by Karyn B Jules

Created on: May 19, 2008

The old piano had seen better days. Too many years spent idly collecting dust in a damp cellar had dulled its lacquered finish and stiffened its once smooth, responsive action. Haphazardly wiping over the yellowed keys, Joe recalled his fondest childhood memories of his mother, sitting at that very keyboard amidst a gathering crowd, laughing, playing, and singing into the small hours of the morning. Her fingers worked magic on those keys. What a shame none of that magic had rubbed off on her son. Despite dozens of lessons and a family history brimming with musical talent, Joe's clumsy fingers had continued to fumble over the keyboard, hitting wrong notes with amazing consistency. On his mother's passing, Joe moved the piano down to the cellar, not giving it another thought, until now.

Taking on the family's small town hotel had never been an easy task for Joe. His lack of money managing skills wreaked havoc on the profit margins, and the spiffy new bistro down the road stole half of his regular customers in its first month of trading. The place was slowly dying, and taking Joe along with it. It seemed that nothing short of a miracle could restore the dynamic atmosphere that his mother had poured her heart and soul into building. The piano was his last hope. Its rough exterior wouldn't matter if he could just find the right "someone" to rekindle that cheerful, festive tone that had captivated many an audience in earlier times. A sign was placed at the front entrance. It read, simply; Pianist required for evening shifts. Enquire within.

Weeks passed without a single applicant. The piano, freshly polished and tuned, sat unassumingly in its old spot between the bar and the fireplace, waiting. John, the barman, the last of Joe's staff, tinkered annoyingly with the keys at every opportunity, staring blankly towards the door. Some day he would throw in his dead end job and get out of this lifeless place. Hollywood, that's where his destiny lay, some day.

Another quiet night dragged by. Joe slouched wearily into his old recliner next to the fire, sipping back yet another slice of his dwindling profit. As he called to John to lock up for the night and go home, a scruffy young man wandered through the door and casually strolled over to the piano. Joe watched in silence as the stranger slid onto the stool, brushed a stray lock of black hair off his face, and began to tap each key methodically as if opening up some sort of dialogue with the instrument. Softly at first, then

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