The pianos around me are covered in dust. They are always covered in dust - so familiar, like the Indiana plains. I run my feathered duster over each one with a religious fervor and the scrutiny of a mother hen. Yet every time I turn around, I realize my efforts are for naught. It's the same thing every day, and it's beginning to drive me towards madness. This isn't what I came here for.
So I throw up my duster to grace the top of the same baby grand I've been keeping company with for the last several weeks. I raise it high and pause, then throw it to the ground. I walk out into the bright sunlight, my head held high. They will only notice my disappearance once they come by to make sure I have things managed while they opt out for lunch and midday cocktails. Whoever heard of such a thing?
The dust that settles behind me as the door slams to a close is the perfect metaphor for so many things; the disorder, the confusion, the discombobulation. I'm living in a world run by men, men who know I will take care of those "wifely" duties. Men who are coming and going all the time. They never acknowledge me - not even for my pouty lips or my exposed ankles. I figure that must be a good thing, come to think of it.
I begin to strut down the sidewalk, my arms powerfully taking flight against the side of my body as I match them to the quickening pace of my feet. I'm beginning to discover just how hard it is to be a woman in a world ruled by men. I'm a secretary when they need something done and I am no one when they walk through the door to greet their fellow men. I am always invisible to them, yet I'm the only one who ever seems to get anything done. It just's not right. It's not fair. My steps grow faster and more powerful as I'm invigorated by these condensed feelings now burgeoning to the surface.
This is the end - or the beginning. I'm saying au revoir to all that. Because here I go - finally free to take a real risk like I should have done a lengthy two years ago. I've been wasting this precious time in a frivolous pursuit of money that's not there to be had. But alas, the sun is shining, the palms are swaying, my feet are moving and the breeze is bound to rip my hat right off the top of my hea--
Wait, where is my hat?
Without thinking twice, I rip off my heels and take off running down the street. I have to get back and retrieve it before anyone notices I've gone. I surely can't say the words to their faces. It'll be another guilt trip, another "Yes, Sir" and another year of working in that terrible, miserable God-awful place.
I reach the doors and pause for a moment to gain some composure and slip my shoes back onto my sore feet and now-torn stockings. Apparently I'm bound to be punished in one way or another, and if I'm to be discovered, I might as well look good, right? I take a deep breath and cautiously open the door.
"Hello, ma'am?"
I turn hastily from my intended direction to face a pair of earnest blue eyes sitting at the baby grand I'd been dusting just minutes before I was about to change my life forever. He's dressed nicely, in a vest and tie, with his black hair slicked back nicely away from his face. All save for a runaway strand that bounces above his forehead, quite perfectly haphazardly. Enough to make him appear a different breed than any of the buttoned-up chauvinists who tend to christen these floors with their presence.
"Do you work here? I'm so sorry, I must've mistaken you for someone else. I know I've seen a young lady working in here before, but pardon me for bothering you."
I realize that I've been standing there taking him in with a rather blank expression on my face. "Oh, no - no, I work here! How can I help? I was just, eh, out for some lunch."
I find myself stuttering. What is wrong with me? It's 10 AM!
"Oh? Ah, well I was just gazing on this beauty right here. I fancy myself a sort of musician, though I barely play. It's all in my head, y'see? But of course, what good is that?" he queries, accompanied by a nervous laugh. He gently pushes that stray hair back in place, and I note that his tie is a tad frayed on the edges. "Do you play?"
I nod my head quietly and straighten my skirt as I approach the piano and sit down, fingers hovering over the keys. I guess it's time to face reality. Though I couldn't think of a better way to do it.
~
The next thing I know, an hour has passed and Mr. Smalls has come in to witness my engaging demeanor with this new customer, presumably one who's ready to buy. Little does he know, we're more so engulfed in stories of Broadway and song and dance and art. By this point, I've come to realize this pleasant guest may not have the proper funds or talent to take this piano off my hands, but why should I even care? This job may have just bought me a drink!
A tap on the window interrupts us as a man in a bowler hat beckons my new friend back outside. His lips purse in a strange moment of serenity before he apologizes and says he'll plan to come back later today, if I think I'll be around. To be honest, I think I will. My newfound moxie has been beaten by the need to eat and sleep - and perhaps buy some new stockings. My thoughts are reeling and my feet ache from my near-escape, but I grab my hat and excuse myself to grab a little sunshine and a walk around the block.