He laments that the kids today don’t drink egg creams anymore. The kids think they’ve passed him by.
Late at night, when the notes of the piano can’t be heard above the din of nightlife down below, he pecks out his tunes. Not often does he play with one hand, listening to the call and response of the keys. He knows what he’s after, and he likes the bass notes in the left hand.
The sweet simplicity of an egg cream.
Blues for Morris Park.
His children say he plays
the piano, and they have no idea there’s much more to it. There’s a communion there, what he calls a happy suicide.
The art is in the creation, children, he thinks, not on the video channels. Melody is his muse, and when the keys come together as they are fated, it truly is transcendent.
Like hitting a baseball just right.
The creation within, as close as he comes to thinking of a higher power. Lord, there must be something that allows me to do this.
The street rarely gets quiet, and in those hours between 3-5 a.m., the cops keep things buzzing by racing around the building in their search for customers. The finest.
Day will come, and he will return to the American world of commerce and spite, immigration and children. The cycle continues. His contributions unheard but unmistakable.
The eternal toil of the solitary man.