[I may have veered off from the original prompt at some point, but by the time I realized it I was already too committed to the story to shift focus for the sake of the assignment.]

 

G… B… And D… F… And G… B… And D… F…

“Ahhh Jesus kid learn to play somethin’ a lil more upbeat would ya?”

The pianist, a young Russian immigrant by the name of Anton Verniy, continued to play, unfazed by the typical remark and too tired to contest it or apologize for it.

The middle aged lumberjack-looking heckler at the opposite end of the bar, either on the verge of drunkenness or recovering from it, wasn’t enthused with tonight’s performance.

“Jim, if you got such a problem with it, learn to play something upbeat yourself.” The bartender responded on behalf of Anton, similarly without bothering to move his gaze away from his current task.

“Tsk,” Jim sneered as he raised his glass for another drink, “Coop, really, just sayin’ you might wanna reconsider your live music choice if you’re looking for any real business around here.”

“As long as I’m alive and working, business is good.” Coop couldn’t help but give off a slight smile as he glanced over at Anton, still fixated on playing out his piece. “Besides, I like the atmosphere it gives off.”

“Which is what, a funeral home?”

“Shhh.”

Jim couldn’t decide whether he wanted to chuckle at his own wit or glare at Cooper for shushing him. Instead he just opted to take another drink. Like it or not, the bar’s only sound was once again Anton’s hushed, melancholic performance on the bar’s old upright Baldwin.

 

Anton had moved to the U.S. a little over a year prior, after saving up enough money to afford the airfare. He grew up as an only child with an abusive, alcoholic father. His mother left them when he was ten and two years later, although no divorce was ever formalized, his father remarried and along with his step mother came a younger step sister. In fairly short order, the abuse resumed, but Anton frequently and voluntarily took the brunt of it. Not so much to protect his sister or mother, but more so out of fear that it would drive them to leave otherwise.

For a lack of the money or the care of his guardians, he only ever developed one true hobby, one real passion. From a young age in music classes, he gravitated towards the piano, at first just watching his teacher play as the students sung the same traditional and holiday songs year by year. Occasionally he would sneak into his school’s choir room and auditorium to try and make sense of the piano keys. One day his music instructor, the old and jolly Mr. Mikhailov, caught him while he was feigning a bathroom break from another class, and in an act of kindness, he offered to teach Anton how to read sheet music and by extension how to play piano. He was limited to Mikhailov’s personal collection of classical arrangements and sheet collections but was nevertheless overjoyed with his fledgling ability.

A couple years of afterschool tutor sessions followed. At the same time, conditions at home continued to worsen. His father was laid off and had to take a packaging job at a nearby factory. His sister, Katya, had come down with a fatal illness, demanding what little money they had left for her care. Eventually Anton stopped seeing his instructor so that he could take up some shifts immediately after school at a local supermarket.

The majority of his pay went towards Katya’s treatment. In secret, he would set aside a few rubles of every check, hoping that one day he could afford to leave for the United States and earn enough to later bring Katya over with him once she regained her health.

At school, Mikhailov and Anton often shared lunch together, sometimes in the faculty break room but typically in the choir room or auditorium. He quickly became invested Anton’s troubled home life, but Anton kept Mikhailov at a distance and repeatedly assured him that he had a plan.

“It will be alright, once I am out of here, everything will be alright.”

It was not a comforting nor a concrete response, but Anton showed a smile and a resolve that demanded faith in his plan.

The years went by like this until Anton was in his final year of secondary school, just a few weeks shy of graduation and a few weeks shy of pulling the trigger and taking his savings to America.

On the last day of classes before graduation, Mikhailov was late for their usual lunch meetup. A newly hired teacher asked Anton what he was doing in the faculty lounge, and upon hearing his response, promptly informed Anton that Mikhailov had passed in his sleep that previous night. It was going to be formally announced the next day.

Graduation went by and Anton stayed a bit longer for Mikhailov’s funeral services. Much to his and even more so his family’s surprise, Mikhailov left all of his sheet music and a portable Yamaha keyboard to Anton in his will.

In an instant, the next step in his secretive plan clicked into place. If he could just get to the U.S. with this music and this keyboard, he could make things better.

 

.     .     .

 

Katya was amazed at the talent Anton was hiding for so many years. Almost every night from then on, she pleaded with him to play for her. He preferred to play Chopin’s nocturnes for their simple structure but complex sound, but she preferred the works of Sadie, even though she didn’t know him by name at first. On nearly a nightly basis for about a month, Anton would play some assortment of pieces from his newly owned books until Katya would eventually ask “Can you play Sadie?” and every time he would correct her and slowly, correctly pronounce “Erik Satie”. And with that, the two would smile as he started to play Gymnopédie No.1 over and over, softer and softer, to lull Katya to sleep every time, without fail. Every night ended the same, but those nights that kept him from leaving.

One day, Katya’s condition deteriorated in what seemed like an instant. She was rushed to the ER and her family was informed just as fast as they’d gotten there that she could no longer safely stay at home and had to remain hospitalized until further notice. Anton’s father spiraled into another abusive binge, quickly culminating in a brawl with Anton that ended with his father smashing his keyboard and tearing up most of his sheets, pinning the blame not just for Katya’s condition but for all the misfortune in his life on Anton’s birth.

Anton called for a taxi before sunrise the next morning.

Shortly after arriving in the U.S., Anton joined up with a small group of street performers and musicians travelling the West Coast. After a few months, they earned enough collectively to cram into an inner city apartment. With enough money for residence, he took the chance to reach out to Katya for the first time since he arrived. At the end of their last call, he hummed the melody of Gymnopédie No.1 for her, for lack having keyboard on hand to play over the phone. Even with what little energy she had, she sounded jubilant enough to hear that. So this time, with a keyboard on hand and a private place to play, he wanted to surprise her.

He rummaged through his belongings to find a crumpled up note, written on the back of what used to be a sheet of music, with the hospital line hastily written on it. As usual, a nurse answered the line. Trying to contain his excitement, he asked to speak with Katya Verniy in room 204.

“Katya Ver- Ah…” The nurse’s voice trailed off. “May I ask who’s calling?”

He forgot to say so at the start to keep things quick.

“Oh… Are you not with your family, Anton?”

His excitement gave way to confusion for a moment. He replied in denial.

“Ah… I’m deeply sorry to have to tell you this, Anton, but yesterday your sister…”

 

.     .     .

Tension built in Anton’s group as their days living together passed, reaching a breaking point when one member sold off their instruments to pay for a debt to a drug dealer. The group split and Anton resorted to searching for public pianos and presenting a thrown-out hat for tips as he played. His usual somber assortment of pieces, the only ones he could remember by heart, only earned him so much. Eventually he could no longer afford a night’s stay at local motels, and surrendered the rest of his money to drinks. One night he stumbled on a small hole-in-the-wall bar in a two story building on a street corner on the outskirts of the city. After a few drinks, he found himself confiding in the bar’s owner and bartender, Cooper Morgan, about his life thus far.

As the story caught up with the present, Cooper responded with a slight smirk but a straight-face,

“Tell you what,” grabbing Anton’s dazed attention, he moved over to a draped piece of furniture at one end of the bar. He quickly removed a couple picture frames, ash trays, and a clock before pulling up the drape entirely to reveal an old and beaten upright Baldwin piano.

“It’s the furthest thing from in-tune but it’s definitely still playable”, he said hitting a random key while looking at Anton, “So I’m thinking this: stay here, we’ll clear a space in the storage room up on the second floor, you can at least get some water and heat. And in exchange, you play this piano every night for me and whatever other sad soul walks in here, and you earn some tips until you get enough to get back on your feet. What do you say? Oh and you’ll still have to pay for the booze.”

Three regulars noticed the new addition to the staff and chatted with him for a bit on the first night, but only those three regulars tipped Anton in the course of the first few nights. Nothing more than spare change and a few dollars total. They kept coming by afterwards but just started ignoring him. Cooper assured him that the deal still stood; as long as he played, he had a place to stay.

On the 5^th straight day of no tips, Cooper came over to him while cleaning a glass, as Anton was still playing, “I doubt this is the American dream you had in mind, huh?”

Anton replied with a self-deprecating chuckle as he played. Suddenly Cooper motioned to pour something out from the glass he was holding into the hat on top of the piano.

“You know, I don’t know why people tip me. I’m in charge of the place, I give myself all the money I need.”

He immediately stopped playing and looked up and into the hat, then up to Cooper, back to the hat, and Cooper again.

“You can’t make it alone, kid.”

 

.     .     .

 

Jim paid off his tab for the night after overstaying his welcome by about one hour after closing. He got up from his chair with an exaggerated exhale and after getting his balance, waddled his way towards the exit. Saying his goodbyes to Cooper, he stopped as he moved past Anton, now finishing his last piece for the night.

“You know man, that’s real pretty n’ all, but yer never gonna make any money playing shit like that all day. Why bother? What even is it, it’s uhhh… Gymnist by Sadey somethin? Can you really read that mess?” he said, his breath heavy with alcohol, as he leaned in and squinted towards the crumpled and taped up single sheet of music.

“Erik Satie”, Anton responded.