The Piano at the back of the bar

unpublished

One night, after a long one, they just pulled away and I was left behind. I was old and worn out, sure. Maybe not as impressive as the newer, electronic models, I know. But they loved me. I sang my heart out for them every night. They couldn’t do it without me, they knew that. They would never leave me behind, and yet, I was forgotten. 

The next morning, as staff bustled around the dark room cleaning up, they joked about how dumb you’d have to be to leave your greatest instrument at the last venue. How drunk they must have been when they left me. 

“Oh shit,” one of them said moments later, looking up from their phone, washrag mid-wipe on the bar. “They really were drunk. They crashed in New Kent on their way out to the beach. Van caught fire.” 

The room was very still that day. I was very still for many days after that. Weeks even, when I normally played hard and loud for hours every night. 

One day, a woman with electric keys hopped off stage, walked across the room and swam her dainty hands across me. Oh, to feel that warmth again. There was nothing like it. The man in charge told her my story, told her they didn’t know what to do with me now. I wasn’t really in the way, he told her. No one wanted to take me home.

“Well you have to leave her right here,” the woman proclaimed to the man. “As a tribute. This was their last show before they died? God that’s tragic. Even if no one knew the band, she’ll have to be a tribute forever, right in this bar. To them and all of us on the road.”

And so it was. She left me open that night, my ivory fingers welcoming anyone to come and play. Her bandmates did, when she told them my story. The band the next night did, when they saw I was sitting ready. 

Many talented hands played many beautiful notes in the months and years that followed. A few times I was even invited on stage again, screaming along to songs I had never played before. People loved me again. People played me again and told my story and kept my first family alive. 

People loved me a little too hard over the years and I lost many bits and pieces. Eventually I could not sing like I used to and no one could afford to fix me. Not the man in charge, who changed many times, nor the musicians who loved me, nor the fans, who did their best to find a person who would try for free. They ended up causing more damage than they fixed. 

So I was moved off stage again and set off to the side of the bar. I was flush with light every day from the giant front window. I was adorned with blankets and trinkets and old records and concert flyers. People smiled at me all the time, hugged tight around me on their way to the bar, they set their drinks on me to embrace each other, and leaned on me during intense conversations.

I often hear them say, “Boy, if that piano could talk, I bet she’d have some stories!” If I could, though, I bet most of Virginia would not want me to. But I wouldn’t mention the malicious details. I wouldn’t tell of the fights between bandmates, friends, or lovers. I wouldn’t speak of the stolen kisses or backhanded hits people take towards each other. I wouldn’t tell them about the late nights hoping everyone got home safely. 

I’d tell stories of the music being so powerful it shook the bottles on the wall. I’d talk about the room being so full of people dancing that they’d spill out into the street. I would proudly tell stories of being the merch stand for countless bands. I would recount with tinted joy at how many inebriated Fur Elises were attempted as I aged and crackled. 

I saw many concerts, yes, but in that room I saw much more. I saw wedding celebrations and holidays, graduations and birthdays. I saw love fill every corner of that space time and time and time again. Through every iteration of my being, I have seen rooms like that but this one was special. And now, for many years, it had been mine and I had been its. 

I had become part of the room, part of the installed decor, part of the wall itself. But by now I was very old. My wood was crumbling. My keys were broken and missing. My strings were frail and cracking. If they moved me, I would fall apart, but if they didn’t, the floor beneath me would.

So one by one, key by key, they came to take me home. A few dozen friends took my ivory bones home to keep me alive in their own way. To keep the spirit of the room alive in their own places. To keep the music alive, wherever they were. 

But then, a new artist approached. Not one looking to hear my song, but to use me as a canvas. They took a sealant to my skin and glue for my crumbling parts and locked my strings in place, never to make sound again. I did not worry. They lifted me off the ground, filled my back with dirt and planted flowers in me. Beautiful, striking, glorious flowers that reached higher than I ever could. They brought me a new life. They brought me more smiles from so many more people. And I lived on in that loved filled room for years to come.