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It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday. Neil Perry just walked into a bar.
There isn’t a punchline; Neil comes to this bar most evenings, especially on the weekends. New York can be a hectic place to live and work. Any escapism is good escapism.
The Poet’s Cave is a true hole-in-the-wall bar. It’s seen better days—days when it didn’t have cracked paint and broken floorboards and a musty smell—but it was a beloved institution nonetheless. Everyone in the neighborhood knew the bar to be a great place to socialize and get a drink, away from the hustle of the city. It was a safe space for starving artists and misfits alike, encouraging them to leave their struggles at the door and mingle.
But Neil didn’t just come for a drink and to hear a good story told by a bar patron. The bar was Neil’s other job, and the dusty piano in the corner was his office.
It all started when Neil first walked into the bar. That was years ago now, right around the time Neil first moved to the neighborhood. He needed a break from his tedious and gruesome day job as a waiter, and the bar quickly became a safe haven. Neil’s closest friends were all there, laughing and drinking and exchanging stories nightly. They were like him: different, artistic, and trying to make a name for themself in the city.
One evening, the old piano in the corner of the bar caught Neil’s eye. His piano skills were as rusty as the metallic finishings on the piano, but he nervously sat on the bench anyway. He gently pressed a key, jumping from surprise when it made a crisp tune. Neil’s eyes darted around the bar, seeing if anyone reacted unfavorably to the noise, but nobody paid him any mind. With shaky hands, Neil positioned his fingers on the keys and played the first tune he could think of.
It wasn’t anything special, just a classical piece he had learned from an old theatre friend of his. But the music felt like electricity to Neil’s tired soul, and the patrons of the bar seemed to agree. People turned around in their chairs and stools, all wanting to watch the new kid performing in the corner. Nobody seemed to notice when Neil stumbled or forgot a note; they just enjoyed the gentle music as a background to their conversations and drinking.
When Neil finished playing, he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and leaned away from the piano. Dazed and full of joy, he smiled. The bar patrons make a joyful ruckus for Neil’s performance.
And so Neil returned to the bar, again and again, and every time, he played the piano. Patrons started offering him tips and free drinks, which Neil politely accepted. It was Neil’s version of relaxation, performing and laughing and talking to the crowd. They gave him song requests, and he did his best to find and study the sheet music. The piano became more than a hobby—it was his passion.
The bar’s owner—Keating was his name, though everybody called him Captain—was the one who insisted that Neil play piano part-time, even offering him a flat salary. It wasn’t much, but any penny counted to help Neil continue to make rent every month. Besides, Neil could truly say he didn’t do this job for the money. The tips in his tip jar were secondary to the rush he got from performing.
That’s how Neil got into this routine of his. He knew everybody and everybody knew him. Now, almost four years after moving into the neighborhood, Neil finally felt like he had a home and a community. All of his friends were here. He’d made lifelong friends and memories. Even with its faults and bizarre smell, this bar was his true home.
But something was different about this night.
Neil sat at the piano bench, performing his usual set. He liked to mix it up; a bit of modern music, a splash of classical, even a bit of swing. The regular patrons were bobbing their heads or tapping their fingers along with the tune, content to listen while they chatted. A beer, bought with Neil’s tip money, sat on top of the piano, the condensation creating a pool beneath the glass. Tonight, the bar smelled of cigarette smoke, cologne, and the stale scent of the snow outside. It was an imperfect paradise, and Neil would have it no other way.
The bell above the door rang, signaling that someone had entered the establishment. Neil, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, finished his song just in time to catch a glimpse at the new attendee.
Neil couldn’t help but stare. This man was a new patron. And he was gorgeous.
The mysterious man looked out of place. He wore a navy sweater, threads fraying in all directions, and a faded pair of corduroy pants. His sneakers were weathered, akin to the color of spilled coffee on white paper. His messy brown hair—so light that it reflected blond in the dim lighting—was swept away from his face. He pursed his lips, eyes darting around the room in an anxious manner.
The man piqued Neil’s interest. So he did what he did best: play piano.
In his peripheral vision, Neil watched as the man approached the bar, nervously fiddling with the hem of his sweater. The bartender—Chris Noel was her name, and she was admired by all—gave the man a pint of beer, topped with foam so thick that it almost overflowed over the rim of the glass. After paying and thanking Chris, the man walked to a table somewhat away from the main bar entrance.
In between songs, Neil glanced towards that table. The man didn’t seem to be waiting for anyone; he merely sipped his drink and casually watched the patrons. But once or twice, Neil’s gaze caught his, and the man hastily looked away. Neil kept playing his songs, pausing in between numbers to refill his drink or chat with a friend. Through it all, the man in the sweater silently watched.
The night went on. Some patrons filed out, citing the fact that they had work in the morning. Other patrons were starting to get sloppy; they didn’t have jobs, not linear ones anyway. They could stay as late as they pleased. Neil was breaking a sweat from playing the piano, fighting the heat by sipping water and beer. The tip jar was filling up as it usually did. It was a great Saturday night.
It would be better if the man at the table would talk to Neil.
For over an hour, the man sat at that table. His beer was still mostly full—perhaps he wasn’t a drinker, Neil thought. At some point, he procured a pocket-sized notebook and was writing something down at seemingly random intervals. Neil was fascinated by him. Was he an author? A poet? Perhaps an artist?
Neil sat back at his piano bench after a quick break from his set of songs. He stretched his tired arms in front of him, relishing in the relief he felt when his joints popped. As he positioned his hands at the keys, a shadow was cast over his piano. Neil glanced up and was met with the man from the table.
Neil almost lost his composure. The man was even more beautiful up close.
“Uh, hi,” said the man, nervously. “Do you— uh, do you take requests?”
Neil nodded, almost too hastily. “Of course! What would you like to hear?”
“That’s the problem. I’ve got this song stuck in my head, and I don’t remember what it’s called. But I want to hear it. If you don’t know it, it’s completely fine. I just thought I’d ask since you play so beautifully.”
Neil slid to the side of the piano bench. He patted the open space, inviting the man to sit beside him. “Have a seat,” Neil said, “Hum the song for me.”
The man faltered for a moment, almost taken aback by Neil’s forward request. He held up his index finger to signal Neil to wait, then darted back to his table to grab his notebook. He slipped it into his back pocket, then returned to take a seat beside Neil.
“Are you an artist, sir?” Neil asked, referencing the notebook.
“Definitely not,” the man responded with a humored chuckle. “I write. Well, I don’t write much. Just little things, poems and such. I’m hoping to finish enough to publish them one day.”
“Fascinating. I love meeting poets. What were you writing about?”
“The bar, mostly. It’s a unique environment here. I, uh, I wrote about your wonderful piano playing.”
Neil brushed his hair out of his face, suddenly self-conscious about his appearance. “What’s your name, poet?”
“Todd. Todd Anderson.”
“Nice to meet you, Todd. I’m Neil Perry.” Neil positioned his hands at the piano keys. “Now, hum me that song of yours.”
Todd ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not a good singer,” he prefaced.
“Doesn’t matter to me. Your speaking voice is so beautiful that I’m sure your singing voice isn’t much different.”
Todd’s face flushed pink from the flattery. He cleared his throat and gently hummed his song. He mumbled rough approximations of lyrics, trying to paint a picture of the tune that was stuck in his head. Neil listened intently, already recognizing the song. He didn’t stop Todd’s singing; Neil was right about Todd’s voice being beautiful.
“So, uh, yeah,” Todd muttered after he had finished humming the tune. “D-Do you recognize it?”
Neil nodded, positioning his hands at the proper keys. “Sounds like ‘Eleanor Rigby’ to me. Does that name sound familiar?”
“Yes! That’s it! God, you’re good.”
“Will you sing it with me?”
Todd exhaled an anxious laugh, “N-Neil, you’re very kind, but I don’t sing.”
“Oh? Well, I thought you sounded magnificent,” Neil replied with a puckish grin. “I think you should sing along with me.”
Neil began playing the song, all based on his memory of the song. Todd remained seated at the bench, leaning back slightly so that Neil could reach all of the keys without a blockage.
Neil sang along to the song, hitting all of the notes precisely. His singing was gentle and didn’t take away from the melody of the piano. Neil never leaned too close to the microphone, not wanting to sing too loudly. Meanwhile, Todd watched him in complete awe, noting how gorgeous he looked when he played. Neil’s chocolate-brown hair fell over his forehead, dampened by sweat. His eyes darted frequently when he was playing but closed when he sang.
Todd’s nerves were clouded by his affection for the piano player. He couldn’t help but sing along to the song, not caring about how he sounded. His notes were sloppier than Neil’s, but Neil smiled and sang the lyrics with Todd.
The bar patrons clapped and hollered when Neil finished playing. Todd’s cheeks were warm and his smile was wide as he watched Neil gracefully take the applause. Todd clapped as well, grateful for the gift of the music
“That was incredible,” complimented Todd. “How long have you been playing?”
“Eh, on and off since childhood,” Neil answered. “I’ve been playing here for a few years. And what about you? Are you new here? I’d remember a face like yours.”
Todd nodded in confirmation, “I just moved in ‘bout three days ago. I saw this bar on the first day, so I had to come explore.” He looked at Neil up and down. “Glad I did.”
“Has the city been treating you well so far?”
“It’s noisy, but it’s good. I was worried about coming to this bar, though. These places tend to have communities. I don’t want to interfere.”
“Nonsense,” scoffed Neil. “Everyone is welcome here! We’re always looking to expand the group of regular patrons.” Neil nodded his head toward the bar. “See the bartender?”
“Yeah,” Todd confirmed, nodding his head.
“That’s Chris. She’s been bartending here for— God, probably five years now. The brunette helping her out is her partner, Ginny. She’s newer here. I’ve known her for years, though. She and I have done some theatre together.”
“Chris and Ginny,” Todd repeated, mentally associating faces with names. “Who’s that guy on the end of the bar?”
Neil followed Todd’s gaze. “Ah, that’s Charlie,” he said fondly, “He’s a banker, but he hates it. Always talking about running away to Hollywood to be a movie star or a director. And that guy next to him is Meeks—his name is actually Steven, but no one calls him that.”
“What’s his profession?”
Neil sighed with a distant melancholy. “He’s about to ship off, actually. Vietnam. We’re— we’re gonna miss him. He’s been coming here with his partner for years. That’s his partner on the other side of him. His name is Gerard, but we all call him Pitts.”
“Does everyone get a nickname here?” Todd joked, trying to lighten the air.
Neil chuckled, “Not everyone. But you—“ Neil met Todd’s gaze. “I think I’ll call you Toddie.”
The tips of Todd’s ears went pink. “Toddie,” he repeated, “I like that.”
Neil, feeling flustered, averted his gaze back to the bar. “That guy next to Pitts is Cameron. He’s trying to get into local politics. So far, he’s just an intern, but I know I’ll be voting for him someday. And that’s Knox,” Neil said, pointing to the people he talked about, “Knox is in law school. He and Charlie have been going out as of late. I like Knox; he’s the best drunken singer in this place.”
Todd laughed, “Do drunk sing-alongs happen often here?”
“We’re a theatrical bunch, to say the least.”
“I like that,” said Todd. “I like this bar. I like this piano. I like you.”
“Are my piano skills that good?” Neil joked, playfully nudging Todd’s shoulder.
“You joke, but you really are incredible. I hope to see you on a stage one day.”
“I’m trying my best. Will you be in the front row?”
“Of course. I’ll bring you flowers.”
Todd and Neil were in their own bubble, paying no mind to the rest of the bar. They gazed at each other longingly, both feeling too warm and their hearts beating too fast.
“I like your style, Todd Anderson,” Neil mused. He moved a little closer to Todd. “Maybe it’s the sappy actor in me. Maybe I’m a bit drunk. But I want to see you again.”
“I know I’m not drunk, but I feel the same way,” flirted Todd.
Neil leaned closer to Todd’s ear. “You should come over to my apartment,” he whispered.
Todd looked at Neil with sparkling eyes. The sounds of the bar became background noise as Todd took in every feature of Neil’s face. Neil’s cheeks had the faintest freckles, and he had smile lines around the corners of his lips. And normally, Todd would never go home with a stranger. He was far too worried about people being serial killers in disguise to throw his trust around like a football. But looking into Neil’s eyes, Todd saw no malice there, just admiration.
“I think I should go to your apartment,” Todd replied with a smile, “but I think you need to play one more song first.”
Neil raised a teasing eyebrow, “Yessir, Toddie.”
The piano sounds like a carnival. Everyone in the bar knows that this is Neil’s final song of the night, and everyone is behaving as such. The people sitting at the bar are singing along, toasting their drinks to the piano. Todd is swaying from side to side, feeling the melody in his bones. Neil looks like he’s glowing as he plays the ivory keys. The bar is an environment of pure joy and happiness and community. There’s nowhere Todd and Neil would rather be.
And when Neil and Todd spend their first night together in Neil’s apartment, nothing feels more right. Neil’s voice is as musical as his piano playing. Todd speaks like he’s writing prose. They fall asleep next to each other, curled up together on Neil’s bed. Todd dreams of that piano and the magical tunes Neil plays.
From then on, Todd is a regular at the bar, and the frequent patrons know that he sits at the same table each day. He writes in his notebook as the piano music plays, providing the perfect ambiance for writing his poems. Every so often, the piano man glances up at him and blows him a kiss. Todd always reciprocates.
And together, Neil and Todd leave the bar after Neil has completed his song set. They wander into the night together, hand in hand, humming the tunes that Neil played that night.
Nothing could be more perfect.