A guest asks to play an anniversary song for his table companions.
I concede, but only because I’m at the end of my set. And sometimes, it’s just futile explaining to the militantly myopic why they can’t it have their way. I extend the man professional courtesy.
What happens next is the blatant high-jacking of my 15 minute break into a rip roaring piano bar performance like it’s one dollar beer night, replete with the mandatory Sweet Caroline and Pianoman.
Much to the chagrin of the entire restaurant, patrons and staff alike, he won’t stop. Even when told to do so.
For this very reason, I don’t normally have an open door policy. It’s an open call for disaster and damage.
But like the strangers in Paris opening up their homes to sanctuary safe space for their fellow man, I felt compelled to have a little hope myself.
I read today that a pianist set up outside the Bataclan and played Imagine for a grieving crowd.
So I will keep imagining that a gracious act of sharing my bench will return not in rampage but perhaps, a heartfelt exchange.
I know that if I close my doors out of fear, then bitterness and brutality win.