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‘I dunno, it’s just . . .’ It’s hard to find the words to describe how piano saved me at school. My best memories were school performances when I’d play so fast my fingers would hurt, and for a moment—a single, glorious moment—people would talk about how well I played, and not about anything else.
‘My dad drank a lot; my home life was less than ideal growing up. The dream was always to play professionally—in a band, or maybe in an orchestra—but,’ I glance around Mark’s shitty sports bar, ‘since moving to Melbourne, things haven’t gone to plan. Maybe I was a little naïve but I thought there would be more . . . opportunity.’
Peaches’s gaze slides back up to the piano. ‘Play me a little.’
Heat floods my cheeks. ‘I’m not sure.’ It’s one thing to play alone and another to play for an audience, even if it is only Peaches.
‘Just a little,’ she presses. ‘I’ll keep asking until you do.’
Of that, I have no doubt. Maybe it’s better to just get it over with. ‘Fine.’
Peaches whoops in excitement as we make our way back up the staircase and huddle together on the landing. I take a seat at the bench as Peaches closes the door, flicking the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’ for good measure.
‘You know, I’ve always wanted to play in a little jazz band,’ Peaches muses, swishing her drink around.
‘Can you sing?’ I ask as I roll up my sleeves.
‘I can hold a tune or two. Do you know any jazz-singing drag queens, darling? It’d be a hoot.’ She swallows down the rest of her drink and leaves the frosty glass on top of the piano.
That makes me smile. ‘Can’t say I do.’
My fingers hover over the keys as I run through the scores I’ve memorised before settling on the ‘Boogie Woogie Stomp’, an upbeat and repetitive swing by Albert Ammons. At first, I start out a little wobbly but soon my fingers dance across the keys, quick and sure. Then the swing kicks in. Something takes over my body and I lean over the keys as the song unravels beneath me. I love this feeling. God, I can’t believe I ever stopped playing—everything in me screams that this is what I’m meant to do.
‘Hot damn, kid,’ Peaches says. ‘You’re bloody good.’
But then, I miss a note, then two or three, and wind down the piece. Peaches claps beside me and the sound echoes around the empty bar in a way that’s kinda creepy.
‘That was incredible.’ She sounds a little breathless. It’s a simple melody with repetitive chords, a song I learnt one afternoon at school, but I’m not about to tell her that. ‘You have a real talent, Noah.’
My face warms at her compliment. Shit, I might be blushing. ‘Thanks.’ I turn back to the keys, running my fingers over the smooth surface. ‘I was scared I’d lost it.’
Peaches squeezes my shoulder. ‘Playing music is like riding a bike, sugar. You always know how.’
We make our way back down to the bar. I take a half-full tray of washed glasses from the dishwasher and begin loading them back onto the shelf under the bar when my fingers brush against something soft. Frowning, I pull out Gabriel’s black Nike cap.
Peaches frowns. ‘Someone leave that here?’
I turn the cap over in my hands. ‘Yeah. It’s not really my style. You want it?’
‘Please, have you ever seen me in a cap?’ Peaches knows full well I’ve never seen her out of drag. ‘You’re one to talk about style. Don’t you own a pea coat?’
I scoff in mock offence. ‘They’ll come back in fashion! Besides, mine is vintage.’
‘Just because you bought it at Savers doesn’t mean it’s vintage.’
I turn the cap over in my hands, studying it. Gabriel probably doesn’t miss it. A small part of me had wondered—even hoped—he might come back for it; that he’d left it here as an excuse to return.
With a huff I stash it under the register. One cute guy gives me googly eyes across a bar, and suddenly I’m creating this complex romantic narrative where he’s formulating ways to ‘accidentally’ run into me on purpose? I really need to get laid.
Peaches leaves soon after, and Mark rears his drunken head around seven. It’s later than I expected, which is good because I’ll get paid for a few hours’ work, but bad because he’s had more time out on the town. A few of his buddies are with him. One of them, Troy, is a real estate mogul developing a new entertainment complex in Dandenong. They’re bulldozing a heritage cinema to make it happen, and every other day I’m invited to ‘Save Dandenong Cinema!’ events on Facebook.
The other friend introduces himself as George. Tall and broad and in his mid-forties, he reeks of strong cologne and cigarette smoke.
Mark pushes open the door to the back room, and I sense that he’s upset about something. A moment later, the televisions flicker on, and my heart sinks. Damn, between Peaches and the piano, I forgot to turn them on.
‘I told you to keep the TVs on!’ Mark shouts as he re-emerges. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? We’re bleeding money, Noah.’
‘People aren’t coming in because of . . .’ I glance to see what’s on the TV, ‘someone playing tennis on a slightly bigger screen than they have at home.’
