Post by Black Sakura on Sept 1, 2006 5:34:17 GMT -5
Piano Squib
DISCLAIMER: This fic is based on the song 'Piano Man' by Billy Joel. (Note that I am NOT SAYING I created this song. MUAHAHA Now you can't SUE ME EVIL LAWYERS!!!!!!!!) Anyhow, it follows the main plot of that song, except for the ending, and a few of the phrases are taken directly from the song so that you can follow where you are. Most of the characters are taken directly from the song, too. So, basically, this is pretty much a prose version of the song, just Harry-Potter-ized. Well, I hope you enjoy it. BTW Sylvia Snape/Polly Harmonic is my own OFC, so, yeah...please respect that. Oh, yeah, I almost forgot, I did not create Hogwarts or any of that good junk J.K. Rowling made up. Sadly, that includes my beloved Snapey. Ah well. I can still play with him, can't I? Anyhow, here is the story....
................
'Twas nine o'clock on a Saturday evening. I approached the back door of The Dying Swan, my sheaf of music in my hand. I almost didn't have time to knock before the door was flung open beneath my upraised hand.
Before me stood the bartender, John Maybel. He was a thin, placid-looking man of perhaps thirty-five or forty with thick brown hair and a set of deep blue eyes. He gave me a smile.
"Hello, Polly," he said to me as I nodded in greeting.
"Hullo, John," I replied conversationally. I breathed in, without relish, the scent of the spilled alcohol that wafted out the door. The pungent, sharp odour made me think of my inebriate father. His study always had reeked like this. "Things just as usual here?"
"Pretty much so," he said, stepping back to let me come inside. He closed the door behind us with a sigh.
"Things just as usual with yourself?"
"Pretty much so," I replied in an amiable fashion. John grinned in an unsaid reply. Every week, when I came there on my round of all the lower-class bars and taverns near my home, we shared this exchange, word for word. There was no rhyme or reason to it, but it was something regular and habitual. Perhaps it was a useful thing, in a world where everything was accelerating and changing, to have something that never varied at all.
In any case, we walked together through the dank storage room into the dimly lit bar. Well, really, the bar itself was actually very bright indeed, with large lanterns ablaze with flame set on either side of it, and a smaller one at every other stool. However, those were the only sources of illumination in the entire rest of the large room, thus it seemed very dark. John grasped a spare, cold lantern from under the counter and accompanied me to the polished black baby grand piano right by the door. I took the lantern from him and placed it on the brazen hook on the wall, lighting it with a match. John watched me as I did this, then he leaned against the piano while I shuffled through my music.
"Do you have anything especial you'd like me to play before opening?" I asked. Again, this was only a customary question. I knew what he wanted me to play, an old sea chantey called Shallow Brown. I had no idea why he liked this song so much, but it seemed to be his favorite.
"Have you ever heard the song Shallow Brown?" He asked me this as though I were a strange new pianist he had never met. I paused a moment in mock reflection.
"Perhaps," I mused. With that, I sat down and placed my hands on the keyboard. "Does it go like this?" I asked, sounding for all the world genuinely sincere. I then began to play.
John didn't say anything until the end. At this, he merely nodded. "Yes, that's the one." Then, without another word, he stepped over to the door and flipped the sign on it from 'Closed' to 'Open'. I played a few random chord progressions as he undid the bolts and locks and then went to his place behind the bar. From there, our first round of choreographed interaction was over, and it was the beginning of yet another dreary night.
.......................
My mother Eileen always said, before I left the Snape household, that "dear little Sylvia ought to have been born at a piano"; that was how much I loved music. The many weeks, months, and years before my eleventh birthday, when I supposed I could go to Hogwarts (but later I found myself to be an exile of the family, and a squib, too, so those dreams were dashed to the ground) were filled with nothing but my tedious practicing. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, that's all I ever did--scratch at my violin, spit and gurgle into a flute, and, of course, pound aggressively on the piano. After quite a while, however, I got to be quite a bit more graceful on the violin. I was able to sing with the flute as easily as though it were merely extension of my voice. My fingers could dance over the fingerboard of the piano like little leprechauns in spring. Needless to say, I became more and more advanced on my many instruments, and the sounds I made became more and more melodic, until they were (almost) music.
I suppose the reason I strived so hard to achieve greatness in my music was to atone for the disappointment I knew I was to my family. My older brother Severus was a wizard, and he managed to make it through Hogwarts with finer grades than most. Perhaps it was this that caused our mother to fawn over him more than she did me. Maybe, though, it was the fact that he was the first born, or because he was a rather weak and fragile child, or even just because he was a boy; I wouldn't know. At any rate, even before they or I knew I was a squib, I was, in every way, inferior to him.
My father Tobias was barely aware of my very existence, actually. Even at the time of my birth, he was a drunkard and a horrid beast. All day, he would squander the family income on drink in bars, or else purchase liquor and bring it home to consume by the liter in his study. The time he did not spend doing this, was spent in yelling at my mother and brother, whom he seemed to hate equally. Often, he would take off his own belt and lick Mother with it until tears streamed down her face, simply because she would not spend time with him.
On a few occasions, I even recall him whipping Severus for crying when he was in the process of hurting Mother. I do remember that I was, at these times, completely overlooked by him. For some reason or another; he never noticed me, or the fact that I was crying too. It was almost as though he pretended I never had been born. One day, however, about the time when I was supposed to receive my Hogwarts letter, was the only time he ever really cared a cent about me; he began a great commotion, denied that I was his daughter, and hit my mother for supposedly going around with another man. The reason for his anger...he noticed at dinner one day that my nose did not look in the least like his.
Of course, it was obvious that I was his daughter--I carried both his cold black eyes and his shaggy black hair. However, because I did not have his large, eagle nose (rather, I bore my mother's small petite nose...far more flattering for a girl, I think) that I was not his. Thus, he disowned me, and kicked me out of the house--literally, he used a 'boot to the butt' technique--at age eleven, as I said.
Probably if I had any relatives besides the three that lived in that house, they would have taken me in, for although I was a squib, I was not a bad girl for a Snape. My music aside, I was quite quiet, and had accomplished a way of treading silently that would have made my presence almost unnoticed. (Actually, the reason I had developed this trait was so that I could sneak around the house, while my father was sleeping in a drunken stupor, without awaking him and attracting his wrath. My mother and brother soon learned to follow my example.)
There was absolutely no reason no one should want me, but I lived as a homeless vagrant for the next year and a half. I earned my bread, in those years, by going door to door and playing my violin or flute for those people who cared to listen. Finally, one very kind wizard woman decided that it was wrong of me to live in such a way, and took me into her keeping. Apparently, she had always wanted a child, but never been married, so I became the light of her meager little life. Once she discovered my talent at the piano, especially, she was so thrilled that she actually bought me my own piano, and paid for lessons, so that I might get even better. I continued to live with her until her death of old age, when I was eighteen.
By then, however, I realized that I may as well start earning a living for myself. Thus, I started playing at any bar or restaurant I came across that had a piano. I played only for tips, and that was my only source of income. Somehow, every month, I managed to scrape up enough money to eat and pay my rent on the small flat in which I lived.
I was going on about age thirty now, thus I had lived like this about twelve years. It was a satisfactory life, and I can truthfully say that I rather enjoyed the freedom of the life I had. Nevertheless, I constantly looked forward to the day when I imagined I could go back to my family, at least, whatever remained of it. I decided that my father must have drunk himself to death by then, and probably my mother and Severus still lived. Even if my mother had died, I wanted to desperately remain in touch with my brother. It was the largest hope I ever had, and it was what I would dream about at night.
...............
I rearranged my favorite evening play-list. It contained a variety of songs, all ones I enjoyed performing immensely, and all ones that pleased the regular crowds that thronged the bar. I started playing, just to make myself busy, even though no customers had shuffled in yet.
Not long after I had began the opening minor arpeggio of My Mother's Finally Gone by Armand Sylvester, the front bell jangled raucously, and a first miserable-looking wizard was inside. He looked around in a clueless fashion for a moment, as though unaware of his surroundings, then stumbled over to the counter. I could tell that he'd already had more than one drink too many that night, but he seemed to be holding them pretty well.
John smiled at him, asking what he desired. He was well aware of the man's state, but it wasn't his job to tell his customers what they should or shouldn't do with themselves. What was his job was to serve drinks, and make sure the bar got paid for them. The old man demanded, in slurred words, a tonic and gin, and John poured one together. The old man flipped a coin at him in payment, then took the glass and meandered over to a table right beside my piano stool.
He didn't say anything; he merely nursed his drink. I went on playing my pieces in perfect contentment; I was used to people looking over my shoulder. Usually, it was an unspoken compliment, anyhow. Meanwhile, there was a loud banging of the back door. Sal, the waitress, had arrived, fashionably late as usual.
"Evenin' Johnny," she barked in her usual loud thingyney as she approached from the back room, tying her apron on lazily. She was a buxom, not unattractive middle-aged woman, with styled short peroxide-blonde hair and wide, vacant green eyes. Her legs were shapely and well-rounded, and I envied them a great deal; I'm a great deal too skinny for my own good.
She didn't even look my way, and announced to the wall, "Evenin', Polly." She never looked at me, as far as I could tell. I didn't know why, and I don't think I wanted to know, either.
John didn't reply. I don't believe he really liked Sal all that much. Come to think of it, I didn't have a particular reason to disdain her myself, but I really didn't like her either. Perhaps it is just because she was so loud and brash that it just irked me a bit too much. I didn't reply either, to the excuse of my playing.
Sal went about with a polishing cloth, dusting the flat surfaces of the tables to make them a bit more presentable. John got out a book and surreptitiously began to read. I went on playing to the two of them and the old man, who still remained, silent, at my elbow. Finally, he spoke up.
"Have you ever played the song Young Blossoms in December?" His voice was raspy and dry.
"No, I never have," I said truthfully, pausing in my performance and turning to him.
He looked rather put out. "I don't know exactly how it goes anymore, but it used to be a favorite of mine." Of course, his speech wasn't quite as perfect as intimated here, due to the alcohol, but, translated, it ran along those lines.
Not wanting to disappoint him, I piped up, "I've heard it before, though. If you like, I could play it by ear."
His brown eyes behind his owl-like glasses softened. "Could you?" Without waiting for an answer, he replied to himself, "Of course you can. You're Polly Harmonic. You can do anything." (In explanation, Polly Harmonic is my stage name.)
I nodded. "Yes, indeed," I said, somewhat amused that I had discovered a fan. He must have heard me before, or at least heard of me from someone else. With a warm glow in my heart, I turned back to the instrument and began to play and sing the slow old love song. I know I didn't quite get the melody right, but the words were passably correct.
Young blossoms in December
Trees blooming in winter
A beautiful miracle
Only matched by you
New tulips at Christmas
Fresh roses at New Year's
A beautiful miracle
Only matched by you
I would be happy
Forever and ever
If you would only
Accept my hand
I would be happy
Forever and ever
If you would only
Accept my hand
Orange blossoms in January
Primrose budding too
A beautiful miracle
Only matched by you
All the flowers flowering
In the coldest time of year
The most beautiful miracle
Only matched by you
I would be happy
Forever and ever
If you would only
Accept my hand
I would be happy
Forever and ever
If you would only
Accept my hand
I concluded and let the final note die out. I noticed that several more customers had come in by then and also that the old man seemed to be gone. Puzzled, since his half-full glass was still on the table, I swung myself around on the stool, only to knock my feet right in his face. He was on his knees, hugging the leg of the piano stool and crying silently. He didn't even notice how I had accidentally knocked him. I decided then that it was time for a drink.
Gingerly, I stepped over the man's body and made my way back to the counter. I slipped onto the stool at the far end and waited for John to finish pouring for the three businessmen at the bar. I watched him as he joked and laughed with them, at the same time lighting their cigarettes without prompting and pouring just a splash extra into their glasses for the same price. He raised his eyebrows at me as a signal that he was aware of my presence while he was engaged, but as soon as he had satisfied the other customers, he came over my way. Now it was time for round two of our conversation in which neither of us said anything new.
"What'll it be?" he said cheerfully, getting a clean glass.
I pretended to ponder. "I'll have...I'll have Firewhiskey on rye, thanks."
He nodded. "Rather an odd selection...but then, you're an odd lady."
I said nothing, just smiled.
He went about mixing my drink. He presented it to me with a flourish.
"That'll be two sickles, madam..." he said, loudly, but his voice dropped and he whispered, "...to go into my swear jar."
I grinned, dug through my purse, and presented him dramatically with a paperclip.
He stared at the paperclip in what any ignorant observer could have sworn was genuine amazement.
"Keep the change," I added loudly, mirth in my eyes.
He stepped to the cash box, opened it, and dropped the paperclip inside. Then, however, as he looked thoughtfully into the box, he said something that startled me.
"Rich asked me yesterday what was with all the paperclips." (Rich, by the way, was the manager of the establishment.)
I looked at him strangely. This last comment was not part of our usual intercourse. "You just said something different!" I said, aghast. He shrugged.
"I suppose," he said, and shut the cash box quietly. He looked towards the door then scanned the rest of the room. He then leaned against the counter, propping himself on his elbows so that his head was close to mine in a confidential manner. "Polly," he said slowly, quietly, "Do you enjoy what you do?"
I paused a moment. "Yes," I finally said, "I believe I do. As compared to what else I could be doing, I mean--"
"--No," he interrupted me. "I mean, would you do what you're doing even if you had the choice to do something else?"
"Well," I said, "I suppose...well, actually, I do think that whatever else I would choose to do in life would relate to music in some way...so indeed, I should say yes."
John nodded sagely. "Now do you think I enjoy being a bartender?"
I squinted at him. His attitude was a complete contrast to that of earlier; he had seemed like a dog promised a walk, but now he was like a dog whose owner had left without him. I shook my head decidedly.
"No. You do quite well as a bartender, but you'd rather be doing something else."
He smiled sadly. "Exactly. You're finally someone who understands." He turned down his head to study the counter. "Now I'm going to tell you something that I've never told anyone before for fear that I'd be laughed at. I don't think you'll laugh at me, though."
I shook my head. "Even if I find it remotely funny, I promise I shan't."
He smiled again, still not looking up. "You know, Polly, the thing I've always wanted to do in life is live as...as a Muggle movie star." He jerked his head up hurriedly to see my reaction.
I didn't think this was silly at all. John, unlike me, was actually a wizard, but he wasn't a very powerful one. I didn't suppose that losing his ability to do magic all the time would hurt him a great deal. He never used his wand, as far as I could see, while he was in the bar. Also, I knew, at least from my experience with him, that he was a marvellous actor. My gaze was sincerely of calm understanding.
"I can see you doing that," I told him.
His eyebrows went up. "Really?"
"Yes," I said, smiling. "I actually think you'd do very well at it."
He tilted his head like a bird and grinned. "You really think so," he said, more as a declaration of fact than a question. I merely nodded yes in reply.
Suddenly, John leaned impulsively forward and brushed my cheek with his lips. "Thank you so much," he whispered in my ear. "That was the kindest thing anyone's said to me in a long time."
"I mean it," I said, somewhat startled by the kiss. No one had ever bestowed a kiss to me, even if it was just one of gratitude. John looked like he was going to say something else, and he opened his mouth to begin, but at that point the door jingled loudly, and he turned his attention to the new customer.
"Paul!" he exclaimed in greeting, and he bounced over to the heavyset, aging wizard in a soiled business suit. I figured that he wasn't probably coming back for a long time, seeing that he was going to settle in for a long chat with the regular.
"On another binge, are we?" John's voice drifted over the quiet clamor of the bar.
"Yes," the low growling voice of the aforementioned 'Paul' answered. "Give me your strongest."
There was a tinkling of glass. "If you say so, old man."
"I do say so."
There was the pouring of liquor. "Here you go, old chap."
"Thanks John." There was a pause as Paul downed the glass in one gulp.
"Keep those coming," Paul announced. "I want to get real drunk tonight."
There was more pouring of liquor.
"If you stay long enough, after we lock up I can take you home so you don't get almost run over like that one time last month."
DISCLAIMER: This fic is based on the song 'Piano Man' by Billy Joel. (Note that I am NOT SAYING I created this song. MUAHAHA Now you can't SUE ME EVIL LAWYERS!!!!!!!!) Anyhow, it follows the main plot of that song, except for the ending, and a few of the phrases are taken directly from the song so that you can follow where you are. Most of the characters are taken directly from the song, too. So, basically, this is pretty much a prose version of the song, just Harry-Potter-ized. Well, I hope you enjoy it. BTW Sylvia Snape/Polly Harmonic is my own OFC, so, yeah...please respect that. Oh, yeah, I almost forgot, I did not create Hogwarts or any of that good junk J.K. Rowling made up. Sadly, that includes my beloved Snapey. Ah well. I can still play with him, can't I? Anyhow, here is the story....
................
'Twas nine o'clock on a Saturday evening. I approached the back door of The Dying Swan, my sheaf of music in my hand. I almost didn't have time to knock before the door was flung open beneath my upraised hand.
Before me stood the bartender, John Maybel. He was a thin, placid-looking man of perhaps thirty-five or forty with thick brown hair and a set of deep blue eyes. He gave me a smile.
"Hello, Polly," he said to me as I nodded in greeting.
"Hullo, John," I replied conversationally. I breathed in, without relish, the scent of the spilled alcohol that wafted out the door. The pungent, sharp odour made me think of my inebriate father. His study always had reeked like this. "Things just as usual here?"
"Pretty much so," he said, stepping back to let me come inside. He closed the door behind us with a sigh.
"Things just as usual with yourself?"
"Pretty much so," I replied in an amiable fashion. John grinned in an unsaid reply. Every week, when I came there on my round of all the lower-class bars and taverns near my home, we shared this exchange, word for word. There was no rhyme or reason to it, but it was something regular and habitual. Perhaps it was a useful thing, in a world where everything was accelerating and changing, to have something that never varied at all.
In any case, we walked together through the dank storage room into the dimly lit bar. Well, really, the bar itself was actually very bright indeed, with large lanterns ablaze with flame set on either side of it, and a smaller one at every other stool. However, those were the only sources of illumination in the entire rest of the large room, thus it seemed very dark. John grasped a spare, cold lantern from under the counter and accompanied me to the polished black baby grand piano right by the door. I took the lantern from him and placed it on the brazen hook on the wall, lighting it with a match. John watched me as I did this, then he leaned against the piano while I shuffled through my music.
"Do you have anything especial you'd like me to play before opening?" I asked. Again, this was only a customary question. I knew what he wanted me to play, an old sea chantey called Shallow Brown. I had no idea why he liked this song so much, but it seemed to be his favorite.
"Have you ever heard the song Shallow Brown?" He asked me this as though I were a strange new pianist he had never met. I paused a moment in mock reflection.
"Perhaps," I mused. With that, I sat down and placed my hands on the keyboard. "Does it go like this?" I asked, sounding for all the world genuinely sincere. I then began to play.
John didn't say anything until the end. At this, he merely nodded. "Yes, that's the one." Then, without another word, he stepped over to the door and flipped the sign on it from 'Closed' to 'Open'. I played a few random chord progressions as he undid the bolts and locks and then went to his place behind the bar. From there, our first round of choreographed interaction was over, and it was the beginning of yet another dreary night.
.......................
My mother Eileen always said, before I left the Snape household, that "dear little Sylvia ought to have been born at a piano"; that was how much I loved music. The many weeks, months, and years before my eleventh birthday, when I supposed I could go to Hogwarts (but later I found myself to be an exile of the family, and a squib, too, so those dreams were dashed to the ground) were filled with nothing but my tedious practicing. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, that's all I ever did--scratch at my violin, spit and gurgle into a flute, and, of course, pound aggressively on the piano. After quite a while, however, I got to be quite a bit more graceful on the violin. I was able to sing with the flute as easily as though it were merely extension of my voice. My fingers could dance over the fingerboard of the piano like little leprechauns in spring. Needless to say, I became more and more advanced on my many instruments, and the sounds I made became more and more melodic, until they were (almost) music.
I suppose the reason I strived so hard to achieve greatness in my music was to atone for the disappointment I knew I was to my family. My older brother Severus was a wizard, and he managed to make it through Hogwarts with finer grades than most. Perhaps it was this that caused our mother to fawn over him more than she did me. Maybe, though, it was the fact that he was the first born, or because he was a rather weak and fragile child, or even just because he was a boy; I wouldn't know. At any rate, even before they or I knew I was a squib, I was, in every way, inferior to him.
My father Tobias was barely aware of my very existence, actually. Even at the time of my birth, he was a drunkard and a horrid beast. All day, he would squander the family income on drink in bars, or else purchase liquor and bring it home to consume by the liter in his study. The time he did not spend doing this, was spent in yelling at my mother and brother, whom he seemed to hate equally. Often, he would take off his own belt and lick Mother with it until tears streamed down her face, simply because she would not spend time with him.
On a few occasions, I even recall him whipping Severus for crying when he was in the process of hurting Mother. I do remember that I was, at these times, completely overlooked by him. For some reason or another; he never noticed me, or the fact that I was crying too. It was almost as though he pretended I never had been born. One day, however, about the time when I was supposed to receive my Hogwarts letter, was the only time he ever really cared a cent about me; he began a great commotion, denied that I was his daughter, and hit my mother for supposedly going around with another man. The reason for his anger...he noticed at dinner one day that my nose did not look in the least like his.
Of course, it was obvious that I was his daughter--I carried both his cold black eyes and his shaggy black hair. However, because I did not have his large, eagle nose (rather, I bore my mother's small petite nose...far more flattering for a girl, I think) that I was not his. Thus, he disowned me, and kicked me out of the house--literally, he used a 'boot to the butt' technique--at age eleven, as I said.
Probably if I had any relatives besides the three that lived in that house, they would have taken me in, for although I was a squib, I was not a bad girl for a Snape. My music aside, I was quite quiet, and had accomplished a way of treading silently that would have made my presence almost unnoticed. (Actually, the reason I had developed this trait was so that I could sneak around the house, while my father was sleeping in a drunken stupor, without awaking him and attracting his wrath. My mother and brother soon learned to follow my example.)
There was absolutely no reason no one should want me, but I lived as a homeless vagrant for the next year and a half. I earned my bread, in those years, by going door to door and playing my violin or flute for those people who cared to listen. Finally, one very kind wizard woman decided that it was wrong of me to live in such a way, and took me into her keeping. Apparently, she had always wanted a child, but never been married, so I became the light of her meager little life. Once she discovered my talent at the piano, especially, she was so thrilled that she actually bought me my own piano, and paid for lessons, so that I might get even better. I continued to live with her until her death of old age, when I was eighteen.
By then, however, I realized that I may as well start earning a living for myself. Thus, I started playing at any bar or restaurant I came across that had a piano. I played only for tips, and that was my only source of income. Somehow, every month, I managed to scrape up enough money to eat and pay my rent on the small flat in which I lived.
I was going on about age thirty now, thus I had lived like this about twelve years. It was a satisfactory life, and I can truthfully say that I rather enjoyed the freedom of the life I had. Nevertheless, I constantly looked forward to the day when I imagined I could go back to my family, at least, whatever remained of it. I decided that my father must have drunk himself to death by then, and probably my mother and Severus still lived. Even if my mother had died, I wanted to desperately remain in touch with my brother. It was the largest hope I ever had, and it was what I would dream about at night.
...............
I rearranged my favorite evening play-list. It contained a variety of songs, all ones I enjoyed performing immensely, and all ones that pleased the regular crowds that thronged the bar. I started playing, just to make myself busy, even though no customers had shuffled in yet.
Not long after I had began the opening minor arpeggio of My Mother's Finally Gone by Armand Sylvester, the front bell jangled raucously, and a first miserable-looking wizard was inside. He looked around in a clueless fashion for a moment, as though unaware of his surroundings, then stumbled over to the counter. I could tell that he'd already had more than one drink too many that night, but he seemed to be holding them pretty well.
John smiled at him, asking what he desired. He was well aware of the man's state, but it wasn't his job to tell his customers what they should or shouldn't do with themselves. What was his job was to serve drinks, and make sure the bar got paid for them. The old man demanded, in slurred words, a tonic and gin, and John poured one together. The old man flipped a coin at him in payment, then took the glass and meandered over to a table right beside my piano stool.
He didn't say anything; he merely nursed his drink. I went on playing my pieces in perfect contentment; I was used to people looking over my shoulder. Usually, it was an unspoken compliment, anyhow. Meanwhile, there was a loud banging of the back door. Sal, the waitress, had arrived, fashionably late as usual.
"Evenin' Johnny," she barked in her usual loud thingyney as she approached from the back room, tying her apron on lazily. She was a buxom, not unattractive middle-aged woman, with styled short peroxide-blonde hair and wide, vacant green eyes. Her legs were shapely and well-rounded, and I envied them a great deal; I'm a great deal too skinny for my own good.
She didn't even look my way, and announced to the wall, "Evenin', Polly." She never looked at me, as far as I could tell. I didn't know why, and I don't think I wanted to know, either.
John didn't reply. I don't believe he really liked Sal all that much. Come to think of it, I didn't have a particular reason to disdain her myself, but I really didn't like her either. Perhaps it is just because she was so loud and brash that it just irked me a bit too much. I didn't reply either, to the excuse of my playing.
Sal went about with a polishing cloth, dusting the flat surfaces of the tables to make them a bit more presentable. John got out a book and surreptitiously began to read. I went on playing to the two of them and the old man, who still remained, silent, at my elbow. Finally, he spoke up.
"Have you ever played the song Young Blossoms in December?" His voice was raspy and dry.
"No, I never have," I said truthfully, pausing in my performance and turning to him.
He looked rather put out. "I don't know exactly how it goes anymore, but it used to be a favorite of mine." Of course, his speech wasn't quite as perfect as intimated here, due to the alcohol, but, translated, it ran along those lines.
Not wanting to disappoint him, I piped up, "I've heard it before, though. If you like, I could play it by ear."
His brown eyes behind his owl-like glasses softened. "Could you?" Without waiting for an answer, he replied to himself, "Of course you can. You're Polly Harmonic. You can do anything." (In explanation, Polly Harmonic is my stage name.)
I nodded. "Yes, indeed," I said, somewhat amused that I had discovered a fan. He must have heard me before, or at least heard of me from someone else. With a warm glow in my heart, I turned back to the instrument and began to play and sing the slow old love song. I know I didn't quite get the melody right, but the words were passably correct.
Young blossoms in December
Trees blooming in winter
A beautiful miracle
Only matched by you
New tulips at Christmas
Fresh roses at New Year's
A beautiful miracle
Only matched by you
I would be happy
Forever and ever
If you would only
Accept my hand
I would be happy
Forever and ever
If you would only
Accept my hand
Orange blossoms in January
Primrose budding too
A beautiful miracle
Only matched by you
All the flowers flowering
In the coldest time of year
The most beautiful miracle
Only matched by you
I would be happy
Forever and ever
If you would only
Accept my hand
I would be happy
Forever and ever
If you would only
Accept my hand
I concluded and let the final note die out. I noticed that several more customers had come in by then and also that the old man seemed to be gone. Puzzled, since his half-full glass was still on the table, I swung myself around on the stool, only to knock my feet right in his face. He was on his knees, hugging the leg of the piano stool and crying silently. He didn't even notice how I had accidentally knocked him. I decided then that it was time for a drink.
Gingerly, I stepped over the man's body and made my way back to the counter. I slipped onto the stool at the far end and waited for John to finish pouring for the three businessmen at the bar. I watched him as he joked and laughed with them, at the same time lighting their cigarettes without prompting and pouring just a splash extra into their glasses for the same price. He raised his eyebrows at me as a signal that he was aware of my presence while he was engaged, but as soon as he had satisfied the other customers, he came over my way. Now it was time for round two of our conversation in which neither of us said anything new.
"What'll it be?" he said cheerfully, getting a clean glass.
I pretended to ponder. "I'll have...I'll have Firewhiskey on rye, thanks."
He nodded. "Rather an odd selection...but then, you're an odd lady."
I said nothing, just smiled.
He went about mixing my drink. He presented it to me with a flourish.
"That'll be two sickles, madam..." he said, loudly, but his voice dropped and he whispered, "...to go into my swear jar."
I grinned, dug through my purse, and presented him dramatically with a paperclip.
He stared at the paperclip in what any ignorant observer could have sworn was genuine amazement.
"Keep the change," I added loudly, mirth in my eyes.
He stepped to the cash box, opened it, and dropped the paperclip inside. Then, however, as he looked thoughtfully into the box, he said something that startled me.
"Rich asked me yesterday what was with all the paperclips." (Rich, by the way, was the manager of the establishment.)
I looked at him strangely. This last comment was not part of our usual intercourse. "You just said something different!" I said, aghast. He shrugged.
"I suppose," he said, and shut the cash box quietly. He looked towards the door then scanned the rest of the room. He then leaned against the counter, propping himself on his elbows so that his head was close to mine in a confidential manner. "Polly," he said slowly, quietly, "Do you enjoy what you do?"
I paused a moment. "Yes," I finally said, "I believe I do. As compared to what else I could be doing, I mean--"
"--No," he interrupted me. "I mean, would you do what you're doing even if you had the choice to do something else?"
"Well," I said, "I suppose...well, actually, I do think that whatever else I would choose to do in life would relate to music in some way...so indeed, I should say yes."
John nodded sagely. "Now do you think I enjoy being a bartender?"
I squinted at him. His attitude was a complete contrast to that of earlier; he had seemed like a dog promised a walk, but now he was like a dog whose owner had left without him. I shook my head decidedly.
"No. You do quite well as a bartender, but you'd rather be doing something else."
He smiled sadly. "Exactly. You're finally someone who understands." He turned down his head to study the counter. "Now I'm going to tell you something that I've never told anyone before for fear that I'd be laughed at. I don't think you'll laugh at me, though."
I shook my head. "Even if I find it remotely funny, I promise I shan't."
He smiled again, still not looking up. "You know, Polly, the thing I've always wanted to do in life is live as...as a Muggle movie star." He jerked his head up hurriedly to see my reaction.
I didn't think this was silly at all. John, unlike me, was actually a wizard, but he wasn't a very powerful one. I didn't suppose that losing his ability to do magic all the time would hurt him a great deal. He never used his wand, as far as I could see, while he was in the bar. Also, I knew, at least from my experience with him, that he was a marvellous actor. My gaze was sincerely of calm understanding.
"I can see you doing that," I told him.
His eyebrows went up. "Really?"
"Yes," I said, smiling. "I actually think you'd do very well at it."
He tilted his head like a bird and grinned. "You really think so," he said, more as a declaration of fact than a question. I merely nodded yes in reply.
Suddenly, John leaned impulsively forward and brushed my cheek with his lips. "Thank you so much," he whispered in my ear. "That was the kindest thing anyone's said to me in a long time."
"I mean it," I said, somewhat startled by the kiss. No one had ever bestowed a kiss to me, even if it was just one of gratitude. John looked like he was going to say something else, and he opened his mouth to begin, but at that point the door jingled loudly, and he turned his attention to the new customer.
"Paul!" he exclaimed in greeting, and he bounced over to the heavyset, aging wizard in a soiled business suit. I figured that he wasn't probably coming back for a long time, seeing that he was going to settle in for a long chat with the regular.
"On another binge, are we?" John's voice drifted over the quiet clamor of the bar.
"Yes," the low growling voice of the aforementioned 'Paul' answered. "Give me your strongest."
There was a tinkling of glass. "If you say so, old man."
"I do say so."
There was the pouring of liquor. "Here you go, old chap."
"Thanks John." There was a pause as Paul downed the glass in one gulp.
"Keep those coming," Paul announced. "I want to get real drunk tonight."
There was more pouring of liquor.
"If you stay long enough, after we lock up I can take you home so you don't get almost run over like that one time last month."
