I took out my wallet and removed my brother’s expired license, holding it up in the dim lighting with my finger over the expiration date. The bartender snatched it from my hand and bent closer to one of the bloodred candles. I was certainly busted. If he kept the license and turned it in to the police, I was toast. If my parents didn’t ground me, my brother would kill me.
He smiled at me. “You’re twenty-one?”
“No,” I said. He turned his head and gave me a disbelieving look. “I’m twenty-two.”
He looked back to the license, then gave me a thin smile that might have meant either Nice try or Well played. I couldn’t tell. I held my ground for what felt like hours but was only seconds. The bartender handed me the license. Then he reached into a fridge below the bar and pulled out three long-neck Buds, popping the caps on a bottle opener attached to the bar. I gave him three bucks, then put a fourth on the sticky bar top, making certain he saw the gesture. The bartender handed it back and nodded to the piano. “Much obliged if you would take care of the piano player instead.”
I said we would. I didn’t care. We were in.
I walked to the booth like a hero. Cap and Mif just smiled. “Told you,” Cap said.
I told Mif and Cap what the bartender said to me about taking care of the piano player, then walked over and put the dollar in a glass with a sign. PLAYS FOR TIPS.
The piano player gave me a somber smile and nod.
Mif, the most social of the three of us, made his way to the piano. The guy at the keys had long dark hair and a thick mustache. He looked like a young Freddie Mercury from Queen, and he was banging out a pretty good version of Elton John’s “Rocket Man.” When he finished, Mif stuffed another dollar in the glass; we’d all decided it would keep us in the bartender’s good graces.
Cap and I pulled up barstools to the piano.
Mif said, “How about ‘Piano Man’ by Billy Joel?”
The guy busted right into the song, and soon we were singing the tune. We took turns dropping a buck in the jar and trying, unsuccessfully, to stump the piano man. None of us liked the disco crap still getting significant airtime, so we threw out some rock ’n’ roll—bands and songs, like the Rolling Stones’ “Beast of Burden,” the Beatles’ “Yesterday,” Elton John’s “Yellow Brick Road,” and Elvis Presley’s “Always on My Mind.” Whatever song we chose, the piano man played and sang the words. Our enthusiasm and inability to stump the piano man had a ripple effect. Pretty soon the three men seated at the bar came to the piano, paying a buck and throwing out songs. Someone asked for “Danny Boy” and the piano man never hesitated. The entire bar, including the three of us, sang the song at the top of our lungs. The bartender opened the swinging door to a hot summer night, and soon people ventured in off the sidewalk to see what was happening. The crowd grew to perhaps thirty.
After an hour the piano man took a break. His tip jar was full. Mif, Cap, and I decided to let others continue to fill the till and save the rest of our money for beer. I went to the bar to order three more. Cap and Mif grabbed a booth.
“Thanks,” the bartender said.
“For what?”
“For breaking the ice, for being interested in my brother’s music and putting some money in his till.”
“He’s really good. He’s your brother?” I looked to the piano player and could see the familial resemblance.
“Younger brother.”
“No offense intended, but why is he playing here? He should be doing shows and stuff.”
The bartender smiled. “That was the dream. Then he got drafted.”
“Vietnam?” I said.
“Viet-fucking-nam,” the bartender said. “He had a music producer interested in his stuff and a record deal on the table. He played with a band in San Francisco. Of the four band members, three got drafted. The drummer died over there. The guitar player came back worse off than my brother. I’m hoping that letting him play here will get him back into it. Maybe get him back on his feet.” The piano man turned and smiled at his brother as he sat to play a second set.
“That’s gold right there,” the bartender said. “I haven’t seen him smile like that in a long time.” He wrapped his knuckles on the bar. “Those three are on me.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said.
He smiled. “Yeah, I do. Thanks for bringing him some good memories. He’s brought home enough bad memories.”