylor interrupted, tapping the cigarette absently in the ash tray before taking another drag.
"I'd be a movie-star," why did John sound so confident when he said that?
"Hollywood's not all it's cracked up to be you know,"
"I know, but it's a nice dream don't you think?" chuckling, John picked up his dishcloth and stuck it in his pocket, "Anyway, I'll leave to your thoughts,"

He wasn't really much of a drinker; this scotch'd probably last all night. Even as they held the cold glass, his fingers itched to dance along the ivory keys of the bar's grand piano. Nine o'clock on a Saturday night until closing – around two – was the only time he got to perform for anyone anymore.
Gently swishing the scotch around the glass, Tay watched the old man sitting a bit to his right. A gin and tonic stood in front of him; he just stared at it, occasionally running a rheumatic finger down the glass. This guy was always in here. Every bar had one like him; a Korea or Vietnam veteran whose only friend left in the world was a bottle of whisky. He spent all his money on spirits to keep it from going to the ungrateful kids who'd abandoned him, and when the money ran out, he'd throw himself in front of a semi, his death the same as his life, a tragic accident. It was people like this old man that Taylor felt he played for; to help them forget about their problems and put a tiny hint of smile on their bourbon-coated lips.
"You're getting pretty friendly with that drink there," he said in a light tone. The old man just looked at him with watery brown eyes.
"You're the piano-man right?"
"Yeah,"
"Think you could play me something?"
"What would you like to hear?" it was the excuse he'd been waiting for. He wanted to play, and this time he'd play for a lonely old man who had nothing left but memories.
"It's old,"
"How does it go?"
"I'm not sure. It's sweet, and a bit sad. I knew it all once, when I was wearing the clothes of a young man,"
"Um . . . okay then. . . ." what did it matter that the guy didn't know what song he wanted to hear? He wanted something sad but sweet, and the words didn't matter, so long as the tune was familiar. This old man, on second glance, wasn't really that old at all. He couldn't have been more than fifty. Something from the early 70's perhaps?
A faint smile turned up the corners of Taylor's mouth; he had just the thing.

Slowly – scotch in one hand, briefcase in the other – he pushed away a little from the bar, stood up, and walked over to the grand piano, aware that every pair of eyes in the bar were now fixed on him.
He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.
Sitting down, he took a few seconds to study the Van Gogh painting on the opposite wall. It still looked as out of place as it had the first night he'd played here; it had looked exactly the way he'd felt.
Almost ritual-esque, he put the glass of scotch on the Johnny Walker coaster that was always there beside the tall – presently empty – tips jar, rested his briefcase against the right leg of the piano, and counted to three before he lifted the lid and revealed the immaculate faux ivory. Every time he saw them, he had an urge to run a finger down the keys just to hear the perfect octaves. For such a seedy place, this piano was surprisingly beautiful.
Softly playing a quick scale, he reassured himself that nobody had somehow wrecked the perfect sound. Without even having to look, his fingers found the switch on the microphone and turned it on. It smelled of beer.
His finger-tips touched the keys in earnest. The opening notes were enough to silence every conversation. They all knew this one.

"There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold
And she's buying a stairway to heaven
When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for
Oh, ooh, and she's buying a stairway to heaven. . . ."
The bittersweet melody brought a bittersweet smile to every pair of lips. 'Stairway' wasn't just a song to them. It was an anthem; a religion; a way of life. Not many other songs could boast the following that this one had. 'Stairway' was a cult all in itself.

"In a tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings,
Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven
Oh, it makes me wonder
Ooh, it makes me wonder. . . ."
Was there any other song written that plunged so deeply, and yet so calmly, into the subject of death without so much as mentioning the word?

"There's a feeling I get when I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who standing looking.
Oh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it really makes me wonder. . . ."
*
The loud applause and the odd few cheers serenaded the end of Taylor's rendition of 'November Rain'. It was one of his favourites; he'd loved it ever since it'd first been released . . . how many years ago? Only God knew; he really didn't want to think about how many years it had been. Years. Not weeks or months, but years. . . .
"That was great!" another satisfied listener dropped what would become the piano-man's bread money into the jar on top of the piano and smiled, "Heaven knows what you're doing here son! You've got talent, you could really make it where it counts," Tay just smiled and thanked the man politely. They all said that.
He sighed and took another sip from the scotch glass; he needed a break.
"Back in ten guys," another sip before absently switching off the microphone and glancing at the tip jar. It was full already, and he still had another three-and-a-bit hours left to play. Oh well, the manager wouldn't mind if he started his hour break a bit early. An hour break for every two hours playing; it was a fair enough deal.
Grabbing the tip jar, he handed it to John, who counted up the loose change and dollar bills. He whistled.
"You did well tonight Tay; that piano's sounding like a bloody carnival,"
"How much?"
"Forty bucks twenty five,"
"You're kidding!"
"Nope," and sorting all the change into the till, the barman handed Taylor two twenties.
"Uh, John, what about the quarter?"
"Accounting fee," he answered with a smile. Watching the piano-man walk over to the nearest table, John heard the guy grumbling; the only words he caught were 'tight bastard'.

". . . .So I thought – Oh! Hey Tay, how's it going?" the man in the worn silk shirt and loosened tie smiled faintly as the piano-man pulled up a chair.
"Hey Paul, Dave," he rested the ever-present scotch on the table, "I've been better, let's put it that way,"
"You that bad?" the man in the white and blue uniform chuckled, fingers absently drumming the top of his Navy issue hat.
"Not as bad as last week, not as good as the week before. What about you?" sip.
"The ship's in port for another few days, then we're off some place. I dunno where, and I honestly don't care," Dave skulled the rest of his rum and coke and signalled to the waitress for another one.
"How long's this trip?" Paul asked, fixing his tie out of habit.
"About 6 or 7 weeks,"
"Jeez Dave, don't you ever get sick of it?" another sip. Tay glanced at the naval sailor's slightly bloodshot eyes, "Anybody who takes me on a ship, watch out for your shoes," they all chuckled half-heartedly. This wasn't really the night for jokes.
"Nup, I couldn't ever be anything but a sailor. No boring job in real estate for me," he smirked at Paul.
"Fine. Rub it in. I have the most boring job in the most boring field of employment known to mankind. If it makes you any happier, I despise it," Paul stared into the depths of the beer he held; a small grin on his face.
"Which reminds me, how's that book of yours going?" another sip of scotch.
"Unfortunately Tay, it's not. I haven't even had time to glance at it,"
"No wonder you haven't got a wife!" Dave chuckled, "If you haven't glanced at a piece of paper in a week,"
"Who's got time for one? Certainly not me," Paul and Dave went off on a tangent, listing the reasons why neither of them were married, and the reasons why neither wanted to get married. Ironic, how they didn't think to mention the reasons why they were so lonely.
Not really wanting to join in the conversation, Taylor glanced around the bar, as was his habit. A group of business men sat in a corner, in the latter stages of getting drunk. They shared the same liquor as almost everyone in this place. Loneliness.
But hell, it was better than drinking on your own, right?

The last customer had left around half an hour ago. John had locked up his assortment of alcoholic concoctions and gone home.
The only people left in the now officially 'closed-for-the-night' bar were the waitress, the manager and the piano-man.
"Okay kids," the manager closed the door to his office, "I'll leave your pay-cheques on the counter, I'm going,"
"Bye Mr Mershaw!" Rebecca waved with one hand, wiping down a table with the other.
"See ya dollface," he smiled conspiratorially at Taylor – he knew the good crowds were almost entirely due to the talent of this piano-man, same as everyone else – and closed the door behind him. Two seconds later, Rebecca threw down her cloth and wandered over to the piano, where Tay still sat playing absently.
"Now who do you reckon is gonna win the election this year? I'm putting my money on Dickson, he's got the kn–"
"Becky, please! No more politics!" he smiled warmly at the waitress. Her long blonde hair was pulled back in a braid, that fell to her hips; her eyes were a gentle blue. She reminded him of his little sister.
"I'm gonna get into that damned Senate one day! And God pity anybody who gets in my way!" she chuckled, "If I can ever find my way out of this dead-end job!"
"You'll get there one day Beck, don't ever doubt it,"
"You're a sweetie Tay. And if anybody ever tells you you're not, they're a lying piece of shit,"
"Don't talk like that Beck, please?" she sighed.
"Sorry. I really don't see what your problem is, but anyway . . . would you mind singing me a song?"
"What would you like to hear?"
"I'm easy, you chose. I just need to lock up the till, then I'm outta here," she smiled and ruffled his hair a little before grabbing her cloth and starting on the bar.
"Um . . . actually, Beck?"
"Yeah?" she didn't look up.
"You've just given me an idea. . . ."
"Really?" this time she did look up, to see him rustling around in his briefcase, "What are you looking for?" he pulled out a few sheets of paper.
"You got a pen handy?"
"Catch," she threw the black pen to him.
"Thanks," as Rebecca locked up the till and deposited the takings in the safe, Taylor played around with notes and chords, obviously trying to work out a tune.
"Well, I'm done, I'm gonna go home. Are you going to stay?"
"Yeah,"
"Can you make sure the door's locked as you come out?"
"Sure," smiling she closed the door on the piano-man, leaving him to his work.

*
Nine forty-seven
The next Saturday

Glancing up at the clock, John couldn't help wondering where the hell Taylor was. The guy was always late, but never this late. The regular crowd was all here, waiting. The manager was pacing in his office.
He caught Rebecca's worried eye. The guy didn't have much longer.

Ignoring the bite of the icy wind, Taylor ran down the street clutching his briefcase. He'd been so distracted, he'd completely forgotten the time.

Every head in the bar turned as the door opened and a familiar face stepped in and hung his trench-coat on the stand by the office door.
But instead of going to the bar, Taylor went straight to the piano and sat down, the briefcase resting on the wooden leg. His fingers flicked the switch on the microphone.
"Hey guys, I'm sorry I'm late –" (out of the corner of his eye, he saw the office door open as the manager came out to listen) "– but I was working on a little something that I think you guys might like," he quickly played a soft, reassuring scale, "I call it 'Pianoman',"

"It's nine o'clock on a Saturday
The regular crowd shuffles in
There's an old man sitting next to me
Makin' love to his tonic and gin

He says, "Son, can you play me a memory?
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"

La la la, de de da
La la, de de da da da

Sing us a song, you're the piano-man
Sing us a song tonight
Well, we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feelin' alright

Now John at the bar is a friend of mine
He gets me my drinks for free
And he's quick with a joke or to light up your smoke
But there's someplace that he'd rather be
He says, 'Tay, I believe this is killing me"
As the smile ran away from his face
'Well I'm sure that I could be a movie star
If I could get out of this place'

Oh, la la la, de de da
La la, de de da da da

Now Paul is a real estate novelist
Who never had time for a wife
And he's talkin' with Davy who's still in the navy
And probably will be for life

And the waitress is practicing politics
As the businessmen slowly get stoned
Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness
But it's better than drinkin' alone

Sing us a song, you're the piano-man
Sing us a song tonight
Well, we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feelin' alright

It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday
And the manager gives me a smile
'Cause he knows that it's me they've been comin' to see
To forget about life for a while
And the piano, it sounds like a carnival
And the microphone smells like a beer
And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar
And say, "Man, what are you doin' here?"

Oh, la la la, de de da
La la, de de da da da

Sing us a song, you're the piano-man
Sing us a song tonight
Well, we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feelin' alright"
The cheers could have been heard a block away. They all loved it. It wasn't often that ordinary people were immortalised in song. Everywhere he looked there were smiles. He'd finally got it right.
Rebecca coaxed him to play it again, while she sat on the flat top of the grand piano. John was shouting everybody drinks. Paul and Dave were the source of many toasts that evening to the piano-man. The old man almost stuttered his grateful thanks to Taylor as he handed him a scotch. And the manager simply smiled and returned to his paperwork.

*
In one hand, he carried a black briefcase. The other held the edge of his thick black trench-coat, a feeble attempt at keeping out the bitter cold wind. A brief glance at the door told him this was his block.
He took the elevator up, walked inside his apartment and collapsed on the bed, not even bothering with a shower.
Just before drifting off to sleep, he stared at the picture on his bedside table; the picture of his family.
He closed his eyes and wondered where it had all gone wrong.


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