He had been hacked and forgotten about like the tumble weeds scraping by he was nothing of importance in the snake eyes of these shadowy strangers that loiter around. He had nothing to offer these selfish serpents that make the town so sick. A hospital ward of kinds, surrounded by people yet left alone to your own struggles.
In the middle of the dusty street that ran through the desert boomtown sat a harpsichord. Its existence was inexplicable not only in this strange stetting but by its obsolescence in modern music. None of the drifters of the town paid much attention to the instrument as it slowly decayed and fell apart. He liked to play it though. He enjoyed sitting in the middle of town as all the people watched suspiciously. Some made scared small talk but only one other person played the harpsichord as well—the Tavern Keeper. She sauntered across the street in the bright light of the mid-day sun. The years serving brutes at the tavern had been hard on her as she had grown older. He loved her as everyone in the town did. She constantly served the sinners and the liars and gave it to them with a smile; always giving. She looked beautiful as she walked over to him.
"Why sit here all alone and play this sad instrument?"
"I like it" he said with a smile "and besides you play too. Why do you stick around such a depressing instrument?"
"Well, just because it's sad doesn't mean it doesn't need friends. Are you sad?" She asked
"No. Not really."
"Because you know its true misery loves company. I come and play when I feel sad. Harpsichord and I share our sadness. That's why I ask. And your face looks so pale! Why don't you come inside for some warm strudel?"
"Thank you but I am fine."
"You should stop playing." She told him.
"Well then I would like to hear you play. You are so good."
"That is because I have had much practice." He stood up to allow her to sit when both their ears were caught by the sound of a motorcycle rolling towards town. The folks on the street heard it too. The town stopped, turned, and stared at the new arrival. Atop sat a dashing young man in a leather flyboy jacket and knee-high aviator boots, dark sunglasses, and smooth hair. The Tavern Keepers eyes lit up and running toward the man she screamed "My love!" The two embraced and you could see they were happy. Together they walked towards the tavern as the numerous town folk on the street closed in around them and stalked them into the building.
He followed inside the familiar tavern. On the walls hung numerous knick-knacks, letters, and pictures mostly of a young couple. With them in the photos were a growing family,friends, and favorite patrons as each item was a monument in the Tavern Keeper's life. The young motorcyclist was nowhere to be seen inside; just the local's familiar shifting glances that are best avoided. Except there sat an old man wearing suspenders with wiry grey hair and reading glasses smiling benevolently at the Tavern Keeper as she worked. She often looked over at him to return his smile. Not only she looked at him but the crowd that had followed the biker in stared at the old man unflinching steadily sipping their drinks.
He decided to sit with this old man and see what he was about. "Mind if I take this seat?" he asked the old man.
"If you really want to you can." He did sit and soon heard someone spitting and felt his back get wet. He turned around and saw a figure staring despicably at him. He ignored it and return to the old man. "I have never seen you around here before."
"I have always been here."
"Really? Why have I not seen you?"
"Sometimes it best not to be seen." As the old man's gaze uneasily swept the encroaching crowd.
"Why are you here now?"
"I have always been here. I guess you were too busy to notice me. And why I am here now is for my love." Raising his hand towardsthe Tavern Keeper who was walking towards him brimming with a smile, but she was stopped short by a make-up caked woman demanding vodka, and soon a crowd gathered around the bar demanding alcohol. She looked uneasily at the old man as she rushed to finish serving the ceaseless hoard of rude patrons.
"So, you know the Tavern Keeper? She is a good friend of mine I think she would have said something about you."
"A good friend?" the old man inquired "how do you know my wife?"
"Your wife...? Well, often we both play tha tharpsichord that is sitting out in the street."
"Oh, so you're that boy."
"She has mentioned me?"
"Yes, you've taken up playing the harpsichord as your little hobby. It's your little thing that makes you special. Just got to be different, everybody has got to be different, which makes you all the same."
"Are you saying I'm just like all these people?"Just then a grizzled man shouted from the adjoining table "Hey! I play the banjo asshole! What makes you so fucking special?" The grizzled man sat back in his chair as his compatriots sneered and nodded approvingly. The tension settled and he turned back to the old man who answered him,
"I think you're exactly like these people. Your selfish and self absorbed and don't have any idea what you are doing."
"Oh yeah and you gather all this because I play the harpsichord? Where the hell do you get off saying that old man? You don't have any hobbies?"
"Actually I do" The old man reached into a bag and pulled out a series of models. All handcrafted and painted painstakingly to perfection. "This here is the U.S.S Missouri. The battleship I served on in the war." A terrible hiss started to rise from the surrounding tables. The people were staring with furrowed brows, gaping mouths, all hissing at them. Over the heads of the mob he caught the eyes of the Tavern Keeper stricken with worry and panic.
On the deck of the battleship were little men with numbers on them. The old man explained, "Each number corresponds with a name onthis list" which he held in his had "they where my friends, my comrades, my brothers. We were a great generation and I will never forget them." The crowd's hisses escalated to a roar of shouting and insults. The dregs stood from their seats and began to circle the old man's table.
"Stop it! Stop it! What is wrong with all of you! What more do you need!" The Tavern Keeper screamed and ran of the tavern into the street and sat at the old harpsichord weeping.
"After the war we all worked together and we built great things. We built this nation. We built a better tomorrow. If we hadn'thave done it who would have? Like this..." pointing to a vastly complicated model of an oil refinery. Like the battleship numbers were found all over it, but instead of corresponding names was a list of towns and businesses where all the parts of thel refinery came from and who built them. This seemed to anger the crowd even more than the battleship and the taunts grew louder and they began to spit on him. "I just do know what happened to people. I don't know any of them. I almost feel responsible for this sorry generation, having brought it a world it doesn't deserve. Everybody is so selfish they let the world rot around them." The surrounding mob flew into a rage. A beer bottle was thrown and cracked upon the old mans head. Blood streamed down his face. He looked stunned then sullen and sighed remorsefully, "We all did whatwe though was right..." A brute of a man then stormed up and grabbed him by the neck and dragged him into the mob.
Then a frenzied shriek tore through the room, "The Tavern Keeper is dead! Dead on her dead husband's old harpsichord! She's dead!"The people in the tavern quickly ran out the door or just checked the windows to confirm this report then began to tear everything off the walls and steal the liquor. Walking out the doors of the tavern he stood on the porch and looked at the harpsichord with the Tavern Keeper's body strewn over it as a group of thieves stripped off her jewelry and clothing. Coming out the tavern the young motorcyclist stepped beside him and lit a cigarette. He asked the motorcyclist,
"Why did you come here?"
"Had to go somewhere. No place better. No place worse. Looking for a different time I guess"
"Are you staying?"
"No. Not this time. I'm just gonna keep on going."
"Why are you always moving? Why not stay somewhere if it's all the same." Looking over at the Tavern Keeper's body as they tore her apart limb by limb he replied,
"If I have to be alone, I'd rather be all alone."Walking to the motorcycle he saw what was left of the old man being thrown atop the harpsichord now set aflame for a pyre. Kick-starting engine on with a roar he departed on a desert road and was never seen again.
In the middle of the dusty street that ran through the desert boomtown sat a harpsichord. Its existence was inexplicable not only in this strange stetting but by its obsolescence in modern music. None of the drifters of the town paid much attention to the instrument as it slowly decayed and fell apart. He liked to play it though. He enjoyed sitting in the middle of town as all the people watched suspiciously. Some made scared small talk but only one other person played the harpsichord as well—the Tavern Keeper. She sauntered across the street in the bright light of the mid-day sun. The years serving brutes at the tavern had been hard on her as she had grown older. He loved her as everyone in the town did. She constantly served the sinners and the liars and gave it to them with a smile; always giving. She looked beautiful as she walked over to him.
"Why sit here all alone and play this sad instrument?"
"I like it" he said with a smile "and besides you play too. Why do you stick around such a depressing instrument?"
"Well, just because it's sad doesn't mean it doesn't need friends. Are you sad?" She asked
"No. Not really."
"Because you know its true misery loves company. I come and play when I feel sad. Harpsichord and I share our sadness. That's why I ask. And your face looks so pale! Why don't you come inside for some warm strudel?"
"Thank you but I am fine."
"You should stop playing." She told him.
"Well then I would like to hear you play. You are so good."
"That is because I have had much practice." He stood up to allow her to sit when both their ears were caught by the sound of a motorcycle rolling towards town. The folks on the street heard it too. The town stopped, turned, and stared at the new arrival. Atop sat a dashing young man in a leather flyboy jacket and knee-high aviator boots, dark sunglasses, and smooth hair. The Tavern Keepers eyes lit up and running toward the man she screamed "My love!" The two embraced and you could see they were happy. Together they walked towards the tavern as the numerous town folk on the street closed in around them and stalked them into the building.
He followed inside the familiar tavern. On the walls hung numerous knick-knacks, letters, and pictures mostly of a young couple. With them in the photos were a growing family,friends, and favorite patrons as each item was a monument in the Tavern Keeper's life. The young motorcyclist was nowhere to be seen inside; just the local's familiar shifting glances that are best avoided. Except there sat an old man wearing suspenders with wiry grey hair and reading glasses smiling benevolently at the Tavern Keeper as she worked. She often looked over at him to return his smile. Not only she looked at him but the crowd that had followed the biker in stared at the old man unflinching steadily sipping their drinks.
He decided to sit with this old man and see what he was about. "Mind if I take this seat?" he asked the old man.
"If you really want to you can." He did sit and soon heard someone spitting and felt his back get wet. He turned around and saw a figure staring despicably at him. He ignored it and return to the old man. "I have never seen you around here before."
"I have always been here."
"Really? Why have I not seen you?"
"Sometimes it best not to be seen." As the old man's gaze uneasily swept the encroaching crowd.
"Why are you here now?"
"I have always been here. I guess you were too busy to notice me. And why I am here now is for my love." Raising his hand towardsthe Tavern Keeper who was walking towards him brimming with a smile, but she was stopped short by a make-up caked woman demanding vodka, and soon a crowd gathered around the bar demanding alcohol. She looked uneasily at the old man as she rushed to finish serving the ceaseless hoard of rude patrons.
"So, you know the Tavern Keeper? She is a good friend of mine I think she would have said something about you."
"A good friend?" the old man inquired "how do you know my wife?"
"Your wife...? Well, often we both play tha tharpsichord that is sitting out in the street."
"Oh, so you're that boy."
"She has mentioned me?"
"Yes, you've taken up playing the harpsichord as your little hobby. It's your little thing that makes you special. Just got to be different, everybody has got to be different, which makes you all the same."
"Are you saying I'm just like all these people?"Just then a grizzled man shouted from the adjoining table "Hey! I play the banjo asshole! What makes you so fucking special?" The grizzled man sat back in his chair as his compatriots sneered and nodded approvingly. The tension settled and he turned back to the old man who answered him,
"I think you're exactly like these people. Your selfish and self absorbed and don't have any idea what you are doing."
"Oh yeah and you gather all this because I play the harpsichord? Where the hell do you get off saying that old man? You don't have any hobbies?"
"Actually I do" The old man reached into a bag and pulled out a series of models. All handcrafted and painted painstakingly to perfection. "This here is the U.S.S Missouri. The battleship I served on in the war." A terrible hiss started to rise from the surrounding tables. The people were staring with furrowed brows, gaping mouths, all hissing at them. Over the heads of the mob he caught the eyes of the Tavern Keeper stricken with worry and panic.
On the deck of the battleship were little men with numbers on them. The old man explained, "Each number corresponds with a name onthis list" which he held in his had "they where my friends, my comrades, my brothers. We were a great generation and I will never forget them." The crowd's hisses escalated to a roar of shouting and insults. The dregs stood from their seats and began to circle the old man's table.
"Stop it! Stop it! What is wrong with all of you! What more do you need!" The Tavern Keeper screamed and ran of the tavern into the street and sat at the old harpsichord weeping.
"After the war we all worked together and we built great things. We built this nation. We built a better tomorrow. If we hadn'thave done it who would have? Like this..." pointing to a vastly complicated model of an oil refinery. Like the battleship numbers were found all over it, but instead of corresponding names was a list of towns and businesses where all the parts of thel refinery came from and who built them. This seemed to anger the crowd even more than the battleship and the taunts grew louder and they began to spit on him. "I just do know what happened to people. I don't know any of them. I almost feel responsible for this sorry generation, having brought it a world it doesn't deserve. Everybody is so selfish they let the world rot around them." The surrounding mob flew into a rage. A beer bottle was thrown and cracked upon the old mans head. Blood streamed down his face. He looked stunned then sullen and sighed remorsefully, "We all did whatwe though was right..." A brute of a man then stormed up and grabbed him by the neck and dragged him into the mob.
Then a frenzied shriek tore through the room, "The Tavern Keeper is dead! Dead on her dead husband's old harpsichord! She's dead!"The people in the tavern quickly ran out the door or just checked the windows to confirm this report then began to tear everything off the walls and steal the liquor. Walking out the doors of the tavern he stood on the porch and looked at the harpsichord with the Tavern Keeper's body strewn over it as a group of thieves stripped off her jewelry and clothing. Coming out the tavern the young motorcyclist stepped beside him and lit a cigarette. He asked the motorcyclist,
"Why did you come here?"
"Had to go somewhere. No place better. No place worse. Looking for a different time I guess"
"Are you staying?"
"No. Not this time. I'm just gonna keep on going."
"Why are you always moving? Why not stay somewhere if it's all the same." Looking over at the Tavern Keeper's body as they tore her apart limb by limb he replied,
"If I have to be alone, I'd rather be all alone."Walking to the motorcycle he saw what was left of the old man being thrown atop the harpsichord now set aflame for a pyre. Kick-starting engine on with a roar he departed on a desert road and was never seen again.
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