I sit down, feeling the foam-lined innards of the bench cave beneath me. There’s a small degree of adjustment required; I scoot forwards slightly, settle myself, straighten my back, and shift my right foot forward, so that it is prepared to press down onto the pedal. My shoulders kick back a notch, and I tilt my head from side to side to stretch the thin muscles that reside in my neck. I know I shouldn’t do it, but the temptation is too great, and I crack my fingers anyway. This is not necessary for success, but for some reason, it makes me feel more prepared. I settle my hands onto the shiny, polished wood, pausing for a moment and getting my bearings. I always do this, partially because it focuses my thoughts, and partially because it looks more dramatic and professional, I think. My fingers brush over the keys, and I begin.
Evenings are always like this. I’m alright with that. I don’t know what I’d do otherwise. The hotel is nice-at least, I think it is-and the people are friendly, though that might be a job requirement. They always greet me when I come in, and ask me if I need anything, and about how my day is going. I usually say the same thing; “No, that’s alright,” and, “My day is going well. How is yours?”
People say I’m charming, but I don’t really think so. For one thing, I’m not very good with people. I’ve never had to be. They usually leave me alone, and I just do what I need to. For another, I suspect that people believe me to be charming partially because they’re surprised that I live alone and have a job, and mainly because they pity me.
I don’t know why. My life is the same as anyone else’s. I wake up in the morning, shower, get dressed, eat, maybe run some errands, take Zeus on a walk, practice, and head down to the hotel so I’m there by lunchtime. I’ll play for an hour or so during the lunch rush, and people come and listen in the lobby with their coffee, or in the restaurant with their meals. After that, I get a free meal in the restaurant, and I might read a book or go for a walk before the dinner hour. Then, it’s back to the piano for the evening, my fingers dancing softly in the background, creating the atmosphere that people expect a four-star hotel to have as they mill about in the lobby, waiting for taxis or drinks or friends.
Once I’m done, I’ll walk home. Maybe ride the bus if it’s raining, which it does a lot in Seattle. Zeus is always waiting for me at the door. He’s not allowed to come to the hotel, which I find ridiculous, but my boss made that very clear. It’s alright; Zeus gets nervous in large crowds, though usually no one can tell. He’s a professional.
I’ll make some coffee and a sandwich, sit down with Zeus, and listen to the cars going by on the streets below, or the rain plinking on the windowsill, like the strings in the lid of a piano. I always equate things to music; it helps me think, and music is the one thing I can visualize. I think that’s because music isn’t something you can see, so I’m able to look at what everyone else does. I’m the same then.
My life is very routine, very organized. It has to be. If even one thing is misplaced, it could mess up my entire day. I could put on a bright orange tie with a lavender shirt. Or wear a black shoe with a brown shoe. Or accidentally turn the gas oven on too high, or put bleach in my cereal, or a whole number of other things.
This won’t happen, though. I’m too careful, and Zeus is always watching out for me.
Zeus is a German shepherd. Everyone tells me he’s a beautiful dog, and I definitely think so, even if there’s no way for me to know for sure. I would love him even if he wasn’t, though. He saved my life, and I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have him. Get by, I suppose, but life is infinitely better when Zeus is there.
Tonight is no different from any other. My fingers trace well-loved and thoroughly memorized patterns, skipping along arpeggios and trilling up and down the keys. There seems to be more movement in the hotel than usual, so I throw in some Rachmaninoff along with the usual quiet Mozart and Yiruma. Sometimes I can sense people standing nearby, watching me, but I’m too caught up in my playing to acknowledge them. They clap occasionally, or put some money in the jar I have on the piano lid.
The bustle in the hotel settles down as I finish my set. It’s getting late, and most people have either gone out to start their weekend, or they have gone up to bed. I yawn as I hit a final chord, letting the notes flow into the air and fade slowly. I didn’t get much sleep last night, and I’m looking forward to my warm comforter and the feeling of Zeus snoring at my feet.
I close the lid of the piano, fiddling with its lock until I hear it click into place. I stand, grab my jar and cane, which has been resting under the piano, and turn, my feet leading me outside. The streets are still busy, no matter how quiet the hotel lobby is. I swing my cane a bit carelessly. I know these sidewalks like the back of my hand; nothing will surprise me.
Nothing usually does. But tonight, out of the blue, I collide with something warm and soft, that makes a surprised shrieking noise. I have no idea how I missed the fact that I was about to run into someone. I’m typically much better than that. I wish for Zeus.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I didn’t mean to-”
“What the hell?” A very angry female voice says, “You made me spill coffee all over my new shoes!”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, “But I couldn’t-”
She doesn’t let me finish. “Can’t you watch where you’re going?”
I feel irritation rising in my chest, and before I can get a grip on my thoughts, I snap, “No, actually. Can’t you stop being a judgmental asshole?”
The woman gasps, and I hear her open her mouth to say something else, and I can pinpoint the exact moment that she realizes.
“Oh my god,” she says, “You’re blind!”
“Thank you,” I mutter drily, “I hadn’t noticed.”
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