I remember waking up very early one morning for a business trip, taking black car service to Washington’s Union Station from my home in the Virginia suburbs, and boarding an Amtrak train bound for Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, ultimately arriving at an upscale, vacuous city-block hotel.  I would not be expected to make an appearance with the customer until cocktail hour, and my manager, who was local, was to meet up with me and take me to a favorite pizza place for lunch.

The hotel was not ready for me at the hour of my arrival, and despite a frequent guest card and a stated preference for early check-in, I was politely requested to wait in the lobby for a room to become available. Sometime thereafter my manager rang to let me know he was caught up in meetings and our lunch would be later than expected. Had I realized that my wait would entail hours of free time, I might have blown off both the hotel and my manager to strike off in search of the Liberty Bell.

Alas, I found myself not in a position to freewheel, so I passed time in the lobby of the hotel instead. I will say, however, it was excellent for people watching—especially from my cushy chair on what might have been a raised seating level, if memory serves. Eventually, a small group of hotel guests caught my attention. In my recollection, the group was composed of two or three men and perhaps a woman, and they could be described generally as young professionals. One of the guys approached the idle grand piano that was situated enticingly in the middle of the hard stone floor of the lobby. He took a seat on the bench and, without fanfare, began playing.

There is a reason that Curtis Helm, in my novel Timing, plays piano. There is just something about a man who can play piano (Thom Yorke, Chris Martin…). Not in the ker-plunk-ety-plunk picking-through-the-notes-and-just-getting-by way. Rather, in the, “Wow, he really knows what he’s doing” way. This guy, not un-handsome, dressed a dark business suit, was not being paid to play yet did so easily, and confidently. It was very appealing and I became an instant fan. Understandably, he began to draw a small crowd, naturally including his own friends.

It was at this time that I noticed the pianist’s chubby, slightly sloppy friend. The guy was leaning over the piano near the keyboard, smiling, and enjoying the attention. At length, the pianist completed his set (for he had played several tunes), rose and accepted the audience’s applause, then vacated the piano rather unceremoniously—as if he was ready to move on to the next wonderful, surprising thing he might be good at. But, apparently, his friend was still riding the high of such an impromptu enjoyment of music, and so he took a seat at the piano and started to finger the keys clumsily.

It was then that I wrote this piece, which I came across a few days ago during a cleaning exercise:

The overweight friend hovered over the piano with an air of command, trying to glean some of the attractiveness of talent from the guy who could actually play it.

11/01/04, 1:06 p.m., Wyndham Hotel, Philadelphia, PA