The Man Who Played the Piano

This is an edited version of the original submission. I took all my stories down in January of this year. I plan to extensively revise some of them and edit the better stories. This is a resubmission to correct two mathematical errors.

I once heard or read an interview with Billy Joel, the longtime creator and singer of popular and classical music, in which he said he hated his namesake song, "The Piano Man" because everyone wanted him to play it all the time. Exactly when or how I came across that information recedes into oblivion these days.

At 43, I've played piano for so long that pieces fade into venues that disappear into the black hole of the past. My parents once told me I played a recognizable tune on my toy piano somewhere around two. I passed the 10,000 hours Malcolm Gladwell said was required before a person became an expert by age ten, playing out of pure joy. I figure by age fifty, I'll pass the 100,000 hour mark of piano playing.

Money, I earned, women I fucked, children I and my wife had, cigarettes, booze, and people came and went. These days I get by on royalties of the songs I wrote and music I played for TV shows and movies. Except for three days a week, I play for an hour twice a day at a local shopping mall. The owners don't care what I play, and I don't either. They pay well enough that I ante up my share of the rent and other expenses from that income. Sometimes I just make up songs. Anything to provide a break in the hustle-bustle commercialism of a mall.

And yes, I hate "The Piano Man" as much as Billy Joel does, and it isn't even my song. People seldom recognize my name or my songs. Most of them were brief in a commercial, TV show, or movie.

They put a decent spinet piano smack dab in the middle of the upper deck, away from the food court and in an open area with padded benches around for older people to rest and husbands and kids to escape from their wives who've got shopivitis. I've played better pianos and I've played some that were far, far worse.

Sometimes people stop by, and we play duets or they sing a song that they know. Some regulars like me stop by often. Some guests are pathetic, some are decent and once in a great while, someone is fantastic.

That was my life until six months ago and continued until tonight. By the way, my name is Billy Martin, named after the famous player and former manager of the New York Yankees.

On the Friday afternoon after Thanksgiving, this stunning blonde woman came up and started talking to me. Her voice was like honey and her looks made my feeble cock stir because she was the second most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Her hair danced down her back, she wore little makeup because she didn't need improvement, her body was perfect, and she was wearing purple sneakers with a pure white pants suit with a stunning ruffled lavender blouse. Believe me, I've seen some lookers in my life. Put her on a fashion show runway, and she'd sell any item of clothing she wore.

I knew it wasn't my daughter because she hates me. Refuses to play music because of the way I treated her and her mother years ago. Same with my son. I haven't talked to any of them for years. Their decision, not mine. But my fault, certainly. My daughter is twenty-five, and this woman is around thirty. My son is twenty-one.

"Care to play some duets with me," she said.

"As long as you don't play 'The Piano Man,'" I said.

She laughed, and I almost came in my pants. Except I can't get an erection much these days.

"No, I hate that song."

She suggested the "Theme from Black Lagoon," one of my most obscure love songs from a horror movie.

"How do you know that song?" I sputtered.

"Oh, you know, I just heard it one day and liked it." It was a catchy tune, one of my best, lost in a straight-to-streaming services movie.

I played the pants off that song. She played it better than me, the man who wrote the tune. She'd propose a song and then I'd suggest one. Jazz, country, rock, rags, boogie-woogie, you name it; we performed. Parts, solos; we challenged each other with songs. No matter what I did, she outperformed me. That's rare. Most fun I've had in years.

After an hour, she stood up. "Hey, pops, thanks for the time. That was fun. We'll have to do it again sometime." She disappeared in the Black Friday crowds with a flick of her perfect hips as she faded from view. I didn't see her again until this past Saturday night. And yes, many people called me pops because my hair turned pure white when I was thirty. At least I still had a full head of hair.

My roommate these days is Inez Martin, a former lover and adopted sister, who like me, let her career destroy her first marriage. With her, it was sex, smoking, booze, and drugs that ruined her body, voice and face. She's not ugly by any means. At forty-six, she's well used. We don't even bother with sex. We keep each other from engaging in our worst habits.

Sometimes we go to concerts to see new talent or old friends. We often joined groups visiting the city as backup performers.

There are some West Coast cities like Seattle, San Francisco, and Los Angeles that easily attract top-level performers as soloists for symphony performances, for example. We were close enough to Seattle that most big names skipped us. Instead, we got the up-and-comers or the "once famous, but our time has passed" ones.

Sort of what goes on in the multiple Native American casinos in the Pacific Northwest. Only people over forty recognize the groups unless they get a country performer.

Over the Memorial Day holiday this year, one of those up-and-comers appeared on the bill as the featured pianist for a concert with the local symphony orchestra. Inez gets a decent income after her older husband died three years ago, including two lifetime tickets for all-symphony concerts. Often, she takes her other friends because she has a busy social life while I have no life except music. But I wanted to hear Janet Morgan. The one-piece I downloaded from a music service sounded eerily familiar in playing style.

On the bill were three numbers featuring Janet, all of them the toughest pieces a classical concert pianist can play.

Her section of the program started withLa Campanellaby Liszt, followed by thePiano Sonata No. 29by Beethoven, with the feature piece beingPiano Concerto No. 2by Rachmaninoff to conclude the evening. Liszt's huge leaps in both hands, rapid repeating notes, total control of melody and delicate dynamic balance all make that an impossible piece for most pianists. I had tried to play it once and gave up in frustration.

In the bathroom taking an extra-long potty break because my bowels acted up from time to time, I stopped as soon as I got out of the restroom, standing motionless with my eyes closed as Janet began the Liszt number.

So flawless, so perfect. Every note is precise, with just the correct amount of dynamic balance. I know. That was my senior recital piece for college, and I flubbed it, flunking out of music school and wasting the rest of my life bumming around the country playing nonsense music.

During the break before the next symphony number began, I worked my way up to the balcony box Inez used. I knew that Janet Morgan played duets with me that day. A visual sighting confirmed that fact because she wore the same outfit except for her black shoes. I closed my eyes and listened to her last two numbers. Even after she finished, I reviewed her performance in my mind. Impeccable, immaculate. Legitimately, the next big name in classical music.

But as I can attest, skill and success often were strangers when careers were involved. I made mistakes that proved it.

"Come on. I know this woman. I'll introduce you."

I wondered how Inez met Janet Morgan.

"She is our daughter that I never mentioned." A corner of her mouth twitching gave her away. I tried to pull away, but she held on tight.

"Come on. I'm sorry for teasing you. It's so much fun sometimes. I do know Janet. I used to perform with her mother in Los Angeles. She specifically asked me to introduce you two tonight."

For the last three years of her professional musical career, Inez was one of the top female soloists for the Los Angeles Opera Company until booze and an affair with the conductor torpedoed her career. Inez is my adopted sister, but she never talked about those years. It was like the black hole of her life.

I let her pull me into Janet's dressing room filled with well-wishers. As soon as she saw me, Janet ordered everyone but Inez and me out. Took some time, but it happened eventually. Her bodyguard was a man I knew, Carl, a tough dude, an ex-Marine who ran a security agency on the West Coast. Strange for him to be involved at this level.

"Pops. So good to see you again. I'll make this quick. I'd like you to join my team as an advisor." That was the gist of her comments among all the other words. I told her I'd think the offer over and we exchanged information.

While rain fell earlier in the day, the night presented itself with a full moon and clear skies. As we walked home, I prodded Inez for information about her past with Janet's mother.

"Let's get home safely and I'll tell you while we share our nightcap."

Our "nightcaps" these days featured sparkling grape juice mixtures to replace alcohol. Over the next few minutes as we walked, her arm in mine, the old friends that we are, we talked about our youth.

I joined the Martin family soon after birth when my parents got killed by a thief. Despite continued efforts, I've found no close relatives because the murder happened in the outback of Australia which is where I was born. Inez, born Iris Martin, was three years older and an only child, an oops that appeared when her mother was forty-three. Record keeping is notoriously lax in the eastern part of the state where the Martins lived. Gladys Martin, her birth mother, was born at her parent's home and for years possessed no official birth certificate. The family moved to the largest city in the state to take advantage of better schools.

The Martins adopted me because my parents and they were friends; they told me. I grew up thinking Iris-Inez was my true sister. When we had DNA tests taken my freshman year in college, I discovered she wasn't. We had this arrangement where, if our dates floundered, we'd call each other and hook up, pure sex, amid a deep friendship, my only staunch friend from our years together.

As Inez talked, memories flooded back from my time in Los Angeles. My recorded birthdate is as close to the middle of the normal year as one can get, noon on July 1. I spent the entire year I turned thirty as a studio composer in Hollywood. My employer was an older gentleman who used his wife as what once was called a "beard," a cover for his homosexuality.

He didn't mind if his wife slept around, except he got jealous of me. Since then, I've decided it was because his wife truly loved me and didn't use me for sex.

I met Phoebe, his wife, at a New Year's Eve party and we slept together that night and frequently over the next year, with Cliff's knowledge and approval. Except. He pulled a dirty on me. The next New Year's Eve, he substituted his daughter for his wife, telling me afterward she was not eighteen yet. I did not know the difference. He used that as an excuse to fire me.

But I found out later he lied. She turned eighteen on December 5. By that time, I was recovering from a three-month bender, broke as a street person and living with Inez. She helped me clean up. Janet was the adopted daughter I slept with. The guy never once fucked his wife.

She had an adequate reason for calling me pops beyond my white hair. I wondered if she remembered because she zoned out on drugs.

That was the year my wife discovered my cheating and divorced me, turning my family against me. I had a good reason for my white hair.

Cliff died from AIDS, but his former wife is still alive. Phoebe, who is Inez's age, was her former lover during the three years she lived in LA. As people in the music industry know, there are cross connections everywhere.

When I looked up Janet's schedule, I discovered she planned on a Memorial Day concert in Seattle, a mid-week evening concert in the park in San Francisco, and a two-night stint in LA the next weekend. After that, she headed for the recording studio to perform the three pieces she played at our concert. This type of brutal schedule burned one out quickly. Again, I know from personal experience.

I'm no expert on drugs, but I saw the dilated pupils in Janet's eyes that I hadn't seen the day she played with me at the mall. That's exactly what set me on the downward path, using uppers to keep up a brutal timetable.

On Tuesday, I called my former wife's attorney, who is also her husband, who was a big-shot lawyer in Los Angeles. No Hollywood connections. He concentrated on international business.

"Ted, this is Leo. Carol's ex. I need to talk with all four of you. Nothing bad right now, but potentially. If we need to use a video program, that's fine. Not any longer than five minutes unless someone has questions."

He called back later in the day with a Thursday evening time. All of us appeared on separate video cameras because he was overseas. That night I wore one of my few suits, had my hair trimmed and Inez covered some of the eye bags with makeup. I once weighed nearly two-hundred pounds; now I weigh one-hundred seventy, which is what I should weigh.

"I'm going to be precise tonight. We're already past the point where I offer an apology for what I did. I take full responsibility. I'm going to accept an offer to join the Janet Morgan contingent, which is based in LA. You know the media. They will try to ferret out my past. I don't care how you respond, or if you do or don't. I just thought you ought to know so you can prepare."

I got no response, so I signed off.

That day I called Janet's manager, Maxwell, who is Cliff's much younger brother, and set up an appointment to speak with them the following Monday. Inez paid for a round-trip ticket. I talked her into coming along.

Again, Janet cleared the room for our meeting, including Inez. She was using uppers. I could see that in her eyes.

"Do you know who I am?

"Certainly. You are the only man I've ever fucked. I wasn't as far zoned out as my adoptive father thought I was. That night was fun, but alas, won't be repeated because I'm a lesbian. You need to know that your daughter, Jasmine, is one of my former lovers. Don't worry. Not any longer, but she's a lesbian like me and we keep in touch."

"What does your mother think about me joining you?"

"She's the one who suggested the idea. By herself, she can't stand up to Maxwell. She's still in love with you, but until my dad died last year, she couldn't do much about it."

"I'll do this on one condition. I get the final say on everything. Music, schedule, clothing, everything. You can keep Maxie on, but he answers to me. Here's what I have in mind."

After we talked my proposal over, I asked about her mother.

"When will your mother get here? We need to talk."

"I think she's here now. I'll send her in."

Phoebe appeared looking haggard and worn, her former self almost lost in the pressures of life.

"I need to know, Phoebe. Who am I going to get here? The Phoebe I once knew and loved or the Dragon Lady? I've heard you've become the bitch that conspired with your husband to trick me into fucking your adopted daughter?"

Without hesitation, she said, "The Phoebe you once knew. But I need you to help me."

I outlined what I had in mind.

"I agree. The schedule Max lined out for the next year is too rigorous. Janet will get worn out, crash and burn as you did. That I conspired with Cliff that night is another lie he told you. I objected and I've got proof.

"I accept your word. Call everyone in. I'm ready."

In the nearby meeting room, Janet and Phoebe announced I was the ultimate word. Max quit, so I became her manager.

"Here are the parameters. Max of five concerts per month, one per week, unless two consecutive nights are in the same town. Only four hours of serious practice per day. Never over thirty minutes warmup the day after a concert.

"We are going to set up a strict diet and exercise regime. I'm the only one who can vary that. I'll always consult experts. I choose which pieces she performs and where she appears. Everything goes through me. My assistant will be Inez Martin. Anything she says, you must respond as if I've said it. Anyone who disagrees is welcome to leave now."

No one else quit; they said all said they were glad Max left. I spent the rest of the day on the phone, in my element. Despite her high demand, managers got persuaded to postpone dates. I always offered a suitable substitute otherwise. If they weren't there any longer, they referred me to the present person who had that job.

I purposely scheduled nothing until September.

"We're going to change your entire outlook on life. Technically, you're a brilliant pianist. Except you are not playing from your heart. We had fun in the mall that day. Your classical performances don't show that."

We did nothing but walk for the first week. Slowly, we added jogging and weight training. Her diet changed from heavy on burgers, fries and milkshakes to low-carb, high-protein foods like smoothies and tofu, with no processed foods. I weaned her off uppers like Adderall. We changed doctors who kept track of her physical conditions.

Instead of scales, we challenged each other for at least a half hour per day, sometimes playing separate pianos, sometimes the same one. She still performed better than me, but I kept pushing her. My playing improved. I spent a lot of time explaining what the composer intended. Out of that, we made several numbers into duets and got comparable performers to play them with her.

We sat in chairs across from each other and discussed our past. As she got to trust me more, we talked about our love lives. Inez and Phoebe became closer and soon started sleeping together, again.

I set up a four-month tour in the United States, performing in second-level cities with increasing audience sizes. That fall, to coincide with a planned European tour, her album came out to poor reviews.

We spent hours analyzing the recorded version. She finally recognized what I was talking about. Her play improved so much that I relaxed my reins. After one year, Maxwell talked her into firing me.

I played at the mall three times a week when I lived on income from royalties. No one else had the skill and drew people as I did, so I demanded more money, which they gladly paid. With inflation increasing, I barely kept up.

One year went by. Two years went by. In the fall of the third year, she crashed and burned on the stage, playing erratically, and forgetting major sections of the Liszt piece. Phoebe called and wanted me to rescue her. I refused. She said all kinds of nasty things to me including the fact that Janet was my daughter.

"I've had DNA tests done. That old threat won't work any longer. Leave me alone."

As I was playing Christmas music on Black Friday, this shell of a woman staggered over to me and attempted to play. It was Janet. "Please help me. I've ruined my life."

"Same conditions as before," I said.

"I agree."

We practiced and practiced, but the same spark wasn't there. She never fully recovered. I got her clean and sober and helped keep her that way.

These days, I still live with Inez because she's been my only friend. In another room, live Janet, and Jasmine. Among the four of us, we made ends meet, still living on royalties from records and mall performances.

Last year, I discovered the reason for my weight loss was I had lung cancer, despite not smoking for ten years. They said I had less than a year left.