October, 1944
A light shower tapped at the window pane, causing a comfortable droning sound on the roof of the bar. The small, one-roomed establishment was old; wallpaper peeling from the brick, chips and scuffs in the linoleum flooring, lights above glowing at a low, dim rate, flickering occasionally. Not many came, other than men who found themselves there more often than not. One in particular was there, though he never came for the brandy or the whiskey or the beer. No, he came for the music.
Money, he found once he was alone in the Big Apple, was like an annoying fly buzzing through the air: always there, always within grasp, always managing to slip through your fingers. On a particularly bad night roughly a year ago that he never would tell a soul about, he stumbled upon this safe haven. His place was not at a table, admiring the sweet melodically charming tunes coming from the ivories— No, his place was at the back of the bar, where the piano lay.
Only a few drunkenly men inhabited the bar, only a handful of workers sitting behind the bar, exchanging gossip and listening to the local idol. The rain, he could barely hear over the jazzy tune, was picking up. As he finished his piece, half of him expected a few claps, or even a holler of appreciation—an acknowledgment of any sort. But the stench of alcohol that came after the high of a performance alerted him that most likely no one was even listening. Spirits only falling more when he glanced down at the small hat on the floor he used for tips was empty, he rallied his depleting ego and racked his mind for another piece.
As he began to fall once more into the music, he could hear the soft tinkle of bells. Another man, drenched in water, rushed in, not looking at all in the mood for a drink, and quickly shut the door behind him. It was then that the performer realized he was singing. The piece the musician was playing was so etched into his mind that he let it wander. He strained his ears to hear the murmur of voices, but to no avail. Giving a brief glance, he noticed the man take a seat up front, eyes watching the songbird intently and curiously. The vocalist took note that the gray flannel suit didn't order a drink.
Song after song, and the man stayed. The rain droned on during intervals between the melody, and though the intoner could not blame the drunks for not pitching in a bit of bread, the least the career man up front could do was tip. But he stayed rooted to his seat, making no move towards the forlorn hat. It annoyed the vocalist to no end, people like him, who just sat and watched, never considering why exactly a person would be playing in a dank place like this. People with too much bread tended to be that way. It was only people who were frail that tended to appreciate the stuff.
Clearing his mind, he returned to the music, stranger forgotten.
Twenty-five cents! Twenty-five cents! He practically sang himself hoarse, and he only managed twenty-five cents. Thank God I have a full time job, he thought with relief, the idea of this being his only source of income darkening his mind.
"Ain't that a bite," one of the workers spoke up from behind the counter. He turned back to the drunk in front of him, refilling the mug. "You can always try again tomorrow."
"I got a gig tomorrow," the singer grumbled, pocketing the change and flipping on his cap.
"Yeah. You work here." The man behind the counter, barely the performer's own young age, glanced around before turning back to his friend. "Tell you what. If work's slow tomorrow, you can get fifteen minutes to give it another go
The dejected melodist shook his head slowly, not wanting to bash at his ego two days in a row. "Thanks, but—"
"Sorry, but I couldn't help overhearing." A new voice, a man's voice, interjected. "I have something for you."
Turning, he saw the stranger from earlier, arising from his seat at the table. Getting up, he smoothed his sodden suit and ran a hand through his drenched hair. Giving a small smile, he dropped a bill into the singer's hand.
"Thanks," the vocalist spoke after a moment, slightly at a loss of words due to the stranger's unpredicted action. Perhaps he was wrong about him.
"You were good out there." With that, the wet man turned away, heading for the door.
"Wait!" The other, drier, man cringed internally, hoping he didn't sound too urgent. The stranger once more faced him. "You waited for me to finish, didn't you?" He didn't want to give his hopes up, but the idea of someone other than a friend actually listening to his music made him feel good, like he had accomplished something.
But the stranger only gave a wry smile. "You can't expect me to walk around in the rain, can you? No other place was open this late. Now that the rain's let up, I figured I should go." He then turned back to the door and opened it. Just before the door closed, it swung open; this time it was the businessman's face who was urgent. "My name's Arthur Pendragon, by the way."
"Merlin." They shared a smile, and the door closed. The crooner didn't stop tycoon, but he grinned. If anything, the rain had gotten worse.
Another sweet lil' one-shot I found stashed away in my billions of notes! I might continue this if enough people enjoy it. . . .
Also, let me know if I mis-wrote anything. Writing in different eras kinda throws me off. As always, thanks for reading!
Stay awesome!
~palmtreedragons