It was nine o' clock on a Saturday. The regular crowd shuffled in. An old man was hunched over at a table in a shabby old pub next to me, making love to his tonic and gin. He had glasses with lenses too thick for the frames. His hair was gray and thin. His hands weathered and worn. But when he looked up at me he had the brightest blue eyes I'd ever seen.

He cleared his throat and swished around the gin in his glass. "Hey there, son," he chirped. His voice was deep and rough, like an ocean. "Can you play me a song?"

It wasn't a crazy question. I was seated at the piano. I didn't really work at the pub. I'm not even sure why they had a piano. As a regular, I knew that it was never played. But the old man's eyes were so sad. So literally blue—I just couldn't say no. I set down my drink and swung my legs over the bench so I was facing the ivory keys. I glanced over my shoulder.

The old man smiled at me softly. Then he looked down at his old bomber jacket, that probably used to be brown.

"Anything in mind?" I asked, unsure. If he gave me anything too specific, I probably wouldn't know it. I didn't really like classical, but I could play a few jams.

The older man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. It was embroidered around the edges in red white and blue, but from the way he held it you could have sworn it was inlaid with diamonds.

He said:

"Son, can you play me a memory? I'm not really sure how it goes..." He paused, and stared at the quiet pub. "But it's sad and it's sweet, and I knew it complete; when I wore a younger man's clothes."

At first I thought the poor guy had gone senile, but then I remembered it. I turned to the piano and started to play. It had been a while. My fingers missed a few keys in the beginning, but the old man just kept on staring at my back. I knew, because I could feel it. That sad blue stare was boring into my back. Then there was a creek and the thud of a cane. The man was standing next to me, watching my hands move over the piano. The pub was never really loud, but now it was dead silent. I was playing fast now. Every so often I'd miss a note. But I didn't stop. I played out the winding, twisting upbeat tune. I don't know why I wanted to so bad. But I did.

A few other customers gathered around the old piano, chatting excitedly. I still had it, I was still good. Then someone who had a few too many drinks began to sing.

"Sing us a song, you're the piano man!" He shouted. He was off key, and a few of his friends chuckled to each other. But then someone else joined in, and the the whole bar was singing.

"Sing us a song tonight! Well we're all in the mood for a melody, and you got us feeling alright!"

The old man sang the loudest. He wasn't the best. His voice was still scratchy and worn, but he still had that handkerchief clasped in the hand his cane wasn't in. He was waving it about like a flag, traces of tears pouring out of those sad blue eyes.

Now John at the bar is a friend of mine
He gets me my drinks for free
And he's quick with a joke or to light up your smoke
But there's someplace that he'd rather be
He says, "Bill, I believe this is killing me."
As the smile ran away from his face
"Well I'm sure that I could be a movie star
If I could get out of this place

And the waitress is practicing politics
As the businessmen slowly get stoned
Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness
But it's better than drinkin' alone

The song ended, and everyone hooted at their good fun. But the old man turned to me with tears on his cheeks and clasped both his hand and the handkerchief over my shoulder. "Thank you, son. I needed that. To remember a few things."

I nodded. "Uh...if it wouldn't be too much trouble, can I have your name?"

The old man smiled. "It's Alfred. Alfred F. Jones."

With that he turned away from me and began to hobble towards the door. I watched him go, before I was enveloped with requests for other songs.

…

It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday. And the manager gives me a smile. 'Cause he knows that it's me they've been comin' to see to forget about life for a while.
And the piano, it sounds like a carnival. The microphone smells like a beer. And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar and say, "Man, what are you doin' here?"

I always say that I'm here in case someone comes back for something they left behind. They never ask who or what. They always tell me to play the next song, grab a beer, and forget about my life.

But the handkerchief always sits on the piano in case Alfred F. Jones ever comes back for it.

But I don't think he will.

The song is called "Piano Man" by Bill Joel. It's a classic and you must listen to it.

Sorry for any mistakes. I'm American.