There was an old piano in the lobby. It had a few cracked Ivory keys - an upright. It was no Steinway Baby Grand. but it sounded good. I would noodle on it occasionally...as I am want to do... I will plonk on anything that makes a sound, but my main instrument is guitar. I am not even schooled in that...maybe I am a musical "intuitive." A jack of all trades, with a gift for melody. I would often sit at the piano and drink coffee in the morning, or sit in one of the chairs in the lobby before work, reading the newspaper. gearing up for the day. Often I would make the desk clerk nervous by resting a cigarette on the piano cabinet.
"Hey buddy...ever hear of an ashtray?"
"Snidely put. As always," I said, "You have a way with yourself."
"I don't need no burns on that instrument!"
"Yeah yeah," Why don't you get the damned thing tuned, and fix
the dead key on the end here? See?" I said, banging the useless key.
"It's broken."
""Just get the butt off the damned piano!"
"Yeah. yeah, you are on the job."
I guess I was asking for it, as I kept doing it, while trying
to work something out. I would always oblige, with too much back talk. Poor fellow.
But the "piano man" was no noodle. He was different. He was the pilot of the piano - he was a master. I was a noodle..tinkering.
I noticed this.new guy was in the lobby every morning...and I didn't think much of him except to notice how competently he played. I would yield the piano to him, eventually, deferring, when he came into the lobby. He played, I listened. And I read the news. His playing was very good, but I listened and meditated on other things, as I was preoccupied. He played unobtrusively. And what he played seemed to fit the ambience of the lobby. Like Muzak, or maybe that term diminishes it: he played good music- well: show tunes, simple classic melodies, popular tunes from decades past - which he would improvise around, expressing them in light airy jazz. He rarely played classical music. And being musically oriented, I would take note often of something he was doing. I acknowledged something interesting wordlessly. . The acoustics in the lobby helped, as the floor was hardwood. It enhanced an average quality instrument, giving it a fatter sound, more resonant. A rug would have killed the sound.
.I noted how curious he was. I talked a little philosophy with him on several occasions over the month that we stayed there. I noticed he always dressed up, every day, although, he didn't appear to go anywhere. His attire was always similar: white shirt, black tie, black pants, white socks, and black shoes ( a hideous combo, but he looked sharp in many ways.) He was erudite but he often played dumb, and humble.
He was rich kid, privileged. Jewish, from an upper middle class family in NY. I'd often see him there in the lobby reading the bible. Sometimes he wore his yarmulkes.
.
He seemed to spend as much time checking in with his stock broker. He once asked me if I could recommend a stock. I said, BIOGEN was what I would buy now if I had the money. He actually bought one hundred shares, after a week. (Those shares are worth a pretty penny now -.what I describe here happened in 1989. The stocked peaked at 100/hr during the boom of the late nineties. Love giving the privledged financial advice.)
He was nice enough -pleasant - with a mild manner. Sometimes timid. But he was the odd man out. I would sometimes play something for him for his approval. He became a sort of a routine sight in the morning and in the evening.
He told me he had gone to law school and completed his degree, but he kept failing the bar. ( I think he did it deliberately to avoid the programming and expectations of his parents? A rebellion. I don't know.)
I asked him if he played professionally and he said he had....but he stopped because he said he would get paralyzed with self consciousness too frequently. He'd have to leave, frustrated and a bundle of nerves. It happened every time he tried.
“ Stage fright?” I asked
“ No...”
“ What then?”
" It's ontological”
It took me a while to understand what he meant:
“ I t's ontological insecurity...have you been beaten up because you are Jewish?”
“ Not lately,” I said; “ I am not Jewish. I've been beaten up for other reasons - haha.”
“ How long do you think I'd last in an Irish bar?”
“ That depends on the alcohol consumption. But over all I'd say.... Not long -ha- ha. Anyway despite some prejudices, other other Jews manage to get out there.”
He didn't smile. He just drifted off into a light Jazz riff. I grabbed my hat and went off to work, I was training for five weeks at a new facility learning some medical skills that I would later take home, learning a new Hematology system for the lab, several in fact. I was give my opinion to the finance departments, and lab managers at several hospitals.
On one night during this training, one of the last, I went to sleep immediately after a long uninteresting day, and I woke early the next morning. I grabbed some coffee, and smoked outside so as not to pick on the nerves of the desk clerk. When I came back in “the piano man” had just exited a phone both, the old style type with wooden doors with hinges down the middle. I hadn't seen one in ages. "Antique" was the motif of the hotel. Antique in a cheesy way, as some of the period accommodations didn't match. The phones were modern, but the booth was old style - one example. The piano man was engaged in a heated exchange inside of the booth with whom I don't know, about what, I don't know...when he suddenly slammed down the phone, and threw open the door – with a look in his eye that spooked me. It was as though his eyes were “red lit.”
He stiffly walked to the piano, never changing his expression during his stride along the way. As if he were aiming for a life preserver: groping his way to it. His jaw muscles stiffened, leaning on furniture for support as he made his way. A drowning man in the lobby. The piano was his safe harbor. He got there with what seemed a struggle, pulled up the bench and began to play the light jazz riff that he played the day before. Then he finished up the breezy riff, and turned to me.
I was reading the newspaper, occasionally peering over the top to keep an eye on him, as I was a little concerned. But I was also a little nervously anticipating more weird behavior. He knew I was tuneful, and he asked me to pick a classic song.
“ Which one, I don't know what to pick.” I said, startled by the change in his demeanor..
“ Any song.” His expression had changed so dramatically. It was softer, and there was a familiar kind look that returned to his eyes.
“ Oh I don't know.” I said “ Stairway to heaven? Haha. “
He looked at me quizzically with his head tilted to the side, like a dog puzzled by something that it hadn't see before. Then he said:“ I don't know that.” I laughed, as I was just teasing; I had a sense of what he was going to do - I was in for a demonstration of some type. I picked one I was sure he'd know, as it was approaching the season.
“ White Christmas?”
“ Good choice!” he said.
He approached the tune in the classic Bing Crosby style and played the melody for a little while. The mood of the song matched Cosy's sentiment; it captured it. It was pretty moving and well played. But with astonishing grace, he smoothly employed a transition..He changed the tempo, and turned the tune from the classic melody into a light jazz improvisation. I was delighted. His virtuosity was astounding, I sat mute, managing only one weak “Wow!”
I really couldn't process how wildly well he played. Superimposing a new melody over the old, occasionally reverting to the original melody with jazz counter points; the original tune conversing with the jazz version. Then the original melody would submerge. It become implicit. He performed with marvelous, spontaneous, playfully agility and technical mastery.
But this expression changed again in two or three minutes. It went from soft to harder. His focus was concentrated. You could see it in his eyes,the focused beam of light, like a light house shining into the night. There was another change in tempo: several in fact. Perfectly executed changes - where the original melody was something he juggled in his subconscious and inexplicably -my own. It was, again, implied. But what he put on top was something of ineffable brilliance. He was composing in the present. The composition was amazingly complex, dislocating, a "Satori" for me.. The new White Christmas - still fitting the season. The improv seemed incidental to him- as if it - not being recorded or written out, was not problematic for him - another improvisation could easily take place - at any time. This was a 'throw-away,' his gift to the present. His Zen.
I wondered how anyone could be that accomplished. He was a god of piano. And an obvious genius. The changes didn't stop there though. There was one more.
He'd reserved that change for awhile. As though he was preparing for it -like a sprinter preparing for the 100 yard dash. Then lapsed into it. Slightly rougher in the transition...but fluid enough, awesome for what emerged. A sonic masterpiece, which left one wondering how prehensiled digits could ever hope to coordinate with one another in such a masterful way, Those percussions on the black and white keys were fantastically rhythmic and polyrythmic.
He only uttered one phrase:
“The piano is very like drums”
But how did he know I was attending to the time?
While I still retained the unheard deep current of Bing Crosby version in as if holding it my emotional realm, while mentally I could barely believe what transcended it. It was like hearing music being played at a level of complexity un-imagined. It was as though he had taken music to the loftiest level there was...where virtuosity, invention, creativity, all merged. I could not speak. It was like being on a roller coaster, not wanting to get off...and of course, I couldn't get off if I tried, I was riveted.
I thought: “Why is this guy bothering with me? He is the master who could teach masters!,” but then something changed again.
The“red lit” look returned. He was shifting gears again, trying to reach a gear that wasn't there. Clutching, and shifting. Banging the transmission of his being. He was trying to take the music to a place that did not exist.
In his eyes I saw madness. The music stopped being music. It was the work of a mad man trying to do what could not be done. He was trying to go faster than light..his mass was approaching the infinite.
I had images in my head of man made disasters The Hindenberg, The Challenger Disaster, car crashes. Complex things that were put together were falling apart. What was organized, brilliant and symmetrical harmonic was now chaotic, insane. The soul and mind were being disrupted by the forces of some interior entropy.
Banging on the keys now, he was pushing, straining, discordant...punishing the instrument for it's limitations.
After a minute or two being on the edge of eternity, his madness was obvious,frightening. As though I could see lightning discharging in his head A sudden storm. He was torturing himself, and me. Showing me his problem. I didn't want to know. It was none my business. I felt uneasy, nowhere to hide. But he stopped attempting the impossible as abruptly as he started.
He slammed the cover of the piano down. The strings were still resonating in my head from before. White Christmas, gone mad, the HidenburgHindenberg Christmas. This guy was unsettling me - scaring me. I suppose he reached for control. Embarrassed for showing me this. He stood up, took a deep breath, exhaled and then sat down. He closed his eyes and then wound down for a little while using some prayer to calm himself. And a short time - he became calm. He open the lid of the piano again, and played three simple chords which seemed to say: :"I love you." They did say: "I love you." No question. As if he was trying to show me how even simply played things can communicate emotion Not trying, really, mission accomplished. He blushed, as he knew, I felt it. How incredible! .
He changed his persona in too short a time. This transition was awkward.
He carefully closed the lid of the piano a second, final time. He rose from the piano. He looked at me with that initial calm look I'd seen before. He smiled and said:
“ You don't like my music.”
“ Shut up,” I said...”I am not going there!”
He blushed again and skulked away – like a school boy caught cheating on an exam. Still reeling and puzzled, I went off to one of my last day of training. Having heard what I never knew existed, having seen what I never asked to see.
When I returned that night, he was gone. He'd checked out. I asked the desk clerk: "Did he seem ok?". The clerk wasn't there or not paying attention in the morning, or maybe, for once, I didn't notice him.
“
"Yeah,he seemed fine. Weird guy. He comes here every year, and stays for exactly the same amount of time. He said he had to take an exam, and that he would pass it this time." I found myself hoping he would. Maybe it would help.
© 2009 Toylanders Press International (Gary Stone) "all rights reserved."
