Medicate Your Lives (Frerard)

Chapter Five: Frank

Plink.
Plink.

There was clearly something wrong with the piano.

I was sitting at a black Steinway on a rickety bench that had obviously not seen any paint for many years. All the good benches were kept under lock and key in the back of the music store I was in -- they were valuable and easy to steal. However, trying to transport a grand piano would be quite conspicuous, not to mention nearly impossible, so they were allowed to remain on the main floor.

I tried the key again.

Plink.

Sighing, I stood and walked to the side of the piano. The heavy lid creaked as I slowly opened it and rested it on the stick.

An innocent pencil rolled down the strings.

I heard the bell jingle that indicated someone entering the store.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

I turned around quickly at the voice.

"Jesus, Frank, you gave me a heart attack. I didn't realize it was you," the old man said.

Clutching the cause of the piano's bad sound, I smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, Charles. I was just taking out this pencil. It must have fallen in while I was practicing."

Charles shook his head. "Remind me why I let you practice here again?"

"Because you love me and I'm a great student?" I gave him a wide smile.

Charles began shuffling towards the counter and clapped me on the shoulder. "You know it, kid."

I had known Charles for most of my life -- he was an old family friend and agreed to teach me after my mother had told him that she wanted me to play piano but couldn't afford lessons. We had an old upright at home, but I much preferred practicing on a grand. Later on, he introduced me to guitar.

I turned back to the piano began marking the section of the music I had stopped at. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Charles ruffling through music behind the counter. I envied his huge collection -- he had everything from Bach to Joplin to today's hits.

Pointing towards a sheet of music, he addressed me once again.

"Have you played this yet?" I squinted towards the title. Concerto in a minor. By Edvard Grieg.

"No, I don't think so."

"I should have given it to you a couple of years ago, but I think you'll like it. There's a competition in New York that you could win with it. There's a cash prize..." Charles grinned mischievously. "And some scouts from Juilliard will be there."

"Holy shit, are you serious? You think I could win it? When is it? How hard is the piece? I-"

"Don't worry, Frank. It's probably in about six months, but I'll check the exact date if you're interested. You'd have to work hard, but we can push the lessons up to twice a week."

"Oh my god, thank you so much," I practically squealed, hugging the old man. "Thank you, thank you, I swear I'll practice every single day."

Charles chuckled and ruffled my hair while I pulled out my staff notebook to start copying the piece down.

"Don't be crazy, Frank. That would take you days. Take it," Charles pushed the music towards me once again.

I took the book, my hands trembling. "Thank you," I whispered, running my hands over the indentions in the page.

I immediately turned it to the first page and began marking the fingerings.

---

It was late, but the trip to the park wasn't far. For a brief moment, I paused, remembering my own advice. I shouldn't be out this late... but I knew how to protect myself. It would be fine.

The night enveloped the town with a velvety darkness as, one by one, the few rusty streetlights still in working condition began to glow weakly.

The park was the perfect place to go if you didn't want to get caught -- it led straight to the woods, and most people were afraid to go near it if there was even a hint of darkness. It had become a spot where the local teenagers and college dropouts spent their nights, attempting to numb out the unbearable, inescapable feeling of being sucked into this town, just like our parents were. Now stuck here forever. Everyone speaks of tomorrow, but we all know its bullshit. No one is leaving this place.

As I reached its entrance, the crackling fire reached my ears. This was a normal occurrence. We would light a small bonfire a few steps into the woods to keep warm and to light our cigarettes that the insistent wind would so often carry away from our fingers.

My footsteps alerted them of my presence. They cheered my name, most of them slightly drunk.

"Tommy!" Fantastic. I was halfway hoping that they wouldn't be here, even though it was the reason I came.

"Hey," I mumbled, suddenly tired. They knew why I was here. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a crumpled bill. "Is this enough?"

"Sure, whatever. I'm feeling generous." He passed me a small plastic bag. "Knock yourself out," he sneered.

I turned away as soon as the bag brushed against my fingertips. Stuffing it into my jacket pocket, I quickly walked home, looking behind me frequently. It was nights like these I felt especially paranoid. As if the air could sense I was doing something wrong. One day I would stop.

Today was not that day.