88 KEYS - 20-Minute Prose Exercise

Here’s my 20-minute prose exercise for today. If you’d like to share yours, you can email me here. I’m working on getting a place to share them publicly (anonymously) on here if that’s something you’d like. If not, I’m happy to provide private feedback via email.

88 KEYS

The old man’s fingers shook, arthritis flaring up again. He looked over at Leah hustling behind the bar. Then he looked over at John and Toby. They were his family. The patrons were his best friends. Time had snuck up on him.

How could this be the last night?

He took a deep breath as Faith approached the microphone and started to sing that old Peggy Lee song. His fingers began to dance across the eighty-eight keys. It was the only time youth graced them anymore.

Just a little longer, he thought. Hold on just a little longer.

After Faith was Kristen. Her song was even more upbeat. His fingers handled the tempo with ease.

Chris crooned three or four back to back, and when he broke for water or to flirt with the crowd, the old man vamped and played on, sweat trickling down his temples and cheeks.

"Encore,” the patrons shouted.

With a wink and a laugh, Chris turned to the old man. “Play it again, Sam,” he said, his voice ringing.

And play Sam did. Song after song for singer after singer.

Keep going, he thought. You got this. His heart pounded harder and harder in his chest.

Hours had passed, and the stamina that had aided him all night was fleeting.

“Are you all right?” John asked him. “Need me to take over?”

“Nah,” said Sam. “I’m fine.”

John patted his friend on the back and started to join his patrons.

“Say, John?” Sam called after him.

“Yeah?”

Sam hesitated. “You know, I’ve been playing here for going on fourteen years now, and there’s something I’ve never done, and I was wondering…”

“What is it?”

“Would it be all right if I sang here tonight?”

John’s eyes widened. “You’ve never sung here before?”

“Not once,” Sam said. “But I thought maybe I should before… you locked it up for the last time.”

Tears welled in John’s eyes. “Sammy, of course you can.”

The two men embraced each other, emotions high.

“Say,” a drunken man said from the other end of the piano. “Can one of you play Piano Man? I’ll sing it, but the piano’s gotta be real good.” His words slurred into mush.

Sam and John rolled their eyes a little. It’s a song they’d heard requested countless times over the years, but it was seldom sung well.

Before Sam could say anything, his left hand quivered with a vengeance. He excused himself to the restroom, splashing water on his face, doing his best to relax and recenter himself. The anxiety had outpaced the arthritis now.

C’mon, Sammy, keep it together, he thought.

Once he returned, many of the patrons were leaving. It was almost closing time. If he was going to do it, he had to do it right then and there.

He sat at the weathered, baby grand and held his hands out in front of him. They were still shaking far more than he would’ve liked.

“For our final night,” John began his introduction, “we have a special treat. Our very own Sammy Miller is going to accompany a debut vocal talent: himself.”

The patrons applauded and roared cheers of encouragement.

Sammy watched them all, tears filling his eyes. Get ahold of yourself, he thought. It could happen any second now. Are you going to sing or not?

And so, he started to play. It was an old jazz number he’d heard his father play all those years ago. And when Papa Miller sang that song, they said, he blew the roof off the place.

Sam sang. He bared his soul for all to hear that night. Not a single wrong note came from his voice or fingers. When he was done, the crowd cheered and whistled and clapped.

“I just wanna say,” Sam said as the crowd quieted down, “how nice its been playing for you all these years. Never once did I take the chance to sing for you here, though, and I’m glad I did before…” he glanced at John and Toby, the both of them crying, “before last call. Because now I can say that I, too, sang here at the Public House.”

Cheers and toasts abounded as Sammy vamped some more on the piano. He’d carry on as long as he could, as long as it took to comfort them all. He wondered if any of them would feel it when it happened. If they’d have any moment of realization or a final encore of memories.

But he figured it didn’t really matter, not anymore. Not at the end of the world.

And so he played. And they sang and drank and hugged and laughed. And he played, all across those eighty-eight keys right until the end.