Piano Men

I’d never had the chance to play the piano in the middle of a street before. So when I was walking up 16th Street Mall this past weekend and saw an upright piano just sitting there, how could I refuse?

—just some simple blues improv, and then into a rendition of Hotel California by the Eagles. Nothing fancy, nothing groundbreaking or difficult. Mostly I chose Hotel California because I knew Randy didn’t like it; we had just been talking about it in the car the day before.

There was something very surreal in the scene. I think I’ve probably had this dream before, in fact: there I was in a foreign city, a piano with cracked ivory just sitting there silently, boasting a miniature mural of blue flowers and other non-geometric swirls, waiting to be played by any random passerby. The middle ‘E’ was broken, but all the other keys held their own surprisingly well.

Emily and Michelle and Randy sat behind me on the curb, resting their feet from all our walking, listening, watching me play, chatting idly amongst themselves. A couple of people stopped to listen for a moment, went on their way. Michelle came up to me and took a few pictures—or possibly a video of me playing; I’m not sure which—and then Randy came over for his turn at the piano.

Once upon a time, Randy used to play the guitar in a Johnny Cash tribute band; we’ve all heard him play the guitar and all knew he loves music. He had just given us a fun, interesting discourse on music the day before, in fact. But the piano?—I’ve known him for years and never knew that he played.

You think you know someone…

He sat down, played a bit of Tom Waits (or was it Tom Jones?), and then onto the main hook from some blues piece or another—maybe Swanee River(?) I’m not sure. I leaned into Michelle, whispered, “I didn’t know your husband knew anything about the piano.”

Michelle whispered back, “I didn’t either.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote, “Life is a series of surprises, and would not be worth taking or keeping, if it were not. God delights to isolate us every day, and hide from us the past and the future. We would look about us, but with grand politeness he draws down before us an impenetrable screen of purest sky, and another behind us of purest sky. ‘You will not remember,’ he seems to say, ‘and you will not expect.’” (from his essay, Experience)

Sometimes life catches us off guard—even when we think we’ve got it all figured out. Sometimes people surprise us—even the people we’re closest to.

Plans, knowledge…sure, these are helpful. But surprises?—now those are much more interesting, aren’t they? More interesting, and altogether more worthwhile.

So then, a tip, if you don’t mind:

Let yourself be surprised. 

You Too?

Before the trip was even over, Michelle asked us all our favorite moment from the trip. It was hard to answer this. Not because I didn't have one, per se, but because it was difficult to explain the why.

For a few moments here and there, I allowed myself to think that Denver isn't as impressive as I had imagined it would be. But this isn't very fair; certainly Denver left an impression on me. If nothing else, it is impressive by the sheer fact that I will think of it again.

I will think of how sad it was to say goodbye to my son, knowing that I wouldn't see him for 36 hours, and that there was simply no way to get him to understand that this was happening.

I will think of hearing Randy be completely absorbed in his element, getting the chance to talk about the history of rock and of radio and of how we define musical genres.

I will think of how tightly I had to grip the steering wheel as we passed through Pueblo, because the wind there can be insane.

I will think of how I very nearly lost my mind in Manitou—but we don't speak of that anymore.

I will think of the fact that there are times you're actually supposed to throw spoons in a movie theatre.

I will think of outdoor escalators.

I will think of how surprised I was to learn that Mt. Rushmore isn't nearly as far as I had always assumed.

I will think of eating Taco Bell three times in two days.

But mostly I will think of the stories we tell, and of how no matter how well you know someone, there's always more there to learn. It's a beautiful thing that we can never fully know someone else, that there will always be just a tiny bit of uncrossable distance between ourselves and any given human being out there.

That said, I think my answer to Michelle's question would have to be:

My favorite moment was the stretch between Manitou and Denver, when I simply sat back and listened to their stories.

There is something profound and beautiful to be said of hearing your words come out of someone else's mouth, to hear that someone else shares your same thoughts and feelings and joys and frustrations and doubts.

I once read that a friend is born in the moment when you can look at someone else and say, “Wait—you too?” and I think this is very true.

What is also true though, is that any friendship can—in fact, should—be full of these moments all throughout, not just at the very beginning.

We share words, and sometimes in doing so, we find that we've always shared thoughts and ideas and beliefs too, without even realizing it.