Work Text:
David isn’t one for drinking. Never has, even after having tagged along on a couple of outings to bars or parties. Nothing ever clicked, and he wasn’t confident or comfortable enough to indulge into the supposed bliss that drunkenness brings some people. Though, God knows that he needs some sort of positive release after working in the office.
David’s a journalist, working for one of the major networks in the city, with a topical focus on medical events, and assisting in translations. It’s something he’s wanted to do for a while, or at least he believes that’s the case. This evening was just one of those times where it felt like all of his hard work was about to crash into itself under the weight of dissatisfaction. Dissatisfaction with what, exactly?
Everything.
There was a bar in a part of town that he frequents, one that somehow went under his radar until a coworker told him about it. Despite the usual expectations of volume and controlled chaos that would probably be there, a selling point to David was a ‘reliable live musician’ as a coworker put it. Not much else, but David can’t quite turn down live music. It’s hard to afford concert tickets to even the most mild of acts these days.
David came alone, dressed in something looser than his usual work clothes. A hoodie, sweatpants, and sneakers. He carried along a bag, with a strap that sat over his shoulder, kind of functioning like a purse with a few things to keep himself busy: Headphones, a notepad from work to possibly continue writing in, his phone to do whatever on, and a different notebook, one that was more personal.
A lot of other people on the street dressed differently: more show-y clothing, colorful, makeup. They have bodies to show, but David does not. It’s not something he likes to bring attention to, anyway.
One of the first things he noticed entering into the place was how classical it felt. It had a wood interior and overall structure, feeling like a blast from the past compared to the outside work. Warm lighting, aside from the occasional faint neon signs for beer products and whatnot. Televisions playing something he couldn’t immediately recognize, at a volume probably nobody could hear. Those captions are probably behind a few seconds.
All of that sort of got dwarfed by two things: chatter amongst tables and the long bar, and a piano.
[1]
A man with hair as thick and long as a lion’s mane sat at the bench of a piano, a rather old looking one at that, moving through black and white keys like they were an old friend. Probably were. It was lighter brown, with waves that seemed sporadic yet organized. Kind of like the playing of the man at the current moment. He seemed pretty different from the rest of the patrons, with a dress shirt that has probably seen better days (or been pulled straight out from one), and pants with tears at the knees. Sheet music stood on the piano, though David wouldn’t have known for certain if the piano man was even abiding by it.
It always amazed David, the act of performance and furthermore the precision with an instrument. It made him nearly forget he was just standing idly near the entrance, entranced by the tune. The piano carried bass parts and melody, but eventually got to a point of swelling into a chaotic bit of notes, ascending up the keyboard and yet still holding onto something. It reminded him of his own hands at a computer keyboard, but not nearly as moving.
[2]
The bartender got a little snappy, which is how David pulled himself out of the trance, and rushed to think of something to order. It was too embarrassing of a thought to ask for a menu, so David simply asked for water. That’s his go-to anyway.
David took a seat somewhere near the piano, in smaller seating that was closer to the front of the store and near the TVs. It was rather empty, and he had a decent view of everything, as it was on a little platform. It was already beginning to get a little overwhelming, the sounds of chatter all the way on the other side of the building. The commotion was rather energetic, but David couldn’t quite get a good idea of why that might be. It was a large crowd at a round table, with quite a few glasses on the surface already. He took a sip from his own glass, and gently set it down, wiping at the condensation growing with his sweater’s sleeve.
It was hard not to just stare at the piano man.
David was wondering whether it was just the music that was keeping his eyes fixated, but that would sound super creepy if he said that out loud. There’s a little envy mixed into his heart full of admiration and appreciation. Though, that’s also a lot to get into. He’s just appreciative of this, as opposed to booming overhead speakers with music he doesn’t feel any sort of way about. It’s not everyday you get blues like this. Blues is hard to come by, at least from what he’s aware of. Though, it’s not hard to find.
“You’ve been starin’ for a little while now,” the man on the piano spoke. David didn’t hear all of it clearly, besides the word ‘staring’, and immediately felt worse. He turned his head down, but the face on the bench didn’t seem to be bothered by it. In fact, in his peripheral he could see a gesture that invited him over. David stood up, letting the bag stay where he had sat, and stuffed his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie, walking over close to the piano.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to break your focus.”
David’s apology was instantly contradicted by the piano man’s continued playing, albeit a bit slower and atmospheric in bluesy chords. It had a very welcoming feel to it, one David would probably describe as ‘being invited over after a long, long day’. The kind of invite you almost turn down, but you might’ve needed such company that day.
“Nah, no need to worry. It’ll take more than a pair of eyes to make me stop. In fact, that just keeps me going,” the man smiled, looking back to continue in this atmosphere. David stepped a bit closer to the piano, refusing to lean on it or anything. He swayed back and forth in place, not too much.
“Anything on your mind?”
“Hm?”
David turned up from watching the fingers on the keys, though just looking to the head of hair on the piano man, instead.
“No, I’m just…”
“Seems rather busy up there. Lay it on me.”
[3]
The man seemed to now move onto a tune, flipping through a couple of pages before settling on something. His gaze turned towards the keyboard, but he was still attentive to David.
“Well… I don’t know, it’s one of those days. I’m just- not in a great mood.”
“I see why this here blues called to you,” another soft smile creeped up his face, but the piano man stayed focused.
“I suppose,” David sharply exhaled. “I have these moments where I… I don’t like where I am, in-,”
“Life?”
“Yeah… In life.”
David was a little bewildered at how easily his sentence was finished, but continued on.
“I think I’m in a good place. I have a good job, I have my own place, I have a routine for myself that I’m happy with. My job can be a little sporadic at times, but I’ve learned to handle it better than when I first started.”
“What do you do for work?”
“I’m a journalist. I help with writing articles, I translate.”
“Quite the place to be. You don’t strike me as a confident one, yet you’re vocal in that way.”
“I suppose,” David shrugged. “It’s easier to speak in other ways besides speech.”
“Now that’s a unique one,” the man chuckled. “D’you mind if I keep that line?”
“Sure,” David chuckled a little in return. “But really, I find it easier to express myself in other ways. Anyway, I should be happy with what I have right now. But I’m just… not.”
“Surely there’s something that isn’t right, otherwise what would there be to complain for?”
“That’s the thing, I can’t put my finger on it.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
The piano man turned to look David in the eye for that question, but slipped into a flurry of notes and turned back down.
That stumped David into silence a little. He got back to swaying a little to the tune, watching the piano man’s hands jump, flurry, and slide down the keyboard effortlessly. That small sliver of envy began to poke its head out of his heart again, brewing a bit of guilt within him on top of the dissatisfaction.
“What’s your name, o’ uncertain one?”
The man sharply exhaled at his own delivery.
“David.”
“Mm, a nice name.”
“And you?”
“They call me Dogpoo.”
“By choice?”
“It doesn’t matter. People here know me for this right here,” he nodded his head forward to the piano itself. “And I reckon people know you for your work, no?”
“I wouldn’t say that…”
“Oh, surely that has to be true on some level. Your name is on the paper, no?”
“Well, yes. But that’s different from seeing my face. I don’t think I have as inviting of one as opposed to an inviting style of writing.”
“Mm, I see. Looks can be deceiving. Covers are there to be judged, but they’re never the full story.”
Dogpoo’s speech was broken up by a section of tune.
“Do you enjoy telling stories?”
“Sometimes.”
“When don’t you?”
“Well- it’s not that I have times I don’t. I just sometimes feel… restricted.”
“The big man weighing you down?”
“Not quite. I think I’m on fairly good terms with my bosses. I just wish I had more… creative work.”
“Is telling the story for the day not creative enough? Surely this town has a lot to offer.”
“Well, I work in the medical section. Not much to the imagination there. Frankly, science is a rather creative-limiting thing.”
“I wouldn’t say that. Someone had to be a real genius to find insulin in pigs.”
David snickered. “I guess. It’s just- you can’t add much of a flare to that stuff. It can be rather morbid, or very monotone, unless you have the head and ear for that stuff.”
“I could say the same for music,” Dogpoo added. “Not everyone appreciates this sort of sound. It’s a fossil from a music scene long ago, but I find value in it. The patrons who come in here everyday seem to. They all have stories of their own, but they all hone in through how I can tell it.”
“How do you mean?”
Dogpoo took to finishing out the tune before he answered, ending on a strum back up the keyboard, and a singular bass note.
“The brain is like a sponge, David. We learn from what we see. We can jot it down, flavor it with our own feelings and convictions. But at that point, what we see becomes a product of our own. You probably take that tune just then a whole universe away from how I take it. I look out to those people there,” Dogpoo turned in his seat to look out at the patrons, “and what I’ll gather is a whole world away from what they really have going on tonight.”
“Well, the piano is a much more free medium than the newspaper.”
“Of course, but you bring a lot to the table anyway. Do you play? You strike me as a creative fellow, like myself.”
“Oh- a little. I couldn’t tell you what all of that meant,” David chuckled nervously as he gestured to the sheet music. “I have practiced a tune, though.”
Dogpoo gestured to come closer, sliding a little bit down the bench so David had some room. His soft, chill expression didn’t change, but the smile gave off an energy David couldn’t quite refuse to accept. He did briefly turn to see the bartender staring the two down, but tried his best to compose himself. Compose his memory of the tune, where everything went, where his fingers needed to be. How much repetition, which hand does what.
“Don’t stress it,” Dogpoo assured through the fast traffic in David’s head. “Good music just comes from within you, and whatever you expel to the rest of us.”
[4]
David took a deep breath. He settled his foot over the sustain pedal, placing his hands down onto a certain section near the middle of the keyboard. A certain set of movements with certain fingers commenced, bringing to life the tune. David’s focus and gaze were hard pressed to the keys, swaying through the triangular formation he memorized to make it happen. There were surely chord names for this, but he didn’t know them by heart.
It’s all patterns, see. A lot of things are: human behavior, the design of buildings, the things people want to see and hear out of you. Memorize them, and you’ll walk comfortably.
Oh, how miserable.
Maybe that was what David was so troubled by. Of course he needs recognizable ways to go about the day, about the week. It’s very comfortable. However, it does get to a point. There’s certain things that break through the routine that get him down, but even some things a part of the routine do the same. Faces he won’t look into, and who probably didn’t think to look back at him either. Conversations he knows happens but will never enter into. Someone’s got an appointment at the dentist and needs to call off work. Another has a birthday party to go to soon. Someone’s grumbling about needing to do a grocery run. Another is thinking of heading with a different network in the city. Someone has a vacation planned in a couple of months. Another is simply thinking to take it easy and smoke some pot.
Oh there’s a lot David will remember yet have no need for. If only he felt someone could think of him in the same way.
His breathing was a little shallow, lamenting about the mundanity of his days and the sweetness of such an expressive evening as today. Towards the conclusive segment of the tune, Dogpoo did bring a hand to rest on his back, picking up on his harsher breathing. The melancholy oozed from this part.
It was like looking up into the sky of a sunset, feeling as if another day was wasted. You have to walk back home, or drive, passing by people on the streets prepared to have another night for the memory books. You didn’t plan on anything, and sporadically waltzing into a club or something was not on the table. So you head home, lay in bed. Perhaps you’ll pick up a book, or look through notes from work. You’ll be back there tomorrow.
Being alone with himself gets him in places like this.
David slowly descended down a sequence of lower notes, not nearly as graceful sounding as Dogpoo’s playing before. It was like walking down the stairs, as opposed to Dogpoo’s flurry of raindrops in a storm, rocking the surface of a pond or lake.
“Don’t think I’ve heard that one before.”
He spoke up, with intrigue in his voice.
“Where’d you learn that?”
“Oh, it was… a song I saw someone play through a number of times. I wanted to play it too, but- I’m not very musically inclined like you.”
“You’d have me fooled if you didn’t say that,” Dogpoo chuckled.
“It’s a lot of pattern recognition, for me. At least- with that song. I really like it.”
“I picked up on what you were doing. Thinking of chords as patterns is certainly how you’re meant to take it. Though, it’s always nice to improvise, try new things.”
Dogpoo moved his hands forward, playing between a modulation of chords that once again, made David feel completely floored in comparison.
“Patterns, patterns. You’re a very rule-minded one, aren’t you? Yet you play with such a heart. Not everyday you get a mix of those things.”
“I didn’t think so,” David sighed. “I feel very out of place, even without putting it that way.”
“I’d say you should cherish that. Sticking out like a sore thumb ain’t always bad. Look at me,” Dogpoo chuckled. “I think it’s a great thing. You just need to have some faith.”
Dogpoo flipped through a few pages of sheet music, stopping on a certain set, and eyeing the notes a bit close up. His hands shaped in certain ways and hovered over certain places. He looked back down, and with one hand gestured to a certain section of things up the keyboard for David.
“Play with me,” Dogpoo nodded towards the higher parts. “These formations, here. Like this,” his hand seemed to shift between a series of three formations. David attempted to gather all of that as best as he could.
“In that order, they work as a sequence. But play what you think fits. You got quite the bountiful noggin’,” he chuckled. David smiled a little, but bowed his head a little in shame. He pushed his glasses back up his nose bridge, and had both hands fix over his designated section of the piano. He played between them a little, just to get a brief feel for something out of them.
[5]
The nervousness of eyes upon them had vanished at this point. David almost completely forgot about it. The one prevailing sense though, was smell. Dogpoo smelt kind of bad. Though, maybe it was from a long day of work, whatever it is he does. Maybe it’s a laborious job, or something outside. David gets overwhelmed by his own senses sometimes, so he couldn’t imagine it.
Dogpoo had been laying down a repeat of a chord before David thought to start on something.
His touches felt a lot more sporadic, misdirected compared to Dogpoo’s hand. Though like he said, it has to be his own doing here.
David treated this like adding accents to the first layer of sound. Like a singer accompanying keys and a bass. David was no singer, his voice probably sounded no good beyond the level of a whisper. He wrote more creative poetry in his spare time, but nothing lyrical. The notes though, these spoke for him.
Now, David wasn’t ever going to get to a point of being able to play with his eyes closed. He still very intently stared into the keys, especially as he managed a short flurry of notes. It was a bit clunky, but he tried. There didn’t feel like much of a way to mess up, so long as he was attached to the motions that Dogpoo was laying down.
Another shot at a flurry, ascending up and down the keyboard with both hands at the ready. It’s quite unique to need two sets of hands for a tune, so this certainly felt and sounded like one.
There was a hopefulness to this arrangement, something that definitely would elevate the mood David had set before. It seems that this helped to sweat out some of the funk he was in, but still some remained like a heavyweight on his back. Though just for this short number, David let a lot of his own heart flow. Dogpoo noticed, looking towards his face as it seemed a lot more soft.
Dogpoo did find a way to tie the knot on the tune, ascending up the keyboard in a romantic flurry of notes. David lifted his hands off from the keys as he did this, but did reach to hit just one note at the very top to close.
“Again, would’ve fooled me,” Dogpoo reassured.
“I think I got pretty bold there,” David chuckled.
“Absolutely. But that’s the thing, you don’t get anywhere without taking a few risks, am I right?”
“Risks can sometimes guarantee hurt.”
“But they’re known to come with reward, too. You much of a risk taker?”
“Not… usually.”
“Hm. You ought to. Maybe you’ll find a better place that way. Or at the very least, find a new pattern.”
“Maybe…”
David did stand up from the piano bench now, allowing Dogpoo to slip back into place. Before he walked away though, he reached into his pocket and for his wallet. He extended forth a $20 bill.
“Thank you. For- letting me do that. And for your service.”
“I’m here every night, in case you plan to come by again,” Dogpoo held a chord as he took the bill, tucking it into one of his pockets. “If you brush up your skills, maybe you could handle a set.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You seem very seasoned, and the people seem to like you, enough to where- my coworker told me about this place and you specific—,”
“David,” Dogpoo cut him off, holding another chord still. “What did I say about risks? They come with rewards. Don’t hold yourself from them. Plus, it’s just a suggestion. I reckon you could use a change of pace from what you’ve told me just tonight.”
He turned back around to the piano, and carried along a tune. This one is a bit more energetic, yet bluesy.
David took this as his cue to sit down, and get back to admiring from afar.
Though, he didn’t stay long after finishing a second glass of water. He was getting hungry, and everywhere would probably either be packed or closing if he stayed longer. He returned the water glass to the front, and simply left with his bag back over his shoulder.
He will certainly be coming back. Though, David still doubted there was much of a story for the piano man to grasp out of him. The mundanity of it all. He’d probably have to try and take a risk before coming back. Oh, the shame of not learning such a valuable lesson here. Plus, Dogpoo is a face and name he won’t forget, either.