Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Thirteen

Sometimes I think knowing Ben was the best and the worst thing that could've happened to me. Good from a mentor/friend/father-figure standpoint. Bad from a codependent, inter-reliant, looking-for-approval standpoint. I actually found myself not wanting to rock the boat, not trying to be a success, not wanting to move on. In an odd way, I hadn't wanted to leave Ben or compete with him. So I just settled.

Being a work-for-hire Jewish piano player playing at a Christmas party at an art museum for a bunch of whiter-than-white pig-in-a-blanket lovers forced me to look very deep within my inner me and realize who I'd become. And I came to the harsh conclusion that I'd become a sell-out. Piano bars, weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, water bed closeout sales (I actually turned that one down, but it was offered ...). Studio work would come along on the rare occasion that I was able to sell myself or happened to fall into a job.

Why did I play the damn piano anyway? It was serendipitous that I played in the first place. Really, the only reason we had a piano when I was growing up was because my grandmother died and we couldn't sell it. It wasn't a great piano, but it was good enough for a seven-year-old to drown out the noise of his mother and father engaged in constant arguments.

My mother would yell at my father when he didn't put the TV Guide back where my mother could find it. My father would yell at my mother when she bought Monterey Jack knowing "damn well" that my father preferred Swiss. They weren't particular when it came to arguing.

Later in life, I realized that arguing was the only thing they had in common. The only way they could be close and communicate. Intimacy wasn't an option: neither of them had an ounce of affection to offer.

I showed up one day, unplanned and seemingly unwanted, but they dealt with me anyway.

On the particular day I discovered the piano, the argument was about me. "He's your fucking kid," my father yelled with affection.

"Jesus Christ, Mel, would you keep your voice down."

"I'll do with my voice whatever the fuck I want to do with my voice. Now it's up! Now it's down! Up! Down! Up!"

"I can't talk to you. You're impossible."

"That's fine. I'm getting out of here," my father said dramatically as he slammed the front door and left. Not to be shown up, my mother ran to the door and yelled back at him.

"Oh, that's something new. Avoid responsibility. Leave and drink yourself to happiness. Is that it?" My mother pleaded.

"I gotta find happiness somewhere, babe."

A year later, my father finally found happiness. Drinking sometimes makes you think stop signs and seatbelts are unnecessary, especially at the wee hours of the morning when no one's around.

Needless to say, the funeral was no frills and not well attended. After my father's death, my mother withdrew and became even more emotionally unavailable. I think she felt guilty about the way she and my father treated their only child, and she was too fucked up to do anything about it, so it just got worse.

Playing piano became a reliable escape for me. I didn't have many friends and wasn't too social, so naturally I played a lot. My mother liked that I seemed to enjoy the piano. I wasn't sure how she afforded it, but she arranged for me to have lessons. Her way of giving back to me everything I never got from her and my dad. Making up for lost time, I guess.

The piano came very easily to me for some reason. Unlike most kids, who you can't get near the piano to practice, I practiced like a fiend. I just liked playing. I had a connection with the music. It was, and still is, a very emotional experience—in more than just an aural way. The way I explain it to people who don't play music is it's like a daydream, when you get lost in thought and allow your mind to drift and experience the entire world as womblike.

Even the feel of the ivory keys is distinctive. They become so familiar that the gentle touch of my fingertips against the keys feels like old friends having a conversation. Then there's the rejuvenating sensation that occurs when you've been playing for awhile and the piano keys actually start to warm and the music flows from your fingers like another force has taken over and you're no longer in control.

It's all so beautiful.

Once I was good enough, I came to the realization that I was in control of the sound. So the more I played, the better the music sounded.

That was then, this is now, and the music since Ben died hasn't been the same. Doesn't sound the same, doesn't feel the same. Probably just another in a long list of excuses though—like this gig. It bites, but it's my own fault. Max is a friend, and I've got nothing else to do.