The Piano Men

Sweet relief! I busted out of a dive tavern on Main Street Molalla after enduring a profanity-laced tirade against President Biden and socialism delivered to the ceiling by an angry and borderline insane old man.

No! No! No! I didn't want to hear bullshit from a Fox News marionette, especially after hiking around Silver Falls State Park, one of the crown jewels of Oregon socialism, earlier that frosty morning, in celebration of my birthday.

I composed myself and began heading toward a Christian-themed bookstore around the corner. I was hoping to buy myself a cheap birthday present like I always do, and just knew a Christian-themed Western with a six-gun toting, blonde-haired Jesus and a gimp Apostle as his sidekick was waiting for a 50-cent resurrection.

Not far from the entrance to the tavern, I saw two young men down the sidewalk stripping the peeling varnish off an upright piano standing in front of an antique store. Beside the piano stood another piano whose new finish boasted a funky lime green stain.

It took me approximately five seconds to size up the two men as homeless. The tell-tale signs were all there: reedy bodies, weathered faces, strange mismatched clothes, beat-up bicycle, backpacks, bedrolls, beef jerky and a can of malt liquor resting atop the piano they were stripping with gusto.

Naturally I stopped in front of the piano men to engage them. It was then I noticed a coffee can atop the piano painted in far out fashion. It's lettering read: Tip Jar.

In due course I learned: their names—Tony, the main man, and Charlie, his obvious sidekick. Tony had grown up in Molalla, a ranching and mill town 30 miles southeast of Portland, and now lived in the vicinity wherever he “could hang his head.” They had an arrangement with the antique store (I think) to strip the old pianos outside when it wasn't raining, then slap on some new stain and for that they were paid...? It was all a little murky as Tony explained it, but he explained it with considerable enthusiasm. The piano was in decent sonic shape as Tony demonstrated by pounding a few keys, and indeed, it sounded all right. Sure, he'd play me something! He'd been working on the same song since he was 12 when he first learned how to play. He had stopped soon thereafter but began playing again at the age of 28, quickly dropped it, and here he was at 33, homeless, polishing the tune on various derelict pianos on a downtown sidewalk of his hometown that was famous for hosting a Fourth of July rodeo called The Buckaroo.

There was no bench to sit on so Tony leaned over, and, as they say, tickled the ivories with the one and only song he had ever written. And no, he hadn't written any lyrics for it, and maybe it was about damn time!

Tony began playing and I listened. It would be almost be poetry to report he played terribly, but I'll stick to the facts of the fairy tale and report he was incredible. His dirty and nicked fingers glided through complex chord changes for a good two minutes without a single screw-up. It was not rock or pop. It was not honky tonk or blues. It wasn't ragtime or classical. It was something I'd never heard before. He stopped. I clapped. I whipped out a $20 bill and stuffed it into the tip jar. Tony and Charlie went nuts with thanks.

Ten minutes later, I walked out of the bookstore with Mark Twain and Elmore Leonard, two quality American heathens and blasphemers, and I looked up and saw Tony and Charlie entering a bar across the street.

I laughed. Several times. And said to myself aloud, “What a birthday present!”