Piano Men

It's not that I don't like the piano, I just feel as though it haunts my days.

In the hallway at work, next to the Ballroom, rests a grand piano. It might not actually be a grand. I've never really understood the distinctions between grands and non-grands. But, I digress. People stop in all day, plop themselves on the bench and pound away on the keys.

Most of these people have a limited set list. A few bars of heart and soul, some random Christmas carols (which I detest unless it's Dec. 24 or 25) and The Entertainer. I let these selections so consume me that I cannot and will not accomplish anything until the piano men leave. Closing the door rarely helps.

I find comfort in going home to a pianoless universe. My apartment envelopes me in its warmth and way too good to be true windows...until 8 p.m. rolls around.

Around 8 p.m. each night a man rolls a piano onto Court Street under the Cross Court sign and begins to tinker. He never stops playing and thus, only plays one song the entire night. One long, tuneless song. I don't know that there is a chorus or a rhyme or reason to his stream of consciousness on the keys. What I do know is that I let it irk me more than when the sorority girls march up and down the street chanting their weird and pointless cheers.

It's almost like I'm living back in the fraternity house with the Shirtless Joes band who only had a repetoire that consisted of non-radio hits featured on Bush's "Sixteen Stone" album. Oh, those were the days.