Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Thirty-five

Ben would have never played Nordstrom department store. And the thing is, I'm not officially playing Nordstrom's, I'm just substituting. The regular guy or gal who plays this gig called in sick. Probably just needed to get some Christmas shopping done, which I'm sure he's not doing at Nordstrom, so they needed me.

I'm pretty sure they got my name from Max, because when I asked how they got my name, they said from Andy over at Andy's Place. If that sounds confusing, it's really not. Because at times, unbeknownst to me, Max will say he's Andy at Andy's Place and hook me up with jobs, or people will call for referrals and he'll say to have them tell me Andy referred me.

Max knows that I could always use the money, and that I'll put up a stink and whine about playing these uncool gigs, but in the end will never turn down a job. I think in the back of my mind I have it that, no matter how bad the job, someone, anyone, could always know somebody in the music business who could advance my career. Whatever that means.

The part that led me to finally believe Max's hand was in the referral business was when I'd thank Andy for the gigs and he'd give me that blank Andy stare. At first I thought he was just being modest, but then I realized he was truly clueless.

As my hands launched into "White Christmas," my mind drifted back to last night. I would ping-pong between thinking about Kate and where things might have gone had Liz not showed up, and then Liz—wondering what was up with her health situation and, still, if she was contagious.

I half-expected a note from Kate, or one of them to pop into my room last night and let me know they were leaving, but it didn't happen. There's something about saying good-bye that I think people need to do to be complete. Otherwise, I feel like I'm left hanging—like now.

My unconscious state was broken when I noticed an older lady dressed like she was ready to face a blizzard—gloves, knit cap, scarf, big jacket, big boots—just staring at me. She was uncomfortably close to me to the left of my keyboard. I nodded in acknowledgment, smiled, and noticed the scarf over her mouth was moving a bit. I ignored this fact until I began to hear a little peep coming from her general direction.

Once I stopped the tune, it was apparent the peep was coming from the old lady dressed for the blizzard.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, are you trying to say something?"

I saw the scarf move some more. She was definitely speaking, but whether it was English or not, I had no clue. Knowing that I was probably about to violate some social ordinance about physical space, I pulled the old lady's scarf down from her mouth.

"Jesus Christ, it's about time. Listen, Liberace, could you help me undress?"

OK, so she spoke pretty good English. As for me, "Um ..." was really all I could muster.

"Oh, c'mon, you know what I mean. My nephew bundled me up like he was bundling up his five-year-old for a walk in Nome, Alaska."

I paused, just because it was so weird. It was just so weird. Like, what the fuck is that about? Some old lady is bundled up so tight that she can't even function. How the fuck does she get her bus card, or take a pee, or do fifty push-ups if she is so inclined?

Needless to say, I gave her a hand, which was surreal in and of itself. I pulled off her mittens, unzipped her big jacket, took off her hat, and unraveled her scarf. I piled them all on the piano.

"Free at last!" she cried with joy. With a schizophrenic pace, she changed subjects. "How long you been playing the piano, sweetie?"

I felt like it was last call at Andy's Place, and this lady had struck out with all the other patrons and I was her last chance for a little fun.