It's nine o'clock on a Saturday
The regular crowd shuffles in
There's an old man sitting next to me
Makin' love to his tonic and gin
It wasn't what you'd call a high scale place, but then again the archaic clubs weren't expected to be laden with the latest amenities; there were still partially full bottles of liquor in every rainbow color sitting in neat rows behind the bar. These places were about history, reminiscing when times were easier, when mobile suits were nothing more than fantasies in video games and science fiction movies. This was where you came to forget about everything in real life for a few hours and pretend to live in easier times, dreaming of low tech life to the persuasive sounds of a lone piano; nothing complicated, just lilting, soft ambiance. One almost expected a man in a white tuxedo to come strolling out of the back, introduce himself as Rick and engage you in a conversation about lost love and Paris, but things like that only happen in movies.
He says, "Son, can you play me a melody?
I'm not really sure how it goes
That's not why I went there. I had no romantic notions pulled from ancient colorless films. For me it was an escape, a sanctuary away from the prying public eyes; everyone looking for something and finding nothing; less than nothing because there was nothing to find. No, I wasn't shedding tears over the General's death; I didn't have any left. No, I wasn't going to give away some great state secret about the next big political summit. No, I wasn't seeing anyone nor did I have plans to in the foreseeable future. However, you can't tell the press to fuck off and leave you alone. It's considered bad manners. Oddly enough, I might not have been looking for some of the more romantic ideas that the early movie stars cherished in their roles, but one exquisitely mysterious star did get it right when she said, "I want to be alone." That was my reason, but most definitely not what I found.
But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"
One of the other girls told me about this place. It was tucked away, only really mentioned in tourist books for its historic significance; one of the few remaining of its kind. Classic, historical, and unassuming; the perfect place to try and recapture what anonymity I had in my youth. As a lady, it's easy to be overlooked, but put yourself in the middle of a war...others look. Maybe that's why I found him there.
There are few people in this world that have more to forget than him, perhaps only five others, and even fewer that have as of a hard time disappearing. Still, to find him sitting behind the glossy baby grand, with completely restored ebony and ivory keys, according to the guidebook, coaxing a tinkling melody out of the black monster was a shock. Probably almost as much as seeing me sitting at the bar drinking something amber and hard out of a tumbler had done to him. That was evident on his face, followed by the...joy of seeing someone familiar.
Now John at the bar is a friend of mine
He gets me my drinks for free
The piano is the centerpiece to the bar, not by putting it on a raised dais or sticking it in a spotlight but by placing, perhaps, a single extra lamp over it. It had an infinitesimal amount of extra light, not noticeable by any stretch of the imagination, but just enough to draw attention to the monstrous instrument and the blond manipulating it. I place a bill on the counter, to take care of the drink and the correct amount extra, and move to the stools around the baby grand, sliding into a seat with a smile. I've been told my smiles can warm a heart or chill a spine, but I've never put much faith into that. Those were fake, the ones I use on the press to manipulate situations. This one was real, the kind you save for the people you really want to see. "Quatre Winner, this is the last place I expected to find you."
And he's quick with a joke or to light up your smoke
But there's someplace that he'd rather be
"I could say the same to you," he replied, cheekiness apparent in his voice.
"Ah ,but I'm a patron," I replied, "I thought you'd be working behind a desk somewhere..."
"Well, when your family disowns you..."
"Yes, I suppose so..." I half expected a certain amount of regret in his eyes at the statement, but only found a proud...defiance, for lack of a better word, shining there.
"Besides, it could be worse," he sighed wistfully. "But I can't complain, its better than playing the calliope." That got a full chuckle from me.
"So the rumors are true. You did run off with the circus!"
"Yes, complete with a loving clown, but the moving got to me, so I settled. They rest here in the off-season.
He says, "Bill, I believe this is killing me." As the smile ran away from his face
"You still haven't said why you're here?" he asks. His eyes don't focus of the keyboard and yet in never falters. Even after all my years of forced practice, I couldn't do that.
"Escape."
"Oh well then you have the wrong drink. You need a Pina Colada." I must have looked at him funny because he laughed. I'm amazed how his voice has deepened in these last few years. It looks like puberty finally caught up with him. "It's an old song that one of the regulars makes me play while he sings," he drops his voice to almost a whisper and leans towards me, "badly." Straitening up again he smiles, "But it grows on you."
"So why here?" I know he understands the context, he always seems to.
"Ambiance."
"Yes, it is ambient."
"So whatever is it that you're escaping m'lady?" He twinkles up a chromatic scale with that cheeky look again.
"Life," I sigh into my drink.
"Too many pictures?"
"Too many pictures."
"Well I'm sure that I could be a movie star
If I could get out of this place"
"Well, the press never finds their way into here," he sighs. It's a redundant statement; no paparazzi would face the menacing looking thug at the door just for a few pictures. "It makes for a relaxing work environment."
"I would suppose so," I reply lightheartedly. Even in my most breezy moments the sentiment comes out conniving, years of practiced indifference does that to a person.
"So how did you discover our little establishment?"
"Friends."
"Friends in the political sphere or in a more personal relationship?"
"Both."
"Ah, I think I know who you mean. She was in here a few months ago. The bartender kept asking who that cute blonde talking with me was. I couldn't believe he didn't know."
"Is he living under a rock?"
"No, just no TV. A lot of people here are like that. There's no need for the latest news stories."
Now Paul is a real estate novelist
Who never had time for a wife
And he's talkin' with Davy who's still in the navy
And probably will be for life
"So how are the others?" There's no wonder his brandy snifter is full, he's not only a wonderful musician but he'd make a damn good bartender.
"Fine the last I heard. They're all busy."
"But you talk with them regularly?"
"Wufei, yes, at least once a month. Heero…almost as much as Trowa. Duo only gets a chance to call once in a while, but he sends letters."
"And Trowa?"
"Almost everyday, depending on if the circus is traveling or not."
"I'm surprised Heero Yuy calls more then Maxwell."
"Heero's learned the importance of friends in the last few years. He's trying not to estrange anyone."
"That's a good lesson." His fingers dance along the keys in a complicated embellishment on an old tune.
"I think so." He smiles three fingers full of sincerity onto pearly white ice and offers it all to me.
And the waitress is practicing politics
As the businessmen slowly get stoned
"I take it you're doing well in that department?" he asks as unobtrusively as possible.
"In which, the friends or the life lessons?"
"Either."
"Fine in both. Although I'll give you a piece of advice: never trust politically minded men."
"I don't think we'll have a problem there." The conversation dies for a moment. If I strain I can hear the soft pads of the hammers clinking against the strings. It almost sounds like a marshmallow hitting the ground. "Bad relationship?" he asks as cynically as he could possible be.
"Very bad."
"I'm sorry."
Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness
But it's better than drinkin' alone
"It's fine. He's out of my life now." It's hard to keep the dark edge off my voice; this is a road that I don't want to be going down. "So what's the weather like around here?" I can see the recognition in his eyes; he was the tactician of their little group, he understands evasive maneuvers.
"Hot and humid."
"I thought you like it hot, Quatre of Arabia." He looks at me oddly, either for the old movie reference or the unintentional innuendo. Either way he quirked an eyebrow at me, in an expression that would have looked silly on his childish face but on his mature, masculine one, it was almost sexy.
"Yes, but I don't like to eat my air."
"Well, they always say 'it's not the heat that'll kill you, it's the humidity.'"
"I thought you were more original then that."
"I am when I'm sober. Which reminds me, I need another drink." I start to turn to catch the eyes of the waitress making her rounds.
"Let me, m'lady," he interrupts before motioning to the bartender with his head. The other man obviously understood the sharp jerk because he began to make me a new cocktail.
"So, when is your loving clown due back to port?"
"A few more months."
"A few more months of a lonely bed?"
"Yes," he replies contritely, "but I don't mind. I'd kick him out anyway in this weather, it'd be too hot." I can't help but laugh at that.
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
Another drink appears in front of me, put there by the unobtrusive waitress. That's the way servers should be, especially if you're in a conversation. "Would you have ever thought, during that first war, that you and I would be here having a friendly conversation?"
"Not until that last battle. Until then I thought you would have killed me rather than speak civil words to me."
"Back then, I would have."
"But things change, and people change with them."
"Trying to sound sage to the drunk person?"
"You're not that drunk."
"You're right, I'm not." I pause, thinking of how to phrase this next question, starting intently at the clear cubes floating in my amber drink. "Did you mean what you said back then…when we fought?" I look up and find him starting at me in amusement.
"You remembered that all these years."
"It stayed with me."
"Yes, I did mean it and I still do. You are kinder than me. I'm still just a selfish little brat used to getting my own way."
And the piano, it sounds like a carnival
And 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?"
The conversation changed then, someone else joined us at the piano, full of liquor and vibrato. Quatre smiled at him with some recognition, but not the same…delight he had with me. I found out as the night progressed why. I also got to hear just how badly that man sang the song about Pina Coladas and getting caught in the rain.
Our discourse morphed from the soul-bearing catching up to light teasing. Friendly and jovial, nothing mean spirited, like it could have been. It made for a nice escape, a small vacation from the callous grind of political conferences, but it had to end. I had an early morning and he had a long night ahead. I bid him good evening around ten, taking with me another three-finger smile and a "come again."
As I headed away from the bar the last words of our sincere and open conversation rang with me. Perhaps I was too kind, too nice to the world. Maybe I did give too much, leave myself to be walked all over, but it's what I am. What I always will be, and somehow he made it all right.
Sing us a song you're the piano man
Sing us a song tonight
For we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feeling all right.