It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 74: Chapter III

Coarse and Offensive Language. Reader Discretion Advised.

The night of revelry stretched long past any acceptable hour—even by St. Gregory's standards—and by the time the patrons, sufficiently sloshed, staggered their way home, the morning sun was already verging towards afternoon.

Alan Carr and Edward Towne, no more sober than any of their counterparts, were the last two patrons to leave the exhausted Ohannes to the mess that had become his once fine and polished establishment. But he didn't rush them out, not like O'Toole would have done. Rather, he sat in a booth, mop rested against his leg, enjoying a series of cigarettes as the friends carried on with their tunes. The blonde boy in the hat was, by Ohannes' estimation, the more naturally gifted. His fingers barely touched the keys of the piano, but still summoned full and noble sounds that entranced the listener into deep meditations. The later the night went, the more intricate and daring the music became, and what started off as a familiar song book, (familiar to the patrons at least), had devolved into an exploration of technique and prowess that captivated Ohannes, but never insulted, nor strained his ears. The ringing clarity with which the notes pierced the hot and smokey air encouraged a trance-like quality over the newcomer's mind. The blonde boy in the hat, unassuming in his looks and manners, knew just the right way to play the music and just the right music to play. His inventions and mprovisations, never broken up or seemingly debated, strung effortlessly together in one continuous medley of sound, haunted and summoned to life memories of people all buried or scattered far and wide in the world. In the music, Ohannes found his parents, his siblings and cousins and neighbors. The wife he very rarely spoke of, but who hung watchful over the bar. Ah, in the music, she was not just a portrait, but alive and held close in his arms, the smell of her as near to him as if she were sat on his lap. 

And then! 

Just before Ohannes strayed too far from reality, he was brought back by the darker of the two boys, who would join in at random intervals of music to accompany the piano with his voice. Such a startling voice, like the brightest of horns. So startling that Ohannes, once drifting, felt compelled to open his eyes and watch with rapt attention. The dark boy with his greasy hair, not quite even, had an otherwise pleasing appearance that leaned comfortably against the piano, always half-obscured by the cloud of smoke that billowed out of his lips, or off the tips of his fingers. You had to squint to see him in full, and even then, he seemed to revel in the shadows—but his voice! A guiding light from darkness to heaven! It rattled in Ohannes and made the hairs on his arms stand straight and alert. The music that was sung was music of joy, but the voice itself was the tear of tragedy on the knowing, happy face, and Ohannes could instantly appreciate that they were one in the same. The tear could not fall without the face, and the face would not be human without the tear. He could have sat there for hours and listened, and couldn't really fathom why the audience of neighbors and family weren't still packed to the brim to behold what he was so blessed to be witnessing.

'You must be doing this again, if you would be wanting,' he told the pair as they made their way to leave. 'I, of course, will be happy to be paying you!'

The boys stopped. 'You'll what?' asked Alan with an incredulous look.

'Yes, yes! Of course! How much was you being paid to do this before?'

'Oh,' said Ed. 'O'Toole didn't—'

'50!' said Alan, stepping down hard on his friend's toes to shut him up. 'Each. A night.'

'Ah...yes, okay. Not a problem at all!' laughed Ohannes, then he grabbed their hands and shook them up and down. 'You come as many nights as you be wanting! Oh, you will be doing good for business. How much music do you have?'