Survivin' - [B.C.]

Chapter 1: Piano Man

I stuck out like a sore thumb in that place.

Privileged children prancing about, rich parents following suit with not-so-secret admirers practically attached to their elbows. Thousand-dollar price tags lined up with taunting, almost surreal numbers staring me in the face. I felt like everyone there was looking down on me, an alien intruding on their planet, and wondering why in the hell I was even there.

Why was I even there?

Well, for the piano, of course.

FAO Schwarz closed down in 2015, leaving us music nerds stuck with a replacement big piano in Macy's Herald Square. If Macy's is this bad, I can't imagine what one of the most expensive toy stores was like.

I slipped into the stand with all the colorful lights shining on me. The keys sprawled out on the ground made me feel giant right alongside them. The white noise of the people in the store filtered into the setting. It was like I was back in Radio City Music Hall. It was like - for a brief moment - I had my old life back.

The crowd stares at me expectantly. A wave of almost complete silence washes over them - and me - as I take a deep breath. I position my hands over the keys, then-

I start bouncing back and forth between tiles. I'd forgotten how hard it was to play piano with your feet, you know? I'm no monkey. I wasn't meant to play upscale songs with my thin legs.

A small group of people starts to form around me as I'm picking up speed and I start to sweat. All eyes are on me. I'm trying not to trip up. I'm trying to remember the chords. I'm practically praying that no little kid walks behind me and winds up getting accidentally karate kicked. More than that, I'm hoping that one of those snot-rocket launchers doesn't mess up my music.

I almost cried just thinking about what would happen if the mic cut off. If no one was able to hear the piano. If no one was able to hear anything. If I messed up. If I forgot the chords. Oh, god, what was the tempo again...?

I glance at my watch to make sure the timing is right down to the seconds. "It's nine o'clock on a Saturday..." I try to keep my breathing measured and even. With the harsh movement and anxiety, it was hard to make sure that my words didn't come out too shaky.

"The regular crowd shuffles in
There's an old man sitting next to me
Making love to his tonic and gin..."

I continue with the next verse, but my mind lurches to a stop. The lyrics... the chords... I'm only one person; I can't press all the vital keys at once. I can't stretch that far. What's worse is that the old song that I once thought was engraved in my mind starts to drain itself out... the lyrics aren't coming to me as they should be.

My vision blurs with tears. It becomes so bad that I can't see what I'm doing. I try feeling for my place, but it's no use. I'm slipping. I'm falling.

"Don't hit the ground..." that voice in my head says. It's louder than the other ones. Trained.

"Don't hit the ground."

I'm not going to be able to make this next chord. I can't. It's the same as all those years ago... the same as Radio City Music Hall... the same old disappointment, different crowd.

I jump to the next chord, but I put too much pressure in the wrong spot and I feel a deep crack within my fingers.

Just as I think I'm about to completely miss this part, another pair of legs jumps in and saves me.

I choke back a gasp. The next notes are jumbled and garbled and no one can tell what they are over my whimpering. The crowd starts to murmur. I gag on the shame.