No one in my family had ever become famous, but I still imagined it was possible.
My cousin Joanne, who was a good 20 years older than me, had once qualified to compete in a TV talent show broadcast out of San Francisco, singing a song from an Italian opera, but she only took third place. The winner, that week, was a trained dog. That’s the closest any family member has come to being famous.
My own dream of worldly fame first flowered when my parents signed me up for piano lessons from the one-armed trumpet player named Mr. Murphy, who lived down the street. Dad bought Joanne’s antique spinet piano, which she sold shortly after her third-place finish, and, in spite of being himself temporarily unemployed and short on cash, immediately paid to have it tuned.
“Well, I think we know why Joanne didn’t win the talent contest,” he joked.
“Maybe you’ll have better luck, Louis,” he told me with a smile. That was all the encouragement I needed, to start picturing myself in a tuxedo, playing a Steinway and backed by a symphony orchestra.
Mr. Murphy, whom my parents constantly referred to as “that poor man”, showed up promptly every Tuesday afternoon, smelling of whiskey and cigarettes, or else possibly a cologne that smelled like whiskey and cigarettes. Of course, having only one arm, he could never show me the right-hand part simultaneously with the left-hand part, but he was able to hum the part belonging to the missing hand, squeezing out the substitute accompaniment between his pressed lips, so that it sounded a lot like a trumpet.
One day, however, he showed up really drunk, and slumped down on the living room couch, next to the armchair where my mom was reading the latest issue of Good Housekeeping.
“Mrs. Cannon, I am so sorry, but I can’t keep this up,” he blurted out. “Louis is a wonderful kid, but he’s got no sense of rhythm and he doesn’t appear capable of playing with both hands at the same time. I’ve to fix myself a stiff drink just to show up for these lessons, and then I have to finish the bottle when I get home. Find some other hobby for him, Mrs. Cannon. Maybe he could learn how to whittle. Or stamp collecting… I bet Louis would be good at stamp collecting.”
Mom stood up, holding the magazine up against her breast as if it were a shield. She looked down at my piano teacher, who was doing his best to keep from falling off the couch, and addressed him in a firm voice.
“Well, I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Murphy… and I will discuss your suggestion with Louis’ father when he returns home. Do you need any help making your way out?”
Against all expectations, Mr. Murphy managed to rise to his feet, and stood, swaying slightly and motioning with his one arm in my direction. “I’m really, really sorry that Louis had to hear this conversation. He’s a sweet kid, and maybe he’ll be famous someday. But not as a piano player.” Then he stumbled out the door.
“That poor man,” my mother murmured as she watched him go.
Then she turned to me. “I think we need to find you a different hobby, Louis. Do you like writing stories?”
A sensible person probably would have taken my mother’s advice, and given up his dream of playing the piano at Carnegie Hall. And in fact, I did set that dream aside for several years, and ended up spending many happy hours with a rather extensive stamp collection.
But about ten years ago, a friend who was down on his luck offered to sell me a very nice upright piano for $100, and I soon discovered that one could take piano lessons online from people who have both of their arms. The wonderful part of these internet lessons: you get to hear, and watch, your teacher play, but the teacher never actually hears you playing. Got no sense of rhythm? No one has to know.
That was ten years ago, and despite what Mr. Murphy (and my parents) may have thought about my musical talents (or lack thereof) I have turned into a pretty decent pianist, if I do say so myself. I find confirmation in the fact that my cat, Roscoe, likes to sit on the piano bench and listen to me.
So, last New Years, I made a resolution — a promise, to share my music with the good people of Pagosa Springs. Music hath the power to soothe the savage beast, and although we have a shortage of savage beasts in Archuleta County, I’m sure I could soothe some disappointed Trump voters.
But I can’t, of course. The COVID germ has driven everyone into their private cave, where no live piano music shall enter.
My chance to be famous, at last, (in a very small town) foiled by a germ invisible to the naked eye.
Maybe I should’ve been a writer.