Everybody uses music to escape their miserable lives. Even when life is good, music makes it so much better. With enough practice, everybody becomes these brilliant composers for their existence, mentality, and meaning. We are the stars of the show, but also the audience.
However, more often than not, I like to sit back and watch someone else take the lead. I realize there are more moments where I am the background character than when I am the center of attention - and I’m okay with that. It’s nice to be looked after instead of being the care-giver, or to be watching the story hit someone else’s house instead of yours.
I was the background character in my jazz band.
The piano is the greatest instrument for jazz. I spent my whole life playing piano. Some parents make their kids learn, I made my parents pay for the lessons. I wanted to send my fingers dancing down a piano and watch as women melted in my hands. Music can charm the fairer sex easier than words, which is fine because words are their department.
I write a song that makes me look sophisticated, intelligent, and romantic, and they tell me all the pretty lies to hide their heart. It doesn’t bother me. I got what I wanted. Don’t think badly of me, you know the game. Nobody single goes to a bar expecting true love. They go to loosen up, one way or another. That’s the kind of woman they are and that’s the kind of man I am.
If I don’t see them again, I know they’ve matured enough to search elsewhere - good luck.
For years, it was a pretty sweet deal. My solo act eventually came to an end when I made some friends in the industry. We jammed together and made some smooth music. These were guys who understood the theory of jazz, the complex logic, and simple chaos. One day, we played something that was completely improvised.
We exchanged cues, we jumped in over each other. We told a story through a song that could only be told once. It happened on rare enough occasions, but it was even rare if it worked out from beginning to end. Usually, we would stumble, laugh, use the pause to take a sip of our drinks, and then play something else.
You also catch many more eyes and get many more numbers when you are the standout instrument in the band. Of course, that didn’t last. If it did, maybe I wouldn’t be here telling you this.
The band had me on the piano, Sammy on the cello, and Fred on the drums - no brass. That meant one of us needed to stand out. That was me. A piano can cut through the drums’ soft pattering and the cello’s bassy plucking. I was all too happy to fill that role - I was the better musician. Sammy and Fred came to me one day to change that.
Sammy’s brother-in-law, Carlton. Trumpet. A Chet Baker wannabee that gave me a run for my money. He could hit the highs with ease, master the soft steps, improvise and although he never did it on stage, the bastard could sing too. Trumpet’s talk over most instruments and suddenly my piano was a lot quieter.
So was my personal life.
Carlton could capture a room, soothe a heartache, and take a fine young number out of the palm of my hand as if he were plucking a ripe apple from a branch. I could be the background character in almost every other aspect of my life, but to lose my spotlight was…poison. I lost something that mattered to me and I had to accept it for the betterment of the band.
We were doing better than ever and it was all because of Carlton.
Even from the shadows at the back of the stage, my jealousy must have been clear for all to see. One night, the band finished, and one by one they left. Carlton didn’t leave alone. Sammy and Fred followed soon after, leaving just me. I played piano late into the night, barely stopping. Sometimes, I heard Carlton’s trumpet over my music.
With a heavy hand, I finished the last note and got up from the bench. I had work the next day. There was no point in going to bed, it was midmorning. I was screwed. I didn’t care. When I looked out at the bar, it was just the owner and this one woman. The owner was asleep on his feet behind the bar, he seemed really out of it.
He couldn’t serve alcohol at that time of night, so nobody stuck around to keep him busy. They certainly didn’t want to listen to a frustrated pianist either. I took my half-glass of brandy and sat at the bar in front of him. I saw the woman get up from her seat and join me at my side. In the cool lights above the bar, I could see her elegant beauty.
Sharp eyes, a coy smile, and a face made for the silver screen. Does anybody know what that means anymore? I liked the bright-eyed and energetic, but I could still appreciate her company.
“It was looking like you would never stop,” she said, her voice shockingly rough for her age. Chainsmoker, I was sure of it. “You must really like to play.”
“Mmm,” I hummed while I drank. I almost choked. “I don’t hear any complaints.”
“And what if I did complain?”
“Then you can go to hell.”
She laughed. It was a charming laugh despite her rough voice. Maybe it’s exactly what I needed. An escape from my escape. You can never have enough distractions from your problems. Maybe it was the misery and the drink in me talking, but I decided to strike up some flirtatious conversation with her. I could see right away that I would get nowhere - it was just teasing.
Time passed quickly. Too quickly. I saw the clock and finished off my drink. If I could make it into my office before anyone saw me, I would get through the whole day without them smelling the alcohol. As I made to stand up, the woman placed a hand on top of mine.
“Are you playing again tonight, cutey?” she asked.
“Mondays, Fridays, and weekends,” I told her. “That’s when our band plays, so, see you on Friday?”
“What about just you?” she asked. “You free tonight?”
“Just me?”
She smiled. It made my heart squirm in my chest. Her maturity and dominating personality made me feel like I was a high schooler talking to the teacher I had a crush on. I think that’s how she saw it too. All I could do was nod. Her hand lifted.
“See you later, Larry,” she said. I nodded again, my voice failing me again.
When quitting time came, I was the first out the door. I didn’t care if I was exhausted and my eyes looked bruised. I turned the key in my car - nothing. Dead battery or something, but I didn’t have time to get it towed to the nearest mechanic. I hailed a taxi, which immediately refused me when he smelled the alcohol that had combined with my sweat to make this repugnant fusion.
I hadn’t taken a bus in years, but it got me where I wanted to be.
I stepped off at the last stop before the jazz bar and right into an old man. He fell to the ground and I almost fell back into the street. I caught myself and was about to yell at him when I saw he cut his head. Blood dripped down the side of his head.
I didn’t want to attract any more attention. Nobody was watching, so I slipped into the stream of people and made my way to the bar, leaving the man behind.
“Hey!” I heard him yell. “Did anybody see…? Oh, for…”
I slipped around the corner and breathed a sigh of relief. I thanked the city for being such a congested mess and practically jogged the rest of the way to the jazz bar. Down the stairs, through the dark doors and the narrow hall until finally I stepped into the familiar dimly lit bar. It was quiet, with only a few patrons. The live band was the main attraction, after all.
She was there, sitting on the piano bench. Her dress had changed into a dark red number. It was more reserved than the dress I saw her in before, but still suited her. She had two glasses of brandy resting on top of the piano.
I looked into the small mirror by the door and straightened my tie and hair. All the while, my eyes darted between her and my reflection. With a casual saunter, I joined her in the shadowy part of the stage.
“Didn’t think you would beat me here,” I said smoothly.
“I live close by,” she said, placing a thin cigarette between her lips. “Bars are the perfect places to relax, this one especially.”
“Yeah, I know your type,” I said.
“I’m sure,” she smiled. “Your type, I take it.”
“You know…you are,” I said, surprised at how easy the answer was. I thought my type was the complete opposite, but then I realized that I was thinking of easy women, weak women. This woman spoke to something inside my heart.
“Hmm…want to hear something, Larry?” she hummed.
“Is it your name?” I asked.
“Something better.”
“I’m all ears.”
She turned to the piano. My smile slipped away as her hands reached for the keys. Her fingers were perfect, delicate, and slender, yet from the first note I could see experience and skill. Confidence when playing the piano takes time, confidence when playing jazz requires years of practice. My smile was gone after a few seconds.
I could see her fingers, I could hear the notes, but for the life of me, I can’t recall how she played any of it. The song was so indescribable. I find myself staring at every word I write with absolute scrutiny, unsatisfied with every single one. I want to say it was sad, I want to say it was happy, I want to say something other than it was jazz.
Jazz. That’s it. A professional jazz pianist and I can’t come up with anything more than just. It sickens me that all these years meant nothing the moment her hands graced the ivory. I knew the crowd was gathering. I knew I blocked their view of the piano, but I didn’t care. I needed to see everything - not that it made a difference if I did.
I don’t know how much time passed since she finished. It was a journey, a masterpiece. A song that could tame men, soothe the most broken hearts, and end bloody wars. It commanded all attention and adoration.
When she finished, she stood up from the bench, I watched her walk away from the corner of my eyes. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the piano. I felt her lips near my ear.
“Pretty good, huh?” she said. “Why don’t you give it a shot, Larry?”
I didn’t hear her footsteps, but I knew she was gone. I sat down at the bench, my teeth gritted and my fingers shaking with eagerness. I placed my hands right above where I think she started. My brow was so furrowed in concentration that it ached.
Hands down and immediately the chord was wrong. I adjusted and tried again and again and again.
It felt like an argument in my head, voices constantly fighting to guide my hands. I will save madness and just tell you when I stopped. Well, I was forced to stop. The owner dragged me from the piano. I was told later that I fought him all the way. He called Fred, Sammy, and Cartlon to help - they found me outside on the pavement with bloody fingers.
It was dark, but I don’t think it was the same night. Not only had time passed, but something changed in the city around me. The shadows seemed deeper than they should have been. Like the structure of the buildings and the concrete ground would bend within the darkness. In the light, it felt so delicate and paper-thin.
I felt that if I stepped in the light, my feet would tear through it all and I would fall, but the darkness didn’t feel any more secure. Black and white, light and dark were working together against me.
“Take me home,” I said.
I had a piano at home. The moment my front door was opened for me, I shut it behind me and marched to the bench. It wasn’t as good as the piano at the jazz bar, but that didn’t matter. I needed to try again.
I started playing, desperately, as if I was trying to breathe through my actions. I didn’t feel pain. I felt fear. The song was a ghost in my head fast becoming a whisper. It wouldn’t be long before that whisper vanished. I needed to play.
Once more, I was dragged from the piano, but it was several days after I sat down. The ringing of the keys faded and I could hear my whimpering. I was dragged through a busted-down door and into an ambulance. My cries got louder and louder. It felt like everyone I had ever loved had died tragically and terribly before my eyes.
The song was gone. The lights were startling and the shadows were inky nothing. The world had become this flat, monochrome reminder of my failure. I was heavily sedated. When I woke up, my hands were bound in bandages, metal rods sticking out, holding every bone in place. I can’t recall what they looked like as I was dragged into the ambulance - I didn’t need to. The pain was enough.
The band checked on me the day after I woke up - Tuesday. They played at the jazz bar on Monday, so they didn’t bother coming to see me. That’s what I think anyway.
It was awkward. My friends felt so distant, preoccupied with more important things. It was only out of a guilty feeling that they came to see me. These were assumptions I could bet on. I could see it in their eyes. I didn’t care. I told them I would call them when I was out of the hospital, but I never did.
I didn’t contact them or go anywhere near the bar. Or a piano. Or a bar of any kind. Whatever pain I feel now can be numbed in the privacy of my home with a store-bought bottle of spirits. And although I can’t remember the song, I still try to. I can’t forget it. How can I after what happened?