It's been a week since my encounter with the aspiring non-pianist and he's yet to come back to the store. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I worry that I might be better off just going back home. Who am I kidding? I have nothing to show for my time here. I count the paper bills residing in my jewelry box, one…two…seven. Seven dollars is all I have to my name right now. Seven! That won’t get me to Texas, let alone Indiana. I glance at my watch – my one dramatic splurge after my first several months of pay – and realize that I’m already running late. I’ll have to leave now if I have any intention of making things better.
I repeat the same daily steps in the same one-two beat against the sidewalk as I try to take delight in the sights around me. The sky is hazy with clouds, mirroring the fog in my brain as I attempt to keep my spirits up. It’s just the same old thing, every day.
But as I approach the store, key in hand, ready to unlock, a hand reaches out to touch my shoulder. I jump in fright, then calm as I realize my Piano Man has returned! In his hand, I notice a small tin lunch box. He smiles and apologizes for the startle, then holds out the box.
"So you don't get hungry before noon," he says with a wink. And just like that, he's walking away before I've even sputtered out a 'Thank You' and I force myself to embrace my inner Femme and go after him.
"Hey!" I shout. "I don't even know your name! How in the world am I supposed to trust what's in this lunch box?" And why, I must ask, does he insist on fattening me up?
"It's Timothy. Tim," he says with a laugh. "And don't worry - it's just peanut butter." He pauses in thought, then releases a pointed finger towards the lunchbox. “I will be needing that back though.”
I'm dumbfounded. Speechless. And oh so pleased! He came back! But then he left. So he was just waiting there to see me? To hand me a sandwich? What kind of nonsense is this?
If I didn't know better, I'd swear it was a movie.
~
As the day goes on, I count Tim walking past our storefront 5 times. On each occurrence, his head bends down in what is quickly becoming his signature contemplative stature, but he casts his eyes up and grins a little when he catches my eyes peering back at him. At one point, he seems to pause as he thinks about coming in, but he mutters something to himself and turns back around. I’m really beginning to believe that he isn’t real. Except that come one o clock my stomach is fuller than it’s ever been, sufficiently satisfied by one very generous peanut butter sandwich.
What is he up to?
On his sixth trip past the front door, I make a rash decision to beckon him inside. And sure enough, he opens up the door and waltzes right in.
“I thought you’d never ask, m’lady,” he says with an affected British accent and a generous bow. “What do you have in store for me today?”
I swear this man is crazy. I never should have encouraged him.
“Well, what are you looking for? You seem to have spent an awful amount of time window shopping today,” I retort. It seems I can’t help but play along with him. His jovial sense of being is addictive to me, like nicotine to a jazz club singer. He consumes me with a feeling that I can be anything I want to be. I don’t quite understand it, but I’ve been waiting for this moment for far too long.
“I’m looking for a partner,” he says confidently, chest pushed out and hands on his hips.
“In crime?” In life? In love?
“In music.” His eyes cast over to the pianos, but I can tell he was tickled by my abrupt response.
“Well you’re going to have to pay for one of those, sir. I can’t just give them away to anybody.”
“I don’t need a piano. I need you,” he says, and suddenly my heart is lifted and floating and I believe that all is coming to the best of conclusions. Things are as they’re meant to be. “I can’t pay much, but I need an accompanist and it sure wouldn’t hurt to have a pretty lady playing alongside me.”
Now I’m confused.
“I’d like you to join my act. I just need some simple ditties, a little here-and-there musical magic. You’d probably have to keep this gig, at least until we get things going. But after you played the other day, I can see you’ve got some chops! I’ve got faith in you. There’s something about you, Birdie. Something I can’t ignore. Maybe it’s just the haircut, but I’ll take a risk if you will……So whaddaya think?”
I’m dumbfounded. He wants me….to play for him? I’m not even any good! Sure, I’ve taught myself a few simple songs, what with all the quiet time I’m paid to enjoy and the need to entertain a customer or two. But in public? No. No, no, no.
He’s looking at me expectantly. I bring a hand up to flounce a little volume into my pageboy strands and muster up the ability to at least ask him some questions. “What are you talking about? What do you need music for? I mean, I don’t even know you! Why me?” I’m self-deprecating. I catch myself and stop, eyes still wide in shock.
“Well, I can’t exactly tell you that just yet. It requires a lot of secrecy. But you like secrets,” he leans in and whispers, “I can tell.”
He’s beginning to scare me. I can’t tell if my racing heart signals intrigue or a beckoning feeling to up and run. I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into. But I’m still so enticed by his disarming nature. It’s thrilling to try and guess what he’ll say next, knowing I’ll be wrong.
“Can you give me a hint? A location? Anything? I just…I don’t know what to say. I know what you want me to say, but-“
“Then say it,” he commands, reaching out to offer his hand for what looks to be a firm shake between business colleagues.
I reach out to lay my hand across his. “I’m going to need more than your gentlemanly courtesy,” I say with a sly grin. “So if you can’t tell me….why don’t you show me?”
He offers a slow smile in return as he returns his hand to his side. “Fine. Meet me outside at 10 tonight.”
I take a deep breath and straighten my posture.
“Oh, but of course, Tim. I’ll see you then.”