The Song

This is a short story I recently finished about a man who feels like he is nothing more than a figment of a lyricists imagination.

         “I’m living in a song,” I said. Paul shrugged as he flipped up his rocks glass, draining the last bit of whiskey and motioning to John behind the bar. I consider Paul a friend, but not a real friend. I wouldn’t call him up to chat or go out on the town with him. He’s just one of those friends that happens to hang around where I work and he’s good for a brief conversation from time to time.  Lately I’ve been feeling that my life is spinning out of control. Something else seems to be guiding me. I am a marionette as some twisted lyricist hovers above me, waving his hands about as I move along in dumb obedience. According to Paul I am prone to muddling myself in philosophical absurdities. I blame the puppet master lyricist.  He pulls the strings. He writes the song. Maybe I just need some sleep.

            You might ask why I think the puppet master is a lyricist, and why precisely, what I’m living in is a song. Why not a storyteller? Why not a novelist or poet? Perhaps God Himself is overseeing my day-to-day life as I meander about in half-awake compliance, walking along the beach with one set of footprints and all that jazz.  Truth is I have no f*****g clue.  Call it intuition. Call it lunacy. It just feels like a song. And don’t go accusing me of some grand egoism to believe that I’m the subject of a song. I’m fairly certain it’s a pretty s****y song.

            Paul gets up and meanders toward the men’s room. I don’t want to be here. As he passes he puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “Stay out of your f*****g head.” He means well, but I’m not sure that writing crappy novels gives one license to give advice. Yes, Paul writes novels. And yes, they are crappy. This is no insult, mind you. The reason I know they are crappy is that Paul told me so. I have the literary taste of a Rottweiler, so I’d never know.  On his way back he says, “Knock ‘em dead,” and pats my other shoulder. 

            “S**t,” I say, looking down at my watch. It’s time. I look up at John and he’s heading my way with my drink. “Nothing better that a good blended on the rocks. Good for the voice, too,” I think, taking it from him. “Thanks,” I say as I stand up and straighten out my jacket.

****

            The next morning I wake up in a fog. My head pounds and my stomach is slightly queasy.  I reach for the bed stand and grab the bottle of water that I set out the night before and drain half of it. I grab the two aspirin setting next to it and swig them down as well. Laying back my head I think about the night. It went well, all in all. It was a decent crowd. Thursdays are sometimes slow, but this one wasn’t bad. “Didn’t that girl give me her number?” I think. I roll over and look over the side of the bed and my pants are lying on the floor. I pick them up, squinting from the sunlight peering through the window and jamb my hand into the right pocket. I pull out the napkin to examine it. “Cherry,” it says, “506-5551” and has a little heart scribbled next to it. “Nice,” I think and put the napkin down on the bed stand, knowing full well that I’ll never call. It just doesn’t seem like that kind of song.

            Despite my inclination to remain in bed all day, I decide that getting a bite to eat is probably the best thing for me. I climb out of bed and slowly meander over to the dresser and pick out a pair of clean underwear. I always make sure I have clean underwear. I’ll pick through the laundry basket for other clothing that isn’t too crumpled or stained, but the underwear have to be clean. And pick through the laundry basket I do, finding a summer shirt and shorts that will be suitable for a quick meal at the diner down the street.

            At the diner I see the usual cast of characters. Dave is there with a couple of friends and I walk over and scoot into the booth with them. These are all Navy guys from the local base. Dave is past the required term of service for retirement, but I don’t think the thought interests him much. I’ve asked him in the past and he just changes the subject. It’s the life he knows and he seems reasonably happy with it, which is to say he’s not one to complain about his daily life ad nauseum.  The guys are talking about a coming deployment to the Pacific with all the usual banter about Polynesian women and coconut drinks and it strikes me how the conversations rarely touch what they actually do while deployed but without fail focus on the shore leave.  I’m inclined to believe that people, even those that really enjoy their work, would really rather do something else with their time. I play the piano at a hotel bar for a living and I look forward to it about as much as the shift worker sitting at the bar looks forward to heading into the plant every day. Work is work.

            The waitress comes over with my coffee and I tell her I’ll have the usual. “I’ve already put in the order,” she says with a tired, yet pleasant smile.  I smile and nod in return and wonder if she can tell that I’m faking it. I’ve got a pretty good fake smile, I think, but you can never ask someone if they think it’s a good one without giving away that you’re faking it.  

            After breakfast I head back to my apartment wondering how I might occupy my time for the day. Of course there are myriad productive tasks I might undertake �" a mile long “honey do” list, if you will, sans “honey”. But I don’t think today is the day for that. Walking back to the apartment, instead of turning down my street and heading up the steps to my building I decide to keep walking. I have nowhere to go and no one to see �" and no particular destination in mind, but I keep walking. The shops along the street aren’t very busy and there aren’t very many people out today. Traffic is light but steady. I can hear voices of people yelling things to one another in the distance along with the steady rhythm of the traffic. A door closes here and there and I wonder that I’ve never actually stopped and listened to the sounds of the street. Not that there’s anything of note to hear, but I’ve never really noticed it at all or paid it any attention. I wonder about the lives of the people I see. Are they happy? Does happiness exist or is there ever only merely placation. I know I’m projecting my own feelings on the world around me, but what else do I have to go on. When you sit at the bar and talk to the other folks there it’s not like they ramble on about everything that’s going well in their lives. When I talk to my friends back home they give me the laundry list of recent high points, but then, I do the same and I’m still miserable. I just don’t want them to know I’m miserable. I assume they are the same.

            Really, though, what do I have to complain about? Most evenings I go and have dinner at work, have a few drinks and play the piano and sing songs to people. Why should that be difficult? Well, I suppose it’s not until you add me into the equation.  If this is a song I’m living in, I wonder what the refrain might be. It’s not a love song �" the only women in my life are the waitress who serves me breakfast and the passing skirts that stop through the hotel bar to have a drink and listen to a song or two. They’re all from out of town. And sooner or later, that’s where they always return. I don’t think it’s an introspective song about a lonely crooner passing his days, wondering about the meaning of life. I don’t have time for that garbage. It’s not an addiction song either. I probably have a few too many drinks than are good for me, but it’s nothing I dwell on. And addiction songs are nothing if they aren’t dwelling. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a day or two in the life. Who knows? It could even be less than that and I’m just filling the time in between. Pull those strings. Sing the chorus. See what happens next.

****

            After my shower I put on my suit for work. Same black pants, same black shoes, same black coat and same black tie. A little bit boring, sure, but I like the effect. It feels a little like 1950.  I’m early today, but I feel like seeing who’s at the hotel and grabbing some dinner there before the show.  You never know what’s going on in a hotel bar. Interesting conversation. Interesting women. Maybe I’ll just chat with John while he doles out the drinks to the happy hour crowd.

****

            At five o’clock the dinner crowd is there, though a little sparser than usual, I think.  No one is sitting at the bar but a younger guy who looks to be in his mid to late twenties. I sit in the stool next to him and ask John for a diet. “In for dinner today?” John asks.

            “Yeah, I thought I’d see what was going on up here. Slow crowd today?” I ask, filling the conversation void.

            “Pretty slow, I think. Usually we see more on a Friday,” he says, knowing full well that I am just as aware of the daily crowd patterns as he is.

            “Anything interesting going on?” I ask, hoping for a little office gossip.

            “Nah �" same ol’ same ol’.”

            “Yeah, what I expected.” I ask him for the daily specials and he rolls off a typical list of entrees. I tell him I’ll have the chicken and he punches it into the computer behind the bar. “So, what’s been happening with you?” I ask.

            “I have an audition Monday morning,” he says. John is an actor gainfully employed as a bartender. See him outside the bar, though, and ask him what he does and he’ll tell you he’s an actor. I think he was in a sitcom that was cancelled after six episodes. He says the writers were no good. I never saw it.

            “That’s good,” I say, “Anything promising?”

“It’s a movie about a bull-fighter,” he says, “Kind of The Sun Also Rises meets Gladiator. I think it’s a good story. My part would be supporting. I’d be the bull fighter’s brother who lives on his coattails.” I wonder if he’s ever read The Sun Also Rises. I can see how a story about a bull-fighter might borrow some story points from Gladiator but unless the bull fighter is also a drunk writer I’m not quite sure how they could fit together.

“Break a leg,” I say sincerely. He’s told me before how badly he wants out of here. He says he’s sure he could make it if he had the chance. Maybe this will be his break. Probability and statistics indicate otherwise.

As John wanders off to take care of some bartending chore, the fellow next to me speaks up, “You know each other long?” he asks.

“A year or so, I’d say,” not thinking too hard about how long it’s actually been. “John’s the one friend I have around here. Good guy,” I say, suspecting he might be an out-of-town acquaintance of John’s.

“You work here too, then?” he asks with a slight smile that I find a bit off-putting.

“Whatever,” I think, “Just another guy passing through the hotel bar, making conversation.” I answer, “Yeah, I play the piano at night.”

“Now that’s an interesting job,” he says, taking a swig of his beer. It’s got a light color to it, so I suppose it’s a regular American pilsner. How people can drink that stuff I’ll never know.

“Just like any other job after a time, I suppose,” I say, not really interested in the conversation, but not disinterested enough to be rude. “I’ve been doing it a long time now. There are good times. Not so good times. Just seems like regular work to me any more. Some guys get up in the morning, go to an office and fill out spreadsheets. I get up in the afternoon and head to the bar and sing songs.” I barely think about what I am saying as it’s the same line I’ve spoken a thousand times to a thousand strangers who suppose there is something glamorous about what I do.

“If that’s your story, I suppose it will do,” he says, taking another drink of his beer. I’m not quite sure what he means, and my interest in the conversation has piqued a bit.

“My story?” I ask.

“Sure, your story. Whatever you tell yourself about yourself. That’s your story,” he says in a matter of fact tone.

“Odd that he would call it a story,” I think. Usually I would think my story would be one that someone else would write when I was dead, or at least very old, talking about what it is that I did. My thoughts on my current line of work aren’t something I would characterize that way. “Besides, it’s a song,” I think, laughing to myself.

“Yeah, I’d say it’s amusing,” he says, noticing my laugh. “You never know what people are going to make up about themselves,” he says. At this point I’m starting to get a little perturbed. Now my story isn’t just what I tell myself, but it’s something I’ve made up. As if I wasn’t living my own life and didn’t know what was happening to me and I have to make up some kind of story about it.

“That’s an odd way to think about it, friend,” I say, letting a little bit of irritation creep into my voice.

“You could say that,” he says, looking a bit more serious. “It’s something I’ve thought about quite a bit, though,” he says, turning in his chair to face me straight on. “Of course, everything we experience is real. We’re here in this time in this place. I’m me. You’re you. That’s not a story, that’s a fact. The stories come in when we think about it.”

I can see he is sincere now, and he’s not just trying to get a rise out of me, and I’m thinking about what he’s saying, though I can’t really make heads or tails of what he’s getting at. “So, anything I think about what happens is what you call a story?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. “The only thing that’s real are the facts. What is. Our judgments and interpretations are just stories. You say your job is just like any other. A guy goes into an office and he doesn’t necessarily want to be there, he’s just there because that’s what he has to do. Or worse, he never really even thought about it �" that’s just where life took him. At least that’s what I get from what you said. But, anyway, you’re saying your job is no great shakes �" it’s just a job. It’s what you have to do to get by. Or worse, that’s just where life took you. What I’m saying is that’s just a story. It’s not real. You made it up. That’s how you decide to look at it. You’ve just been doing it so long you don’t think of it as a decision. Chances are you decided that that choice was real years ago and you’ve been living with the results ever since. But the fact is that you play the piano in a bar. Anything more than that is just what you choose to make up about it.”

He gets up and walks down the bar, hands John a folded stack of bills, and walks out of the bar. I’ve got to have the dumbest look ever recorded in the history of white men on my face. John brings me my plate of food and I eat in silence. I feel as if my whole life is just made up. It’s a song, alright. I’m just playing the part. I’m the guy it’s about and it just moves me along from one thing to the next. Or maybe the song’s already over and I’m just the remnants walking about the planet in an existential daze.

I ask John for a drink, Johnny on the rocks and sit there pondering in silence until it’s time to go on. When it’s time to go on I walk up to the piano and start playing. Hardly anyone is in the place. I’m not even there. It doesn’t even feel like I’m real. I’m a mirage, a sham. A figment of someone else’s imagination. I play but I don’t hear the music. I sing but I don’t know the words.

****

The next morning I wake up and look at the alarm clock next to the bed. The sun shines bright through the curtains and the clock reads 9:00 AM. “I haven’t seen 9:00 AM in years,” I think. I look around for my bottle of water and aspirin and see that they aren’t there. I don’t remember going home last night. I barely remember playing. But I notice that my head isn’t pounding and the light isn’t obscene as it bleeds into the room. I must not have had much to drink. I don’t remember ordering anything after that first one before I went on.

I get out of bed and hop in the shower, still thinking about the conversation in the bar the night before. Something in me knows that the guy was right, I just can’t figure out what it means.

After my shower I decide to stay home for breakfast. I cook myself some eggs and sausage and pick up some things around my apartment. The place isn’t really a mess, but I neglect it more than I ought. Now seems like as good a time as any. I really feel like getting out of the apartment. I suppose I should head down to the laundry mat and get some of that done. After gathering up some things I head out the door.

****

Walking in the door I see a few people hovering over the various machines and I don’t recognize anyone except for Paul. I walk up next to where he’s standing, struggling with the coin slots on the washer. “Hey Paul,” I say, setting my basket on the washer next to his.

“How’s it going?” he asks, fully concentrating on his struggle with the coin slots.

“It’s alright,” I say, opening the lid to my washing machine and putting my clothing inside. “Anything new?” I ask, just filling the space with something to say.

“Nothing too amazing,” he says, “Just closed a deal on a condo around the block. This market’s tough but you can still find sales when you need to.”

“Books not selling too well?” I ask.

“You know my novels are awful,” he says with a smile. “A guy needs something to do with his days if he wants something to write about. Why not real estate? I can take on as many clients as I am willing to allow myself the time to handle. It’s the perfect occupation for a writer who’d rather be doing anything other than write. I can fool myself into thinking it allows me more time to write, and then provides the excuse for the time I don’t spend writing. What could be better than that?”

“Good story,” I say, chuckling to myself.

“What’s that?” says Paul, thinking that he must have misheard me.

“Good story,” I repeat more loudly and smile.

“I’m not really working on one at the moment,” he says, obviously confused, thinking that I was referring to something he was writing and must have ignored his banter about his dual careers.

“No, I mean that’s a good story you have about being a real estate agent and a writer at the same time.” I say, knowing this will just confuse him further.

“I’m not writing a story about it,” he says with a look of utter perplexity. He has stopped, momentarily, with his struggle with the washer to straighten this out.

“That’s not what I mean,” I say, laughing. “I had a conversation with this guy at the bar yesterday, and he was talking about how whatever we think about what we do are just stories we make up. It was interesting. I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”

“Yeah, sounds to me like you’re spending too much time in your f*****g head again,” he says, shaking his head and resuming his tug of war with the machine.

I laugh and say, “I know. It’s interesting, though. I’ve never thought about how I might see life if I could just let things be as they are. What would life mean? What about you? Are you happy? You’re a single guy like me, just going along, doing what you can, no?”

“I’m single by choice,” Paul says. “I never got married because I didn’t want to be tied down. It’s not a one woman thing, but it just eats up your time. I’ve got too much to do to worry about making a woman happy on top of it.”

“Heh �" there’s another story,” I say and Paul just shakes his head. And suddenly it dawns on me. “I’m free,” I say to myself.

“What’s that?” Paul asks. I can barely contain myself.

“I’m free,” I say again. “I don’t have to do anything. I don’t know what I’m going to be doing for the rest of my life. I can do whatever I want. If I’ve just been making up all of these things about myself, and they aren’t real, then I can do whatever I want with my life. For the past ten years I’ve been assuming that all I would ever do is play the piano in a hotel bar. That’s all I ever had to look forward to. That’s where life took me and that’s where I was. But that was just a story,” I say. “I’m free!”

I walk out of the laundry mat and breathe in the air as if it’s the first time. I’m free.

****

I walk into the hotel bar feeling like a new man. I feel like my soul is smiling. I’m certain that everyone in the place can see it on my face. I look around and survey the place. It’s Saturday night, so there’s usually a pretty lively crowd here and I’m looking forward to playing for the first time in what must be years. Paul and Dave are sitting in there usual place at the bar. John is behind the bar, serving a drink to the waitress from the diner. She’s flirting with a guy in a business suit who looks mildly interested. He sips his drink slowly without moving his eyes away from her. I walk over to the piano and take my seat. An old man at the table next to me is savoring his G&T. You can tell he really enjoys it. Another one I’ll never understand. “Oh well,” I think, “let him have his gin.” I won’t be phased by the choices of others tonight.

He looks up at me and looks like he wants to say something. “Anything I can play for you?” I ask, sensing he has a request. After enough time doing this you can just tell.

“There’s an old song I used to sing to the ladies back in the war,” he says, “but I can’t remember how it goes.” He sings me a little bar of melody with a few muddled words and I recognize it. I start playing and his face lights up. I know I have the right one. As I am singing I can see the faces of the people in the bar and they look different to me than they ever have before. I can see them looking over at me and I can see some of them singing along with their friends.

As the night rolls on I feel alive like I never have before. I see the manager over in the corner and he smiles. The people in the bar gravitate toward the piano and it seems to feel my every breath. It responds to the slightest push I give it and the music is alive. I think about the notion I had that my life is a song, and I smile as I sing, thinking about the absurdity of it.

Through the door, a man walks in with a drink in one hand and a cigar in the other. He sees me at the piano and starts over just as I wind down my song. It’s time for my break, and I start to get up from the bench and he says, “Hey! Piano Man! Sing us a song!”

I can’t help but oblige.

Author's Note

This is a first draft, but I think it's pretty clean. I think some of the prose could be better and I feel like the catalyst conversation for the main character's transformation could have been executed better. All constructive criticism is welcome. Like anyone else, I don't particularly enjoy being told that something is no good, but I'm trying to get better and I'm not going to get better without hearing about what doesn't work - and I'm not vain enough to believe that everything I write works.