The Frustrated Pianist

Scott stretched out his fingers and closed his eyes, the final bars of Fur Elise still humming in his hands. Quickly, before the feeling of elation could fade away Scott punched out the first stirring chords of Grieg's Piano Concerto in A Minor. As the music gained momentum at his fingertips Scott was swept away. If Für Elise had tangled him up in the clouds of a summer sky then Grieg's Piano Concerto sent him soaring above them. As the music gained momentum at his fingertips the daily grind fell away and there was nothing but Scott and the piano. Grieg's music twanged every nerve and Scott's heart and mind inflated. The thrill of playing the piece well was only a part of it. The act of playing it, of transforming those simple black dots into glorious sound, connected Scott to every other pianist who had ever played it. He felt as if he was sharing the experience with all of them across nations and centuries. Not just the pianists, but also with anyone who had ever lost themselves in listening to this particular piece of music, any soul that had been stirred by the melody. Even Grieg himself joined Scott at the piano as the music he was playing drowned him and there was nothing else but the music. Sometimes, when Scott played, memories were kicked up. Images triggered by the music flashed through his mind in three-dimensional technicolour. But not this time, this time the music overwhelmed him, carrying him with it wherever it went. He soared with the crescendos, he fell with the calandos The piece soared into the dramatic finish of the first movement and Scott stopped, his fingers frozen just above the keys, trying to hold on to the musical euphoria for as long as he could. He let out a breath and let his focus slide back to reality which grabbed him like gravity. The world was suddenly not alive with crashing chords and tripping arpeggios, it was a flat and featureless place. Scott's place in it, delivering fruit and vegetables, was small and grey instead of at the centre of a whirlwind of energy, life and music. It made him feel hollow and drained. Wherever he could find a piano Scott took the chance to play, these rare opportunities were the only thing that kept him halfway sane. Between times he felt like his head was in a vice, like he was wading through treacle, like he was living life in a thick fog. In the wake of the adrenaline rush brought on by the music was an exhausted despair. The mood swing was almost too much to bear, but it was familiar. Scott tried to swallow the unshed tears, stood up abruptly from the piano and grabbed his trolley. He'd been delivering to the Arts Centre, seen the piano on the empty stage and grabbed the opportunity while nobody was around. The trouble was, after the bright, shining dawn of the music came the crushing realisation that his life required no creative expression whatsoever. In the secret place in Scott's heart that he barely even admitted to himself he wanted to be a musician. He wanted to free his creative drives because only when he expressed himself did he feel alive. But he was afraid. The work of an artist, of any artist, was not a reliable one. At least you could rely on fruit and veg. People always needed fruit and veg. With his creativity suitably subdued, Scott tipped his trolley back and swivelled it around. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw a man wearing a sling on his right arm, standing in the wings and chewing his lip thoughtfully.
"That was really good." The man said, "Do you like Grieg?"
"Err... yes." Scott replied, "I mean, I do today. I'm fairly fickle where composers are concerned." The man laughed.
"It was good." The man said again, "Are you a pianist?" Scott shook his head and indicated the trolley.
"I'm the veg man." He explained, "Look, I'm sorry. It's just I saw the piano and I don't have one at home so I..." The man waved Scott into silence with his good arm.
"You don't have to apologise." He said, "Would you like a job?" Scott felt like he'd fallen asleep and missed a whole chunk of the conversation. He shook his head again lightly.
"A job?" He asked, bewildered.
"I'm the musical director here." The man explained and held up his bandaged arm, "I was in an accident so I won't be playing piano for quite some time. And somebody's got to." He stepped forward and put his good hand up to his mouth conspiratorially, "The director's son has played the last two performances and he can't even make chopsticks sound good." Scott laughed, then wondered if he should have, "So, do you want a job?" It sounded too good to be true, like someone had taken Scott's most secret, most desperately desired ambition and made it happen, "Unless you'd rather deliver vegetables." Scott looked from his trolley to the piano. He felt his whole life bunch up at this point. He could carry on being afraid and turn down this golden opportunity to play music and feel that elation every day and get paid for it. But he knew he couldn't, not while the echoes of the music still bounced around his soul. Scott didn't need to think very hard or for very long. He felt a jolt as his life switched rails and a brand new, wonderful day stretched ahead of him.