The ragtime music bounced in the background causing my shoulders to lightly spring up and down with the beat. How I loved the way the type music made me feel, though my mother called it junk. She preferred that I practice concertos, sonatas, and the occasional sonatina. She had no idea what I practiced when she was away in town.
“You show such potential... if only you applied yourself more you might be able to win the heart of a fine young man,” she would say to me on a daily basis. I was seventeen now, a ripe age. But no boys had appealed to me yet, though I wasn't strictly against the idea.
The hot Missouri sun beat down upon the developing town, my fanciful hat doing nothing to shield me. Men on horses sauntered through regularly, barely casting an eye upon the little nowhere town in which I lived. I was anxious to get out, but of course my mother would never allow that.
The ragtime got louder as I approached its source. My black boots clicked along the dusty wooden deck up to the parlor. I walked in to see a line of young men acceding to the piano. The bartender was leaning up against the adjacent wall with his forefinger and thumb gently resting on the end of his long pointy chin. His pale blue eyes refused to reveal his thoughts.
The piano continued on with the simple bass line; the treble running up and down the harmonic scale at a moderate tempo. The other men in line nervously tapped their thigh to the beat. The women of the parlor sauntered over to customers at the tables who were drinking themselves into a stupor. A poker game was getting rather loud in the dark corner of the room, causing me to put my guard up, making myself extra aware of my surroundings.
I glided up to the bar, turning around to rest my elbows on the edge, watching the piano keys being pushed down ruggedly.
“This isn't exactly a place for a reputable lady,” a voice came from behind me. I turned to see a man in his twenties with sandy blond hair standing there.
“I can handle myself, thank you,” I said, looking back to the piano, listening to the young pianist slur the notes together, his tempo rising as his forehead got rather sweaty and his breathing erratic. He slowed down again, cleaning his work just in time to end the piece with a harsh bang on the keys, not flattering to the piece at all.
“He's pretty good, I'd say,” the man with the sandy blond hair whispered into my ear. I pulled my shoulder up to my ear and took a step away from him.
“My name's Jack,” he said with a wink.
“Well, Jack, I think your idea of quality music is atrocious as well as your behavior around reputable ladies,” I retorted, tucking my rampant curls behind my ear.
“Excuse me, but I thought I heard you say that you could handle yourself,” he replied, smiling and tilting his head slightly as if he was challenging me. “And as for my taste in music, those are rather bold words, miss. I suppose you're the kind of girl who prefers long sonatas with lots of trills and other such decorations represented by fancy lines over notes.”
“Hardly. In fact, I rather enjoy ragtime... just not the poorly constructed songs played with no emotion behind it,” I defended.
“Perhaps you're just not familiar with playing such-”
“Excuse me, if I may,” I interrupted. “Bet I can play ragtime better than any of these men here any day any place,” I said, holding my head high and a smile wide.
“I'd pay good money to see that,” Jack said, raising his eyebrows. “What I've heard today is going to be rather hard to top... and they haven't even picked the Friday night performer yet.” Every Friday afternoon there were auditions to be the Friday night performer, to play at the parlor until the sunrise. Each week a new performer was picked so nothing got too old. I'd never auditioned before, though I attended the auditions just to listen for the past several years. Girls never auditioned. My mother would be appalled to discover that I came here just to enjoy the music.
