Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Twenty-nine

For some reason Andy's Place was packed. It was an unusual crowd for that matter, a mix of Asian tourists, pipe fitters, and inebriated young females, which normally I don't really have a problem with (the young inebriated females especially), but tonight it simply all threw me for a loop. Maybe I felt old or depressed, or maybe my water sign was suffering from a drought.

So I sat at the bar gently holding a Bass ale before my last set—just thinking. Thinking that I used to think about what I was going to play and how I was going to play before I sat down to play any set. I'd actually try to create some sort of theme or flow to my sets, but now my mind wanders, and I think about things I shouldn't be thinking about. Like Kate. And why I'm thinking about her before my set. Lately, I'll even take requests and act like the guy who plays for tips. I hate that guy.

"Excuse me, sir." I turned to find two of the gaggle of the inebriated females at the bar beside me. One of them giggled and the other one spoke. They couldn't have been more than twenty-five.

"We're to understand you're the piano man."

"That's one way to put it, I suppose."

"Whatever—so when do you start the next set?"

"Any second now, thanks for your eagerness."

"It's just that we're having a bachelorette party tonight for our friend Tory—she's the one over there with the balloon tied to her ponytail."

The talker screamed to Tory while the giggler giggled.

"Hey, Tory! This guy's the piano man!" Tory waved with a drunken exaggeration. "She's such a doll. Anyway, we've got a stripper coming in a little while, and we wondered if when he came, I could give you the high sign, and you could take a little break for him to do his thing."

Now, these girls seemed like nice girls. Amenable girls. Definitely girls from the suburbs. But I wasn't feeling particularly nice, or amenable.

"Oh ... well, um, this is kind of awkward, and maybe they didn't tell you at the door, but that's part of my show as well."

The giggler stopped giggling, and the talker looked stunned, as though it was out of the realm of any possibility that I could strip.

"Shut up!" The giggler finally spoke.

"For real?" said the talker.

"No and no. What the hell's the matter with you kids? If you want to see a stripper, go to a fucking Chippendales. This is a jazz club, God damn it."

"Whatever, piano man."

"You suck," said the giggler. And with those comments, they both went back to Tory and the gaggle of girls to break the bad news.

Just as I stood to take my place at the piano, I had another tap on my shoulder. It was Kate.

"Does Sam Greene have groupies?"

I stood with fear. I stood with excitement. I just stood there, looking at Kate.

"Lighten up, Sam, I was just joking."

"Kate, hi. What are you doing here?" is what I said. What I thought was, Oh my God, it's great to see you. I've been thinking of you, troubled and actually obsessed with thinking about you all day, trying to figure out why you make me feel the soft, mushy way I feel inside, and what I'm suppose to do about it. How do you feel about me?

"Didn't Max talk to you?"

"Max? I talked to him early this morning, but we basically talked about nothing other than his hygiene ..." I could kill that little fucker. What the fuck did he tell her?

"What did he talk to you about?" I asked with curious fear.

"Actually, he left a message. So I didn't talk to him. But he mentioned you were playing tonight, he and Tracy were coming down, and that we should all go out after the show. So here I am."

"What are friends for?" Just then Max and Tracy showed up. "Speak of the assho—I mean devil."

Andy called out from behind the bar.

"Hey, piano man. How about tickling dose ivories?"

I hate it when people refer to playing the piano as "tickling the ivories."

"Right away, boss." I rolled my eyes to Kate to show her who was in control.

"Hey, here's the happy couple!" Max was in prime asshole mode.

I held my arms open for Tracy. We hugged. She fit pretty well. I find it peculiar how some people fit better in your arms than others. I wonder what that means.

"Hey, Trace. What's with your husband?"

"You tell me, I've only known him for a couple years."

"Cupid, come with me." I pulled Max with me toward the piano, leaving Kate with Tracy, Asian tourists, some pipe fitters, and a gaggle of inebriated females. I'm not sure what there was to worry about, but it occurred to me there should be something.

"What the hell are you doing to me, Max?"

"What are you talking about? I thought you were into Kate."

"That's beside the point ... Even if I were into her, I need to do things my own way and at my own pace." It was a short walk to the piano.

"Do you want us to leave?"

"Of course not."

"Just play me some ABBA and Air Supply, and then we'll get some coffee at Third Coast or something."

"Do you work on your material? Because you get funnier every time I see you."

Not much can distract me when I'm about to play, but when a loud, thrashing drum and bass beat fill the air, and strains of a bad '80s synthesizer follows close behind, I get a little annoyed.

As if the bad music wasn't enough, the whooping and hollering and clapping—and not just coming from the gaggle of inebriated females—could mean only one thing. The male stripper had arrived.