Piano Man

Piano Man

By Lea Sheryn

     Piano Man—the song played in my head long after the bar closed for the night. I was just past my twenty-first birthday and playing piano in a little seedy bar off Main Street in a small rural Idaho town. It was January 1974. I felt grown up, holding down my first adult job and getting paid tips. I was the Piano Man, just like in the song.

     The piano was as shabby as the bar. One of the legs sat on a brick to stop it from wobbling and the white keys had aged yellow. It was tucked in a small corner catty-corner to the bar. Two or three men patronized the place during the week. I knew them from town—an appliance repairman, a county road worker and Larry the mechanic. A few more showed up Friday/Saturday night but never a real crowd.

     “Hey, Jack,” shouted Fred, the appliance guy, “how ‘bout Piano Man?”

     “Sure, Fred.” I nodded and began playing. My name wasn’t Jack, but I learned to answer to it. They all called me Jack.

     I had a whole repertoire of songs, mostly old standards easily tinkled off on the keys. Piano Man was a new catchy little tune by some New York dude named Billy Joel. Seemed like it was on the radio every time I switched it on. I picked it up quickly, like I did most songs.

     Sure enough, one of the regulars asked for it at least once a night. Sometimes I played it two, three times. They liked it, and I liked playing it. Larry, Fred and John joined in singing, hooking arms and swaying. They knocked shoulders drunkenly, but no one really cared. It was a fun time.

     The bartender smiled at me while he wiped the glasses. The guys liked to come in for a drink or two after work, but, with me there, they stayed longer and drank more. His man “Jack” at the piano was good for business.

     Friday and Saturday brought more business into the bar. Young couples out for the night stumbled in after the movies let out. They populated the bar or slipped into one of the two booths in the front windows.

     “My gal wants Piano Man,” Bob Rippee stated, brushing past the piano to use the john. “Wait ‘til I come out, will ya?”

     I nodded, not knowing whether he saw me or not. I was playing As Time Goes By but cut into Piano Man when he reemerged. The patrons at the bar turned toward me, smiling. Suzy Cooms started to sing. She was Bob’s girl. Then everyone joined in. The piano really did sound like a carnival that night.

     Jill Ford showed up Wednesday night with Larry. I knew her from high school and thought she was too young for Larry. She sat close to him at the bar with John beside her. The mechanic wanted her to hear Piano Man. I obliged.

     Jill came in again on Friday night with her girlfriends, Jackie and Laverne. I remembered them from school. My friends from shop class called them the giggle sisters. Every time we caught their eyes, they turned away giggling. They giggled at the bar, but, sure enough, I got a request for Piano Man from Laverne.

     “Piano Man,” she called out above the bar buzz. Then she and Jill and Jackie giggled. A few years out of school and nothing changes, I thought, tickling off the first familiar notes.

     It was a busy Friday night. I managed to get in Freebird by Lynyrd Skynyrd and Brandy by Looking Glass before Katie and Bill Hodgkins came in. They, naturally, wanted…you guessed it! So, I sang about Davy who was still in the Navy and Paul, the real estate novelist. I felt like those two dudes were my best friends. At least I felt like I knew them rather well.

     Two weeks went by and the bar crowd steadily increased. On the third Saturday, I could barely push through the door when I arrived for my nine o’clock shift. The air was thick with cigarette smoke; the place smelt of spilled beer. I could see Scott Clancy, the bartender’s moon face between shoulders. His lips quivered into a smile then broadened. He knew it was me they were coming to see. I pushed across to the piano and began to play. I knew what they wanted—no need for requests. The patrons hooted with appreciation and, hooking arms, began to sway and sing.

     When the sporting goods store went out of business next door, Clancy took over the lease. He expanded his establishment by pushing the bar back several feet and enlarging it. New shiny booths filled the walls with tables spreading across the new black and white tiled floor. The bathrooms were remodeled to add new stalls, and yes, yours truly got a new grand piano with bar stools surrounding it.      

     Clancy’s went into big business now. Word spread quickly. Flyers plastered in grocery store windows and other establishments brought them in. I couldn’t get used to seeing my face on those flyers or the words the Piano Man curved above the picture. I even made the front page of the local newspaper. The bar was overloaded most nights now, and out-of-towners began to flood in.

     Piano Man

     Piano Man

     Piano Man

     Every request that landed on my worktop was the same: Piano Man. What was once fun was quickly becoming monotonous. There were plenty of songs, both new and old, that I could play. It was a good year for songs. Elton John, Jim Croce and Paul McCartney all had singles to offer. I could get a few tunes in, but then someone new would come in and it was Piano Man all over again.

     Scott raised my salary, the tips kept flowing in. I moved from my miniscule studio apartment above the drug store into a one bedroom that seemed massive. I was on top of the small-town world when I put a downpayment on a brand-new Chevy Camaro Z-28. It felt good to be 1) popular and 2) richer than I was. But, boy, my life was getting old…fast.

     The bottom line was I wanted more. I wanted out of small-town life and out of Idaho. I began to think about California. I was talented. What did that guy Joel have that I didn’t have? I could follow in his footsteps, make a career for myself in the music industry. The bright lights and stardom attracted me. I could go down to Cali, get myself a recording contract easily.

     I continued to work for Scott Clancy. He treated me right, kept giving me raises, my tips increased. I swallowed down Piano Man night after night. The old treadmill kept going around while I dreamed of LA. I had to do something, but the safety of Clancy’s kept me in place.

     Laverne started hanging out more often. She showed up while I practiced in the afternoons then convinced Scott to hire her as a waitress. I began to like having her around. I took her to the carnival that fall. We had a good time. It seemed like we just fell into dating. I can’t say I loved her, but she was a good lay. I even started liking her giggling.

     Before long, we started talking about moving in together. Maybe I wanted it; maybe not. I was drifting through life; I had no steady mooring. Laverne was there. I took her for granted. I admit it. She was a pretty girl with chestnut hair and a smooth complexion. I thought she smoked too much. I wasn’t a smoker myself. I tried it in middle school, didn’t like it. Laverne chain smoked. I told her it would ruin her looks, but she just giggled and shrugged. Girls don’t think about losing their looks when they’re twenty-one.

     Little by little Laverne’s stuff started showing up in my apartment. I came home one afternoon from grocery shopping to find women’s clothes hanging in my closet. We hadn’t fully decided to move in together, but I began to suspect Laverne had made that decision for us. It kinda got on my nerves. I thought about telling her about it but lost my nerve. It only meant an argument—something loud and provoking banging on the ceiling from the landlady downstairs. Not something I wanted to get into.

     A few times I got home to find Laverne entertaining Jill and Jackie on the couch. Three girls in baby doll jammies smoking pot and painting their toenails was a bit too much for this bachelor. I told them to get lost. They struggled into their coats, and each threw a dirty look at me as they left the space I was paying rent on. I told Laverne she wasn’t moving in but her stuff kept showing up.

     I finally had enough when she started calling me ‘Her Piano Man.’ I did blow my top. Two o’clock in the morning and all hell broke loose. Me yelling at Laverne, Laverne bawling her eyes out and the landlady banging her cane on the ceiling. When the cops showed up, I put my girl out and Mrs. Phelps (alias the landlady) put a no trespass order on her. I thought I was done with her but she still waitressed at the bar. I couldn’t avoid her or the Piano Man.

     “There are other songs,” I complained to Clancy as we closed for the night. The last patron wanted to hear our favorite song before he stumbled into the night. I swallowed my pride and a throat lump and played it again (Sam).

     “They want Davy in the Navy and the real estate novelist.” Clancy shrugged. He didn’t care what I played or if I played upside down in my underwear. He was all about the money. If it brought them in with cash, he would be happy. He was making a profit off Billy Joel’s most successful song to date.

     “I don’t care if Davy jumps ship and swims all the way to New Zealand,” I snarled back. “As far as the novelist is concerned, he can go screw that waitress and her politics. I’m done with Piano Man.”

     “You’ll play it until your fingers fall off if that’s what they want.” The bar owner swung on me. “You want to keep them happy, Jack.”

     “Happy Jack’s a good song,” I muttered, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Maybe I give it a try tomorrow night. I kinda like The Who, ya know.”

     “Piano Man.” Scott Clancy jabbed his finger in my chest. “Give them what they want.”

     I walked through the door, slamming it behind me. I was on a treadmill, walking the same distance night after night and getting nowhere. The money was good, the job safe, but I wanted more. I had to get out.

     Laverne was in my bed when I stumbled home. The window was wide open, the curtains billowing in the April wind. I figured that’s how she got in around Mrs. Phelps. I lifted the mattress, tumbling her onto the floor. She woke with a start and ogled me.

     “OUT!” I shouted, pointing to the window. She continued her blank stare.

     “Please,” she pleaded, on her knees, her hands clasped in prayer.

     “No.” I had to be firm. “OUT!”

     I shoved her toward the window as the landlady began banging from downstairs. She’d already told me one more disturbance would get me kicked out. But I wanted out. I started Laverne bawling and screaming obscenities. This was my chance. Police sirens wailed in the distance provoking Laverne through the window and into the darkness.

     Grabbing suitcases and packing crates from the closet, I threw my belongings in willy-nilly. I was packing when the cops showed up. Mrs. Phelps was nattering a mile-a-minute when I flung open the door. I marched past her carrying a crate full of LP records. At 3:47am exactly, I bid Idaho goodbye and headed for California.

SIX WEEKS LATER

     LA wasn’t kind to me. No one was knocking down my door looking to sign me with a record label. I’d sent a demo to all the biggies with no results. Sure, I was a ‘nobody’. Nobody heard of me; nobody knew me. I had money in the bank to sustain me for a while and an apartment outside Hollywood. Well, way outside Hollywood. I knew I had to find employment soon, but it was hard to find something with everyone looking for a foot in the entertainment industry’s door.

     I could play at a bar or club, I supposed. It would be a beginning, anyhow. It was another week or so before I finally got an audition. Club Rendezvous on the Strip wanted to hear me play. I was happy to oblige and arrived ten minutes early. Vito Nitta greeted me with a beefy handshake and a too friendly grin. I felt nervous, immediately recalling the Godfather—a movie I’d seen a few years back. But a jobs a job and, if I did well, perhaps I’d get ‘discovered’. I’d do anything.

     Vito led me to the piano—a beautiful Steinway—much nicer than the one at Clancy’s. I sat and warmed up then glanced toward Vito, my face an open book. I told him I could play most anything, just name it.

     “How about…”

     I looked up at Vito expectantly, my fingers hovering over the keys. The man seemed to take a while to think. Finally, he opened his mouth to speak. I waited, eager to begin.

     “Piano Man. Do you know Piano Man.”

     My forehead connected with the keys, making a horrible cacophony. I continued banging my forehead against the keys—again and again and again.

     I woke up the following morning in the hospital, my head pounding uncontrollably. My probing fingers discovered a thick bandage surrounding my forehead. Would the pain ever go away?