Well I haven't written anything in a long time! I've been looking at my old stuff, and man, is it bad. I did this for my English Class this year- the assignment was to write a scene in The Catcher in the Rye from another character's perspective, and I thought Ernie would be an interesting character to do. How does Holden know Ernie doesn't have self awareness? We all have our own internal monologues, parts of which are never expressed on the outside. I hope I did Ernie's character justice. Enjoy!
The lights will be dimmed in almost two minutes. Even though I've had this club for twenty years, I still check every little thing. My picture with Ellington in its gilded frame, the polished oak tables jammed together, the raised stage with the grand piano, the keys calling out to me saying "play me!" No one will notice anything besides the stage and their drinks tonight, though. I mean, they never do. The lights go down so low that all these aspiring socialites and prep-school kids roam around like bats, right, bumping into each other with a slurred "sorry".
I never thought I'd end up here. After my father died, I thought I'd never be able to reach my dream- being the most famous piano player in the entire world. I mean, you know, that stuff doesn't exactly happen too often. I always wanted to be in the big leagues, but my father's- you know, I don't really want to think about it anymore. Luckily, I don't have the choice because the first people come in. I crack my signature crooked smile, open my large shoulders, and let out a low, rumbling chuckle as I stride over. I mean, you got to be relaxed when you meet these people, excited to see them. You have to play into their grand self-images.
You know, when people talk about the music industry, they don't really talk about it. I mean, you see all these big stars, but you don't see how they got there, right? I'll tell you. It's not just talent- it's connections. That was one of the worst parts, you know, realizing that these people who I hated and went out of my way to avoid were going to be the reason that I succeeded. I mean, imagine that!
These people lead such terrible lives. They come in with their fake personalities, fake sincerity, and prejudice, and- they want to see an underdog make his way to success, right, but not this underdog. I get their little game, and I've decided to play it. My smile flashes as brightly as their jewelry, and I make my way over.
"John!" I say. My voice is exactly how I want it to be: slow, deep, smooth, and not at all what it usually is. It's fake, it's one of my pieces I use to play the game. I look over to his wife, Marianne, a wrinkled yet fancy little woman. I smile, and she returns the favor briefly before her eyes continue scanning the room- it's because she wants to be seen at my little club. I know that when she goes to her women's group on Monday afternoon she's going to brag "I went to the most marvelous little jazz club last week with my darling John. It was grand! You all simply have to go." It doesn't matter if she enjoys herself tonight. I mean, anything to make herself seem better than her little friends, in their little group, in their little world. Unbearable, right?
"It's great to see you. Need a drink?" I ask. I clap my hand on his shoulder, trying not to see him hide his flinch, trying not to see him shrink back from my friendly touch.
"I'm fine, thanks Ernie," he says.
I have one of my guys lead him to a table as others start to come in. I only try to talk to the ones who look self-important. You know, it's not because I want to, but because I have to. I mean, you know what I said earlier, I'm playing the game. I want to win, but in order to do that, I can only talk to the people who can help me advance my career. I can't stand these people, right, but John over there helped me get money to buy this club. Edward helped me get the piano and the lights, Howard got me a well-known bartender. These people are the reason that I'm here, and the only way I can stay here. So, I need to be this different person with them, see, I need to play their game as well as I play the piano. The worst part is, I can always tell how fake I'm being. I hate myself for it.
As soon as the incoming crowd starts to taper off, I go to my piano. I stand in front of everyone and do a little wave. The crowd really goes wild for it, and I internally groan. "I'm an entertainer," I tell myself, "I'm the show, I have to do this." I keep my big smile on my face and start off with a big, flashy number. As the night goes on I can allow myself to relax. After I finish every piece, I get up and take a bow. I make sure to keep a nice, relaxed face on when I play because I have this big mirror. John thought it would be good for business, a gimmick of sorts. I'm not too sure about that, but it hasn't seemed to hurt. Once I've played for a while, the piano becomes background noise, you know. I ignore the chatter in the audience and let my mind wander.
I usually have some water in a glass next to me, but I don't really ever drink it. I mean, I don't really need to- the number of people I need to talk to is small, and, I mean, playing doesn't wear me out. But tonight, because there are more people than usual, I'm pretty thirsty. I take a long sip, and it immediately wakes me up. After my next number and bow, I suddenly become more self-aware. I see myself from an on-looker's perspective. I see my bow, the mindless audience clapping, everything all at once. It overloads my senses, you know, and for a brief, almost unnoticeable moment, I lose my composure. I'm no longer Ernie, the self-made businessman living his dream- I'm Ernest, a coward, making stupid excuses for all of his bad behavior. My hands are playing a faster melody now, intricate and showy and- and desperate. I throw in ripples and scales. I mean, I always play this way when I'm overwhelmed- it helps me escape from everything. I just focus on my hands.
I'm calmed down now, thankfully. My reflexes have kicked in- I mean, you don't come as far as I have without having quick reflexes. I tune the piano out again, and, you know, because I can hear everyone in the audience in the first place, my senses are really heightened after that little spiral. I hear this one guy and I don't even have to see him to know his type. Privileged prep-school to college to Wall Street kind of guy. Sure, he'll work hard to support his family, but everything is going to be handed to him. He'll never have to really work, and yet he constantly complains about his problems without any self-awareness. They always talk about the most shallow things, these people, but what this guy is saying really catches my attention.
"This guy Eddie in my dorm, right, just decides to quit it all," he says. "I'm talking suicide. The poor, callow guy, takes a bottle of aspirin," his date interrupts him with a gasp. She's probably as shocked as I am by how casually he's saying this. He's talking about young Eddie without a care in the world but adds fake emotion and showy words because he's so damn sensitive and so damn smart. I mean, it makes me sick.
"He goes and takes them all and," he says, but I'm no longer listening to him. I can hear his date softly saying, "How horrible. Stop, darling, please, not here, no! stop!"
My heart rate jumps and my hands speed up. What the hell. He's seriously feeling her up while talking about goddam suicide! I mean, what kind of sick pervert is this guy! My new riff stops his chatter, but I'm still raging. I fall into the spiral again, deeper, and deeper. Putting up with guys like these is another part of the game. You need to play the game, remember? The notes fall into a black hole that's coming for me. I see my father with a disappointed look on his face, ready to yell at me. I see him laughing at me, the same face he had that day when he told me I couldn't do it, I could never be this famous piano player.
"Ernie," he had said, "guys like us- only a few actually make it big, and they have to suffer for years before they do. I'm telling you, don't suffer for something that has little chance of success. Do something that has no chance of failing. Your dreams are stupid."
"But I know I can do it," I said, my voice cracking. He didn't understand that I had no other option. I mean, I could never live as anything but a piano player. He shushed me.
"No buts. And stop crying. Johnson men don't cry," he said. I nodded.
I remember that he was so happy when I got my acceptance letter to Morehouse. I was miserable there, and I dropped out after two years to do music. He died pretty soon after. Until then I didn't know he had cut me out of his will. I was left all alone then, and I started to work my way up. Struggling alone on the street, the hunger for success fueled me. I was determined to play.
My mind drifts out of this state once again as I finish my piece. After I finish the next one, one of my waiters comes up to me as I'm about to take my ten-minute break. I greet him as I'm coming off the stage. In the first place, I like to treat my workers well. I mean, I know what it's like to be in their shoes. The waiter, Clark, tells me there's this guy asking me to join him for a drink. He says that he's D.B's brother. I think about the name until I remember who it is. He's that screenwriter. Just went out to Hollywood I think. The kid writes very well, I mean, I hope he makes it. I heard he's working on two different movies at the same time now. Yeah, I remember that guy. I'm trying to remember his brother when it hits me- I know this kid. He has that patch of gray hair on his head, and I just remember the look he gave me. D.B had just introduced us, right, and this kid said, "Nice to meet ya," but gave me the nastiest look. I mean, it's like he saw how I acted and hated me for it. I thought about that a lot that night- how this kid doesn't even know the real me, right, he doesn't know I'm only playing the game, but he already hates me. That really sent me on another spiral, I mean, I was thinking to myself, "I'm only playing the game to get ahead- not because I want to, right? Right?" That was a bad night. One that I can't think about again.
I thank the waiter for telling me, but I tell him to tell D.B's brother I'm too busy. I mean, that's the truth. I have songs to perform and people to talk to once I finish my set for the night. I mean, I don't have time for this kid.
Another thing makes me laugh though. I'm sitting on the bench, plinking away on the keys, when I hear his voice. D.B's brother- Henry, I think his name is. Henry, who looked at me like I was the fake, pretentious one, saying "I'm glad to've met ya" to this Navy guy. Now that's the worst right there. I smile to myself, amused by a joke only I understand. I mean, what a hypocrite! This kid came in here and mocked me, but he's the fakest one out there. That really amuses me. His words remain in my mind for the rest of the night.
After a while, the lights slowly come up, meaning that it's 6:30 am. I finish the last piece, and the remaining people, the drunkards and the loners, do their best to applaud. I take a cab back to my apartment.
Throughout the ride, I can't stop thinking about Henry and his look at me, and then what he said tonight. It makes me so mad, but, if I'm mad at him for acting all suave, right, for playing the game, then I should be mad at myself too. I mean, aren't I doing the same thing? I don't think, I mean I shouldn't, judge him if I'm doing the same thing.
Even though it's in a small building, you know, I have a pretty big apartment. I went through hell to get approved but it really does look nice. I put my key in the lock, right, and I open the door.
The large windows let in a soft light that lands on the furniture. The stainless-steel sink, the large countertops and kitchen table, the minibar- you know, all for entertaining. The doors along the hallway are all closed except for mine. I go to the bathroom with droopy eyes and stare at myself in the mirror. In my wrinkled face, exhausted after a long night of socializing and performing, I see the person and the player become one.
When I was younger, I would do anything to be where I am now. I mean, I never thought about the cost. But- now I'm really thinking, right, I mean- was it really worth it? Was it worth it to give up my personality and start playing the game? And for what, an increased salary and flashy club? I don't know, I mean I really don't. I clutch the sink, trying to stop myself from going on a spiral again.
Once again, the water wakes me up. I splash my face and look at the mirror. And then, you know, I start to laugh. Not the fake one I use with my customers. I laugh a real, full-bodied laugh for once, and my mood turns around quickly.
Am I really contemplating giving up everything I've worked for over a little doubt? Because of a kid? I mean, what am I thinking? My laugh continues as I get into bed. I know I'm still me, I'm simply a great player of the game, you know, but I still observe besides playing. I'm the same old Ernie, I am. But despite laughing at all these crazy thoughts, I still don't feel- you know, right. Suddenly, I can't bear to be on the soft bed. I throw off the sheets, the fur-lined blanket, and the pillows. I look around the room in a panic, and I feel sick when I see a deck of cards- the one I use for game nights. I throw that across the room too. I fall back onto the bare mattress, but it's still too comfortable. I wrestle myself off the bed and fall onto the floor. I fall asleep on the cold, hard ground.
The midday light coming through the window wakes me up for another day at the club. I walk in there again, but this time, I'm different. I'm going to make sure that the player and I remain two separate people.
I hope you all liked this story. I love reading reviews, so feel free to leave one! This will probably be a one-shot, but if enough people like it and want it, I would consider doing another chapter. Probably not though.
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