July 19th, 1953. The room was delightfully warm and full of wide-eared folk. Women wore rounded hats made of felt. The curved lip made a bed for a fresh flower, often collected from their own gardens. Chatter faded and was replaced with steady applause as a short man with the smile of a child came on stage. His thin black hair was gelled to the side of his head and his suit was brown, only slightly darker than his skin.
“Can we please give a hand for… Martin Fitzgerald! Now let me tell you a day does not go by at home where my wife doesn’t put his records on. Truly an unforgettable talent. Here he is”. Martin was a tall, undeniably attractive man. His almond eyes drew just about anyone in and his intuitive fingers were described to have touched the soul as he moved along the black and white ivory. His cheeks pulled the corners of his mouth outward and he lifted his hand to the crowd as he sat down at his bench. He nodded before he began to release his minion like fingers directed by a wave of intuition. Then in the crowd, their eyes met.
Autumn is a silent moment of leaves falling and crunching under our feet, but it is also a moment for the whine of a saxophone and buzz of a bass. These words were pasted in Martin’s travelling journal. He kept them close to him, and especially looked back on them during the fall season. He was in the local diner, Jackie’s, standing at a table with another gentleman named Payton. His eyes were sharp and poisonous but his smooth talk made up for it. Their fingers tangled, Payton’s calluses and Martin’s bitten nails. Payton’s hands were first to leave as both of their dinners arrived.
“What’s that look for?” Payton wrinkled his eyebrows in annoyed confusion.
“I was just getting to remember the shape of your nails.” Martin frowned then took a bite of his spaghetti, wrapping it around the fork. Payton looked to his left and to his right, the white of his eyes peeked. Coast is clear.
“Don’t be like that, alright?” He pointed his dirty fork. “Just ‘cause I don’t wanna move things like you do doesn’t mean I don’t wanna be here with you. Now don’t ruin the night with another one of your hissy parties.”
Snow ate at the edges of leather boots. Branches were dead and hanging from the trees lining the streets of the city. Martin’s footprints marred the perfect white coats on the street. He kept his hands in his pockets, only taking them out to push open the door of a random coffee house. Before he could finish warming his hands with breath something caught his eye on the opposite side of the café. There stood Payton, facing his direction, with both arms wrapped around a woman whose chin was propped on his shoulder. He wasn’t afraid to be seen. Her long and straight black hair reminded Martin of his older sister. His stomach clenched and screamed. He wanted to slam the keys of a piano at opposing ends till his fingers bled. His tongue ran over his lip in between his teeth, careful to hold his words.
“Pretty cold out there ain’t it?” Payton said as he took long steps to Martin, unfazed and unapologetic.
“‘Think I’ve got frost-bite.” He tapped the pads of his finger and folded his lips inward. Payton’s words rang through Martin’s mind. Not here. It never was serious, not to him. It wouldn’t ever be.
The Spring Fair had begun as it did every year on the 1st of April. Posters were plastered around on buildings and thick wooden poles, “IN NEED OF PIANISTS”. Martin’s hair had grown and long coils framed his face. At some angles his cheekbones were hidden but that hadn’t mattered much recently. He spent more time teaching kids locally to play piano more than performing. This isn’t to say he had fallen out of love with playing but the extra time he had went to trying to put his feelings to words rather than chords. Singing was never much of Martin’s ‘thing’, but he knew the special power held by words. Although the singing of a piano was far more universal, sometimes things were better with less ambiguity. He ripped the poster from the pole and walked a little faster in the direction of whatever the address said. Pulling the door open, he walked in and around to the back of the stage where other musicians were talking. “I play…piano. And very well I do.”
“Fine,” they said with hidden gratitude and desperation. “You’re up”. He shut his eyes and pulled out a crinkled paper titled “To a New Beginning”.
Comments are closed.