Diminished

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WEEK 1

It was B flat diminished. An ugly chord, the type of sound that exists because theory dictates it has to. The 88 keys’ only mistake. It sounded muddy and dissonant and reminded me why I love jazz, and the moment I heard it come through my apartment’s living room window I knew I’d have to find the pianist who’d conjured it.

I regretfully set down my copy of a Zola novel and looked around the room. The furniture was new and lifeless. I’d seen signage for a sale at Ikea and my wallet had told me I must oblige. I fetched the coffee mug that had been thrown in for free (with its tacky quote laser printed on its exterior), snatched a black, quilted jacket off the rack and left.

I could no longer deny that the city was alive. I’d put up a good fight for my first week, but the evidence was just overwhelming. Its people lived and breathed and shit and died, and sometimes it felt like there was a soul underneath pulling the strings. A clandestine gremlin who kept all things in equal balance. A force that made it possible for such disparate people to coexist. But then, when you’re crammed atop one another, I guess it creates a certain ecosystem. Not quite an ‘I rub your back you rub mine’ situation, more like… ‘We all live in fear, ain’t that somethin’?’

My apartment had a single employee to work the front desk. He was short, obese, and rarely (if ever) punctual. He wasn’t so bad. When I moved in the landlord said something along the lines of “if you need him and he’s not here, just check the liquor store down the street. He comes back fast enough if you ask nicely. Faster if you buy him a drink.” He was at his post and I nodded to him. I left the building.

I was immediately immersed in brisk winter air. I pulled my jacket closer around me and gripped my coffee tighter. I closed my eyes and listened. There was honking and yelling and moaning because someone was having sex with the window open and there was also piano. I followed the last down the street.

The music became louder and I wondered whether the timbre was right on the piano. Was it the same? After all, it’s not like I was certain that this was the only piano on the block. But… the tempo was the same. It was in the right key. It was the same song.

I passed a red-faced man arguing with someone on the phone. “Fuck!” he said, “She did what? I’m on my way, give me a minute.”

The piano’s lodging was a decrepit shell of a place that called itself a jazz cafe. It looked like it used to be a local theatre, the letters on its faded signage read “Eat Shit and Die! The Musical.” Technically, it was a jazz cafe: they had a pianist who provided music and they did serve coffee. The place smelled of used cigarette butts and looked like used cigarette butts too. There were char marks atop the high wooden ceiling, the long bartop separating myself and the barista was well past ‘vintage,’ and the stage had collapsed in the center. There were several dirty and scratched stainless steel tables. No chairs. The piano stood by its lonesome in the middle of the room. Uncharacteristically gorgeous in a black lacquer finish.

Its stool was empty.

The barista was a young man who I guessed was in his teens. He wore a hoodie that was too big for him and jeans that were too small. He was tall and lanky and already had frown lines. When I approached the bartop he was polishing a glass, then he looked up at me and frowned.

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so.”

“What’s up?”

“I’m looking for the pianist who played that song.”

He nodded. “I bet you are.”

“Where can I find him?”

“He’s gone.”

“What?”

“He always leaves before we open.”

“Doesn’t he work here?”

“Who said anything about that?” the barista asked, frowning.

“Can you tell me his name?”

“I don’t know it.”

“Why not?”

“He’s gone right before I start my shift. Honestly, I’ve started to come out of the back right when I hear him finish playing. I don’t know his name, or what he looks like, or if he’s a ‘he.’ Sometimes he’s here, and sometimes he’s not.”

“You know anyone who might?”

He shrugged. “The owner, I guess.”

“How do I get in contact with the owner?”

“I dunno.”

I considered this. “I guess it would be better to ask what you do know. What can you tell me about the owner?”

The barista set the glass down, picked up another, and started polishing again.

“I showed up one day after seeing an ad online and there was an envelope on this countertop with instructions on how to do the job and a key. Now I come in every day, work exactly like the letter said to, and go home. There’s an envelope with my pay delivered to my place every two weeks.”

I sighed. “You’re a confusing boy.”

“Look man, I’m not the one who came into a coffee shop with a mug full of coffee. To be frank, I just feel like it’s a little disingenuous. Lets me know you’re not a customer the moment you walk through that door. What can I serve you? Well, not coffee. And that’s all I’ve got.”

“So is that why you frowned at me when I got here?”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

I left the place.

Back at my apartment I devised a plan. I’d call out of work for tomorrow, wait by my window, and rush over to the cafe as soon as I heard that piano. It had a weight to it. And that damn chord was stuck in my head. I’d have to ask the barista if it was alright to give it a spin next time I went in.

There was a knock on my door.

Outside was a young woman with frizzy hair, round glasses, and crossed arms.

“Hello, what can I do for you?” I asked.

“Cats,” she said authoritatively.

“What?”

“Ya like cats?”
“I’m not sure.”

“I’ve got a whole bunch. Ya want one?” Her voice was high pitched and it grated on my ears and I despised it.

“I’m alright, thanks,” I said, closing the door.

I started walking back to my new couch where my outdated magazines and French literature awaited me.

Another knock.

She hadn’t moved. Or maybe she had. But I didn’t think so.

“If ya want a cat, would ya tell me?” she asked. Her voice was sort of sing-song in its intonation.

“Sure.”

“Well alrighty then,” she said, clapping her hands. She flashed a big, toothy smile. I hated that more than her voice.

When she left I ordered Chinese food. When it arrived I ate it on the couch while staring at the blank screen of my TV. This place didn’t have cable and all the streaming accounts were in her name so I didn’t want to risk using them. I looked out the window at the fire escape and saw a gray cat with green eyes. It serenely swished its tail back and forth. I kept eye contact with it for what must have been two or three minutes, broken only by blinks. Then it licked its paw and climbed to the next floor. Upstairs I heard a couple tenants arguing. When they got tired of that they went to bed together and they forgot to close the window.