TFF: The Piano Man

The Feeling Fragment: Music is the "fragment" of a story that connects us to characters and allows us to empathize with them. In this series, we explore the role music plays in story. Music, in my opinion is what gives the story it's humanity, and adds more "feeling".

I never saw his face. 

 Just his right arm stretched out over the piano and his fingers placed, young, on the keys.  His posture was bent from years of this labor of love - or so I imagined. From the looks of his attire - he was a gentleman. He was all refinement. It began atop his head with an Irish Ivy cap smartly placed, his shirt was tucked in (a courtesy the new world has forgotten), his slacks, pressed and everything was tied together at his black dress shoes. 

His foot carried the rhythm in precise taps. His fingers ran. They ran and never got tired. His right arm shook and the loose skin at his elbow bobbed. This man was aged, at least seven decades, and I never saw his face. Yet, I am certain he was absolutely beautiful.

Because the notes he played were ageless as they spread across the all-white Kohler & Campbell. He told a story. There were no words, but his joy was audible.

 

The music came to a decrescendo and the band left the stage for another. He didn't want to leave. I sensed it. It was in the tension of his posture and the way he wouldn't look up. He wanted to stay there all night telling stories without words. I wanted him to stay, too.

Yet, they traded the stage with a fresher generation. And when the new pianist took his seat I didn't find myself lost in details. It wasn't the same. He was confident and casual. He wanted to speak desperately. I think that's why he couldn't tell a story. He played the ivory with an accidental syncopation. He didn't listen.

But the old gentleman was vibrant when he touched the keys. It was as if he was opening doors. He was letting you in. It wasn't the young man's fault. He could play well enough for the ears of a novice, but you couldn't see the music take him. He kept walls up. He only spoke what was scripted. He didn't tell the story he knew best. I could hear him holding back. 

After only about two songs the old gentleman glided back to the piano. He sat his beer, snug in it's coozie, next to him as he took his place. He relaxed. He was home. And I felt something I'd forgotten. It was what I felt when I sat down to write: this is the best place to tell my story.