Please Refrain From Tickling the Ivories

Some people are game for anything, and some people, like me, just aren’t. I don’t really have a bucket list of things to do, like sky diving or BMX racing or auditioning for American Idol. Chances are pretty good that if I haven’t tried it by now, I must have a reason. My reticence for new experiences isn’t limited to wild or dangerous activities. I have no interest in eating a “belly” or anything contained therein, but that doesn’t make me boring. If I’ve made it this far without developing a taste for offal or lake fish or even rutabagas, and I’m good with that. I don’t need to hear the right country song to convert me, because it just doesn’t exist, and even if it did, it would still be country music, and I would still change the channel, and that’s okay. I don’t need to think outside the box; the box is quite cozy, thank you. If boxes aren’t comfy, then why do cats always try to sit in them?

My attempt at living on the edge, of going outside my comfort zone, was going to a piano bar. I know, I know, it wasn’t like I hand fed an alligator. Still, I had never been to a piano bar before, and I didn’t feel like I had been missing anything. But it was my good friend TA’s birthday, and it was an evening out with the ladies, and so I went along. It’s called “being a good sport.” Did I mention sports are another thing I know I don’t like? I like my friend, and I like birthdays, and I like music, and so I thought, I’ll try to have a good time.

Turns out, I don’t like piano bars. Now, I would never have known if I didn’t go, but now I do, and I won’t be making that mistake again.

We arrived to a full house, tables mostly full, facing a small stage with two grand pianos with a few other instruments scattered about. Our table was of course right up front by the stage, and we all ordered drinks to liven up our mood as we waited for the show to begin. Near us were some other large parties, some of which also were there for birthday celebrations, which led me to believe this was more a special event thing than a regular night out, kind of like going for fondue. The drinks were pricey, the tables were crowded, and the noise was loud. I was already regretting my decision to come along, but tried to remember it was because I love TA. 

That’s when the pianists came out and took the stage. The two men seated themselves at each piano, and then they engaged the crowd with an opening song and a little explanation of how the piano bar concept works. Basically, each table has a collection of slips of paper and little golf pencils. Patrons are encouraged to write down the names of songs they want to hear, and then take it up to the pianos along with some money. If the musicians were familiar with the song or if the price was right, they would play it, a living jukebox of sorts.

Immediately, the people at the tables dove into their pockets and purses and produced wads of single dollar bills. Singles were everywhere, more like a strip club than a piano bar. People slowly started approaching the pianos, but before long, they were making it rain all over that stage, single dollars flying everywhere. While one pianist would play a song, the other would look through the request slips, deciding what he knew or liked, and what he didn’t want to play he would toss onto the other piano. The money collected went into a gigantic tip jar. The whole process was frenetic and odd.

So what did people want to hear? Bill Joel. Lots of Billy Joel. Sometimes some Beatles, maybe a little Jimmy Buffet,  an occasional Don McLean, but Billy Joel was the man. The piano man.

I’m not much of a Billy Joel fan, to be honest. My father was a huge one, and whenever we went to visit him, we could expect to hear at least one album a day, to remind my sisters and I how lucky we were that he didn’t have custody of us. What made all the Billy Joel worse was that I knew all the words, singing them in my head against my will.

I decided to make a hasty retreat to the bathroom, if only to get away from the crowd, who also knew all the words and sang along drunkenly to every song. The music was more muffled in the restroom, but as I entered my stall, I noticed a thoughtless lady patron at some point in the evening had attempted to flush her tampon, with no success.

It wasn’t just gross; it was also ridiculously stupid. In every woman’s restroom in America for at least the last twenty years, signs are posted about not flushing feminine hygiene products. In fact, every stall has its own little waste basket mounted on the wall specifically for your disgusting used pads and tampons, because they don’t flush, and if they accidentally do make it down the pipes, they will fuck up the plumbing something awful. It is common knowledge to not flush a tampon, ever.

I had a dilemma. Did I pee in that stall and let the next person think I was the bleeding idiot who left my tampon like a buoy floating in the bowl, or did I leave that stall for another, opening myself up to judgment from the other women waiting to go?

After I returned to the table, I settled down and tried to have a good time. That ended the minute the crowd began putting their arms around each other’s shoulders, swaying in time to the next Billy Joel song, singing along loudly, pausing only to have another sip of whatever intoxicant they were ingesting. I also don't "sing along." It's one of the things I hated most about going to camp. I don't want to sing along, and I don't sway, and I also don't want to clap when instructed. I am not there to be part of a show. I just want to be left alone, with my thoughts, in the middle of the crowd.

I leaned over to one of my friends and said, “I think I am ready to go.” 

“No!” she said. “Just a little longer. I paid good money for them to embarrass TA.”

That was another thing money could buy you: a little public humiliation. A few other people in the crowd were also celebrating birthdays, and for a Hamilton, the pianists would call up the birthday boy or girl and make them do stupid shit. Two women had to act out the timeless classic “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes,” which devolved into some sort of lesbian groping display, much to the delight of most of the men and a select few of the women. Another woman, Rhonda, also was called up to the stage, but she angrily and adamantly refused to participate. I liked Rhonda. She has moxie.

During a Chuck Berry song, an older gentleman from the audience approached the stage and offered twenty dollars if he could play since he knew that song. The pianist obliged him, and he sat down and really rocked it out. Bolstered by the crowd’s support and the sense of entitlement that comes with spending twenty bucks on nothing, he decided he was going to play a few more songs, even going so far as dedicating one of them to someone at his table. There was no getting this man off the stage. During his pretty adequate rendition of Jerry Lee Lewis’ “Great Balls of Fire,” the pianist, who had nothing better to do, poured a shot of liquor on the piano top and light it up. The crowd went wild. I was at my limit.

When the next Billy Joel song started, I got up and said goodbye, nicely I hope, but I just had to get the fuck out of there. As I left, the bouncer asked me if I was planning on returning. “Never,” I said to him. “Never again.”

 “One!” he yelled to the people in line behind the rope, waiting to get in. “I got room for one!” A rope, with people waiting, in my town in South Carolina, to get into one of the circles of hell.