Bill steps back and to take a look about, as if looking for an answer. The street is dying down after a day of activities. The traffic is sparser than an hour before, and voices less hurried. At Bill�s feet is an old book of matches; he gives it a kick and with that he makes his choice. He turns back to the door and enters.
Dolan�s Pub is rather small and dimly lit, much like any other barroom. There is the bar, to the right of the room, and round tables to fit four, on the left. The walls are covered with ancient license plates and framed black and white photos. The photos host the Dolan Family or sports figures, such as Larry Bird or Jim Rice. There is also a large photo signed by John F. Kennedy behind the bar for all to see. Yet, this is not just any other bar in the city. On the far end of the room is a small raised platform, on which is a grand piano. It shines brightly like a star in the gloom that surrounds it. It�s Bill�s home, if there is such a place.
The old man at the bar swings his head at the sound of Bill�s entrance, and his face lights up for a moment. �Well, la la la de de da, if it ain�t the piano man,� the old-timer slurs through gin-tainted breath.
�How�s life been treating you?� Bill asks the old man. He takes the stool next to him and pats the man on his hunched back.
�Just fine, Billy-bob-boy-bill,� he replies. He chases his nonsense with a sip of the tonic drink and then smiles at Bill. The glass he holds slowly slides from his hand. Bill grabs the glass before it drops.
�You drunk all ready?� Bill asks. He sets the glass on the bar top out of the reach of the old man.
�Yessir,� the old man says. He swipes at his glass, but realizes it�s too far away for him to pick up. �I ain�t got nothing better to do, ever since that Cindy left me.� He pounds his fists on the bar, sending a bowl of peanuts scattering. �Goddamn that broad!�
�Now, now, old-timer. I�ve heard of your Cindy. And it seems to me that she didn�t leave because she wanted to.�
�Those are lies. Lies I tell you,� the old man says angrily. He relaxes a bit after making his point. �Mind sending my drink this way?�
Bill slides the glass back to the man. The old man lifts it to his nearly toothless mouth and pours the clear liquid down his throat.
Bill studies the man with quick, sharp eyes. He leans closer to the man and speaks calmly, in a light voice that grabs the man�s attention. �Now, I know that most keep out of your business �cause they think you�re a lost cause. But I don�t think that, old man, I think that you just need someone to point you in the right direction.� Bill pauses for a moment, letting his words sink in. �Cindy has passed on, she didn�t leave you. God picked her frail body up in his loving arms and took her to her new home. As soon as you accept that, things will be much better.� Bill sits up straight on the stool and watches the old man, waiting to see if his words will help.
The old man looks up from his empty glass and Bill sees a tear well up in the wrinkled corner of his eye. He looks away from Bill as the tears fill his glass. The door behind the bar swings open and a young man with strong features walks out.
�Bill, you�re here,� the man says. �Why don�t you come around back and I�ll get you a meal.�
�Thanks, Jonathan,� Bill says. He gets up and leaves the old man to his mourning.
The kitchen is very small. The only food that the bar offers is appetizers, there is no need for a larger kitchen. Jonathan gets busy making a hamburger and fries, and Bill sits at the counter.
�You shouldn�t bother with the old man,� Jonathan says. He nudges the cooking meat with the tip of a spatula. �He�s too old to face such a change in his life.�
Bill runs a hand through his sparse hair and looks up at Jonathan to study him. Jonathan is in his late twenties, and looks a lot like his father. He has sharp features and a warm smile. He has almost olive-colored skin and rich brown hair. He normally has a very welcoming face, but his brow is of lately wrinkled, as if in thought.
�What�s wrong, Jonathan?�
Jonathan huffs at the question and flips the burger. �It�s this place,� he says, �it�s killing me.� Jonathan drops the fries into hot oil and they hiss at him loudly. �I don�t belong here. Don�t get me wrong. I love it here, and I love the people even more, but I just don�t belong here. All my life I�ve dreamt of being in the movies. Of acting and being famous. But now I�m stuck here.� He takes the burger off the grill and sets it on a bun.
�Just because your father left you this place, it doesn�t mean you�re stuck here.�
Jonathan shakes his head and sets the plate of food in front of Bill. �What should I do? Sell the place and my father�s name with it?�
�No, of course not,� Bill says. �Find someone who can run it in your place. Then you�ll be free to follow your dreams. I�m sure it�s what he�d want.� He stops there and begins to eat his dinner.
The sound of voices flows into the kitchen as the waitress, Mel, walks in. She is a tall woman with amber hair. She�s a wonderful waitress, who works efficiently. But, when politics is brought up in a conversation, she is bound to forget her customers and give a speech about the current debates.
�It�s nine o�clock,� she says, �and the crowds are arriving.�
�I gotta go, Bill,� he says, �but I do believe you are right.� Jonathan leaves the kitchen with his gentle smile once again on his face.
Mel looks at him as he exits, probably wondering what he meant by that and if it had anything to do with her. She turns to Bill, who is still eating. �You look spiffy this evening,� she says.
�Well, Saturdays are my biggest nights. I got a shower and shave before coming here.� Bill throws the plate in the trash when he finishes and then stands.
�You know, Bill, I don�t know much about you. Where is it that you live?� Mel asks.
Bill seems to ponder the question a moment before answering. �I�m afraid you wouldn�t know the area. It�s not the nicest place in the city, as a matter of fact it�s kind of a slum.�
�You see,� Mel says, �that�s the kind of thing that I can�t stand. The mayor doesn�t blink at expensive dinners with clientele on tax money, but he can�t find the funds to fix up the lower-class parts of the city.�
Before she can go on with her speech, the door opens and Jonathan�s head pops into the kitchen. �Hey Bill, the old man wants to talk to you.�
Bill nods to Jonathan and then turns to Mel. �Maybe we can finish this talk later, I have to get to my job.� After Mel shakes her head in agreement Bill leaves the kitchen.
The barroom is beginning to fill up as Bill walks in. The old man is at one side of the bar, no longer drinking. There are also two familiar faces at the other side, talking with each other. Sitting around one of the tables are three business-looking men enjoying a drink after work. Bill walks to the old man and raises an eyebrow to him.
�You are a wise young man,� he says, �being able to teach even the oldest, most stubborn man about life. With your suggestion I am going home to sleep. I�m afraid I won�t being seeing you anymore.� His voice is still slurred with alcohol, but his logic is back. �My Cindy wouldn�t want me to spend the rest of my life in a bar mourning her. So now I�m gonna find out what else my life holds for me. Would you mind singing me one last song before I leave?�
�An offer I can�t refuse,� Bill says. He makes his way across the barroom, even more full by now. He stops at the piano and sits down. As he begins to warm up a little, the chatter in the pub quiets and all eyes look on him.
Bill begins to sing a song that he knows well. It�s a sad song, but sweet all the same. All talk in the house halts and everyone�s eyes watch as Bill�s fingers move majestically across the keys. His eyes are closed and he sings with a calming voice. Everyone in the pub forgets about their problems. When his fingers stop making love to the piano and silence fills the room, he looks to the door and sees the old man walking out and into the world once more.
Since it is his job to do so, Bill continues to play his instrument. They have a relationship like mother and son, and together their voices stay all sullen moods. Throughout the evening, Bill goes through his normal repertoire. The patrons of Dolan�s Pub drink their drinks as heads sway to the heavenly music. Between each song strangers walk up to the piano and place tips in the large glass that sits on the open fallboard. Bill gives them a wink and a smile, and then goes back to his playing.
At the end of a long set Bill stands and walks to the bar. He sits next to the two men he recognized earlier. They turn and greet him with smiles.
�You�re playing beautifully tonight,� one of the men says. He�s wearing slacks and a corduroy suit jacket. In his right hand a cigarette exhales smoke and in the other he nestles dark ale.
�Thank you, Joseph,� Bill says. �How�s the novel coming along?�
�Actually, Bill, I�m a little stuck. But maybe you can help me out.�
�Well, I�ll try my best.� Bill looks up as Jonathan sets a glass of red wine in front of him. �Thank you, Jonathan,� he says.
Jonathan leans forward a little, for the voices had been getting progressively louder since Bill stopped playing. �It�s the least I can do. You�re a godsend, Bill, you really are. You come in here and please my troubled mind. You attract a crowd that fills my cash register. And in return all you ask for is tips and a meal.� A customer calls on Jonathan. He smiles at Bill and then straightens to leave.
�Jonathan,� Bill says, �seeing your smile is more than enough payment for the little work I do.�
Jonathan shakes his head like he doesn�t know what to say to that, and walks to his thirsty patron.
Just then, Joseph slams his palm on the bar top. �I got it,� he announces. �Bill, do you mind if I write you up as a character in my book? You�d be perfect!�
�As far as I know,� Bill says, �there�s no copyright on my personality.�
�Thanks, you�re a real pal.� Joseph downs his drink and stands up. He pulls out his wallet and throws an old twenty next to his empty glass. With a slap to Bill�s back he walks out of the bar like a man on a mission.
Bill gets up from his stool and sits down again next to the other man. The other man is clad in a navy uniform and staring into his beer bottle. When Bills sits, the navy man looks up and offers him a smile.
�How goes it, Davy?� Bill asks.
�I can�t complain.�
�Really, then why the mug face?�
�Oh, I don�t know. Tired of where I am, I guess,� Davy says. He brings the bottle to his mouth and takes a large gulp. He scans the pub, as if searching for something, and then returns to his stared-down with the bottle.
Bills checks out the place too, looking for what Davy was eyeing. �I don�t see what�s wrong. I like Dolan�s atmosphere.�
�No, not the bar. Where I am in life,� Davy says suddenly. He sloshes back his drink and then wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his uniform. He looks at Bill with pleading eyes and then his rugged shoulders crumble. �I�m tired of being alone.�
�Ah,� Bill says. �You�ve got the bachelor blues. I should have seen it earlier.� Bill looks around the pub again, this time seeing what he�s looking for. �Look here, Davy. Do you like politics?� he asks.
�Do kangaroos� tails get in the way when they screw?�
�Well, I guess so,� Bill says, �but talk like that isn�t gonna get you anywhere.� Bill pauses a moment, contemplating Davy�s remark, and then shakes his head. �Anyway, I got just the woman for you.� Bill stands up and then calls to Mel, who�s waiting on a bunch of businessmen across the room. When she finishes taking their order, she walks through the small crowd to get to Bill.
�Yes, Bill?�
�I�ve this friend here who�s looking for someone to talk to.� He steps back and they introduce each other. �He says that he�s interested in what the mayor is doing to help solve poverty, and I told him that I have just the person for him to talk to.�
Mel sets her serving tray on the bar, and opens her mouth, as if to start a long speech.
�Well,� Bill interrupts, �I must get back to my merry music making. You kids have a fun time.�
Bill walks away then. People notice as he approaches the piano and hush. As he sits down, a dim face in the crowd calls out a request, and to everyone�s delight he fulfills it. The pub is once again lulled into a mellow mood. People forget their conversations and drinks for a while. They�re transported into a world created by Bill.
Slowly throughout the late hours of the night men and women get drunk, the bar gets crowded, and Bill�s tip jar fills up. Bill plays on, taking little notice of the people around him, but one with them through his music. Once in a while he looks up, and receives a smile from Jonathan. They both know that Bill is the reason that the patrons are there. Bill also takes intermittent looks at Davy, and sees that Mel stops and talks with him whenever she has a minute. A smile blooms on Bill�s face as he plays his instrument as fluidly as water.
By the time it�s early morning and last call, Bill�s fingers are crying for rest. Only the most diehard drinkers are still in the bar, which is gloomier than ever. Bill pauses a moment before playing his last song. Wine swims in his brain, and the stage lights buzz loudly in his ears. He looks into the smoke-shrouded room and sees only a few people. John and Mel stand behind the bar watching Bill keenly. Randomly placed about the tables are happy drunks and sleeping drunks.
He turns and plays his departing song, as he calls it. It is better known as the �Theme Song to Cheers.� Halfway through the song Jonathan brightens the lights so that he can begin to clean and wake up the sleeping drunks.
As the last chord of the song fades away to nothing Bill stands and stretches. He takes the money out of the tip jar and shoves it into his pocket. Bill closes the fallboard and the weathered keys are forgotten until another night. He turns from his piano and walks off the little raised platform.
�We�ll be done cleaning in a few minutes. Want me to give you a lift?� Jonathan asks.
�No thanks,� Bill says, �I�ll just be on my way now.� He pauses for a moment then adds more. �I like walking home.�
�Well then, good night, Bill,� Mel says.
�See you tomorrow night,� Bill replies.
Mel follows him to the door. When the door closes behind him, the �open� sign is flipped around to �closed,� and the neon light flickers out. Before he begins his walk, he looks up at the sign one last time. It�s his way of saying goodnight.
Bill starts his walk down the sidewalk. There is a cool breeze foreboding the oncoming fall. The streets are empty and a piece of paper scratches its way down the pavement. Far off a door slams, someone getting home after a late night on the town. Bill watches his feet as he makes his way down the familiar street.
�Hey mister, got some change?� a voice says.
Bill looks to his right and sees a figure huddled on the ground. It�s a young lady with a grimy face and ratty hair. Her clothes are browned and her eyes sunken in. She stinks of trash and body odor. It isn�t someone that Bill recognizes. He reaches into his pocket and takes out the wad of money he made that night. He hands it over to the lady, and nods for her to take it.
Her voice sings out with excitement. �Thank you mister, and may God bless your soul.�
�No, my lady,� he says, �God bless your soul.�
Without another word Bill continues on his walk, and his smile returns to his face. It�s just another good deed for the day. It warms his heart and makes him forget his own problems when he helps out another. That�s why singing has always been his favorite thing to do.
Bill finds himself at the mouth of a dark alley. He takes a look up and down the street and then fades into that darkness. In the black shadow that�s created by the tall buildings on either side Bill feels his way along the alley. At last he finds the spot he is looking for. A blanket set upon a few layers of cardboard, hidden behind a forgotten Dumpster.
Bill lays himself on the smooth cardboard bed and snuggles deeply into the blanket. As sleepiness flows over him, Bill wonders how long it will take for people to realize that they are in the presence of God�s second son. He falls asleep then, with the voice of the young lady blessing him.