Who: Micah and Flint When: for Flint, starting a bit after 5AM, December 28th 2009 Where: C Deck - stage of the Apollon Grace Theatre What: primary coping mechanism for a frustrated (typically silent) man
Slowly, Flint eased his legs down from where he'd stretched them out on the seat in front of him, stood. His eyes flicked up, taking in the whole of the theatre. All three tiers. It was dark in the corners and not extremely well-lit where he'd been sitting and writing, halfway back on the ground level of the amphitheatre. The house lights were almost all out but someone had left a few stage lights on. An oversight from the power outage, perhaps. Someone forgot to flip the switches down.
He could see the piano. He'd been glancing up at it more and more for nearly an hour.
There were a few stools off to the side but Flint only really saw the instrument. A striking black (Baldwin?) grand piano, the top closed. High polished ebony: it gleamed. He'd always felt more comfortable with upright pianos but he wasn't in a mood to complain now. He wasn't in a mood to do much of anything, but there was the piano and he'd kept looking at it. What concert had been here? Or perhaps only a rehearsal, abandoned in the darkness of the blackout.
To the quiet, unassuming man, that last fact was more than debatable. In truth, he found his skill with a keyboard to be hit-or-miss but then he'd never been a good judge of his own talents. As a child, his mother made him take piano lessons. And he'd been reading music accurately well before the age of eight. Later: voice lessons, which he'd detested, even though he could sing. Later still: violin lessons that he'd loved. Never excelled at classical piano but throughout his life he'd developed the skill to play by ear, to learn songs and twist them into new genres.
Moving down the aisle now, rubbing his free hand over the back of his head, Flint turned as he walked. Eyes scanning the area. No one here. No one at all. Won't get a better chance. Need to relax. Music.
He limped close to the stairs leading to the platform, paused. The journal was thrown lightly, not unlike a Frisbee, to land with a flat smacking sound on the stage floor. Chocolate eyes furtively scrutinized the theatre, his gaze darting to the curtains. He waited, counting off seconds in his head, stopping when he hit a minute. If someone was going to come running at the noise, it would have happened by now. Really are alone. Flint climbed the stairs.
On stage, the single occupant of this vast space bent to retrieve his journal, carefully dusted it off. He looked out into the blackness of the orchestra pit, the seats beyond. Up to the balconies. If this place was packed, he would have been frozen in place long before now. Damn near catatonic, he acknowledged wryly. Empty, though, the theatre wasn't a threat and he was free to examine the piano at his leisure.
A Baldwin: he'd been right. A lucky guess. The journal was set on a nearby stool without much thought; he was already shaking out his hands. He rolled the sleeves of the pale blue oxford shirt he was wearing under the vest to his lightweight chocolate brown suit but didn't loosen the navy tie he'd put on without thinking. Habit. Shaking his hands, a repetitive snap of the wrist to get blood flowing better into his fingers, he refrained from cracking his knuckles.
He settled himself in front of the piano. In his mind, his emotions began to settle. It was as simple as that. His first keystrokes were hesitant, as if still waiting for someone to come running in and demand to know what he was doing there. After a few minutes, Flint didn't really have any conscious thoughts about where he was. Not in space. Not in time.
The piano was in tune; he hadn't doubted it, regardless of what he'd written in his last journal entry. An excuse to himself to make him approach. Playing part of The All-American Rejects -- It Ends Tonight (something a student introduced him to), the words bounced around his head but he didn't sing. Not yet.
Unsatisfied with his song choice, he went back in time with his music selections. Parts and bits of songs, tooled to sound a little different. He tried turning some Cole Porter selections into rock songs with disappointing results. Unsurprising, but disappointing. He had a little more success with Bobby Darin, but not much. Bringing older songs into newer formats, that wasn't what Flint was good at. The reverse...?
He managed a fairly decent jazz rendition of It's My Life, mocked himself by trying to pick out the notes Danny had been singing from Bon Jovi -- Wanted Dead or Alive. He didn't realize it but that was the first time he began to sing. "Sometimes I sleep. Sometimes it's not for days." Relaxed at the instrument, Flint was able to look back on the encounter with Danny and part of his mind began sifting through the drunken ramblings of the photojournalist.
Somehow, he stumbled into the Root Beer Rag, playing it slowly once through then playing it at the speed Billy Joel had intended. It sounded pretty good, so farther back in time he went. Jazz, ragtime, stride piano: those were his favorites. That was where Flint excelled.
He didn't know how long he played. Sometimes he sang; most times he didn't. His thoughts drifted and he wasn't paying much attention to what he was doing. He didn't notice he was singing until a few words sank into his skull: "Some fellows look and find the sunshine; I always look and find the rain." Flint came back to himself. He was playing a dirge-like version of I'm Always Chasing Rainbows. Gone too far back, came the distant thought. When was that? 1917? Can't remember.
So Flint began the Maple Leaf Rag. That, at least, didn't sound like some funeral hymn.