For the piano in my basement that I have not yet learned how to play...but promise to someday...
It's late at night. Although, I can't say for sure how I know that. There aren't any windows down here in Nerdsburgh. Just this feeling, a buzz of anticipation vibrating the dank air, a sensation that can only be felt under the thick veil of the night's concealing darkness.
A haunting tune resonates from somewhere inside the belly of a disintegrating upright piano and wafts coyly towards me. I follow the tinny jingle to a saloon door with a red neon "Treble Clef" dangling over top. I'm greeted by a hazy wall of smoke as I push through the swinging wood doors into a shabby, cramped bar.
It's a one-room oak-paneled tavern, a forgotten out-of-the-way bar, a locals only haunt tucked away on some lonely street in downtown Paris. Once inside, it is clear my entrance is not a welcome addition but an interruption to an exclusive party to which I was not invited. From a sea of sticky cocktail tables, customers stare at me and whisper secretly to one another as I pass through. The surly barkeep snarls menacingly as he folds and refolds his dirty rag. I walk over to the rotting piano, the only friendly sight, and set up on the small stage in the corner.
It's a one-room oak-paneled tavern, a forgotten out-of-the-way bar, a locals only haunt tucked away on some lonely street in downtown Paris. Once inside, it is clear my entrance is not a welcome addition but an interruption to an exclusive party to which I was not invited. From a sea of sticky cocktail tables, customers stare at me and whisper secretly to one another as I pass through. The surly barkeep snarls menacingly as he folds and refolds his dirty rag. I walk over to the rotting piano, the only friendly sight, and set up on the small stage in the corner.
Everybody speaks French here. I don't. But, I stay anyway. Despite their icy veneer, they look like they could use some sorrow and I'm out of beer money. So, I sit down at the instrument of my design, take a deep, tobacco scented breath and exhale a little of my own heart.
I only know American music. I play mostly sad songs. But, I play on, indulging in my fantasy anyway.
And the crowd pauses.
After some indefinite amount of time and a few tears in my beer, I wasn't at "some bar" anymore. I was the bleary eyed navigator of a creaky vessel, steering a hull bursting with tales of woe and desire through the thick of night, sailing ever onward with every push of ivory and warble of these scratchy vocal chords.
I now believe heartache, not love, is the international language.
There is no last call here, at this forgotten saloon.
After some indefinite amount of time and a few tears in my beer, I wasn't at "some bar" anymore. I was the bleary eyed navigator of a creaky vessel, steering a hull bursting with tales of woe and desire through the thick of night, sailing ever onward with every push of ivory and warble of these scratchy vocal chords.
I now believe heartache, not love, is the international language.
There is no last call here, at this forgotten saloon.
I think I fell asleep on that musty old piano. That would at least explain the strange impression on my forehead and song in my heart when I woke this morning...
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