A very drunk woman said the nicest thing.
“His body is so hard but his touch on the piano is so soft.”
And just like that, I found the way back to myself, realizing that I can be many things at one time.
I can be assertive, but act kindly.
I can be independent, but express vulnerability.
I can be intuitive, but think rationally.
I can be courageous, but be humble.
I can be grateful, but have pride.
I can be loud, but always listen, quietly.
When he asked if I knew any Fats Waller, I responded with Ain’t Misbehaving in a slow sexy swing, the way I imagined a burlesque dancer would sing the tune.
“Oh, that’s different … but I guess I’m kinda ok with it,” was his critical reaction.
I just shrugged and finished playing.
I ain’t misbehaving, or sassing back.
I’m just saving all my love for more important things.
When she got off the elevator, she went straight to the bathroom.
What I found out later is that she went to the bathroom to cry.
Which made it look like I had said something completely awful to her.
Truthfully, I could have said it in a much nicer way; to not lean over the piano lid In the nook of the instrument when I’m working.
But instead, I said, “Don’t stand there because you are neither a bass player nor a singer.”
Lesson learnt.
And I apologize in advance for this and any other unkind words I might say for the remainder of competition prep.
I felt bad when she asked if I remembered her.
But when she said that we had met 4 years ago and she had never been back until now, I grew irritated.
It is completely presumptuous, I thought, to expect me to remember everyone I meet.
Especially, when in my mind, this particular lady was in no way outstanding, in looks, in song request or generosity to my tip jar.
I kept my feelings to myself, and told her that it was a pleasure to run into her again.
And then counted the amazing number of ways in which I am remembered.
