Pianos, Wenches, and Anvils

The saloon was crowded that summer night. Hot too. I sweat all over the keys of that beat up piano while my fingers raced side to side, playing the jiggyest of jigs the town of Old Water had ever heard. Perhaps even the best the world had heard, if they listened to it. 

Men and women danced till their heart's gave out, literally. Some folks died right there on the saloon floor. It was how God wanted them to go I would like to think. 

Once I finished, and received my endless applause, I took my last swig of whiskey and began to leave, hearing the chanting of my name behind me. 

“Rocky Top Mathers! Rocky Top Mathers! Rocky Top Mathers!” 

They shouted it rhythmically, like in a song I would play. When I finally reached the moonlit air of the outside, it surprised me to come across a man blocking the journey to my rooms. It could’ve been the darkness of night, or the alcohol blurring my vision, but his face was a mystery to me. Though he definitely stood as if knowing me. 

“Something you need from me, partner?” I asked him. 

“What? Can’t say hello to an old friend?” He said, keeping his head below his brimmed hat. 

That voice! I thought to myself. 

He finally lifted his head so the moonlight revealed its features. It was instantly recognizable. 

“Vernon Randall McCall, you son of a bitch!” We embraced with a manly handshake. “My God, how long has it been?”

“Almost six years.” He said. 

“And what has Vernon Randall McCall been doing for the last six years? Improving his piano playing ability I hope.”

Vernon snickered to himself. “Improved? Try mastered.” 

I scoffed at his comment. “It takes a lifetime to master such things, let alone six years. You ain’t learned nothing?” 

“If you don’t believe me, stop by at the saloon across town. They’ve set me up to play most nights.” 

“Ah, some competition I see.” I was, at the time, genuinely pleased to hear it. “Old Water could use some more flavor in the mix. One musician and two saloons is not an optimal combination. I can’t be the only entertainment this town has, dammit. Tomorrow night, I’ll be there.” 

He tipped his hat to me.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I need some sleep, and would prefer not to vomit all over your seemingly new boots. Take care.” 

We parted ways. It was good to see my old friend after so long. Growing up in the east, we listened to every musician we could, learning their ways. Sometimes even sneaking into places we shouldn’t to catch a tune or two. By God, we got into trouble then. I can only pray he doesn’t bring that past trouble with him. 

On the following day, I rested from playing my own melodies and traveled across town to see if Vernon Randall McCall was as good as he claimed to be. I approached the swinging doors of the Wild Feather Saloon and could already hear Vernon on the keys. It sounded distinctly like how I would play; rapidly and in the upper register. But something was missing, something important.

When I stepped inside, I remembered why I didn’t frequent this place. The patrons were all too serious, itching to jam a bullet into somebody because of one odd look. They played cards in the corner for hours at a time, barely saying a word. Not my sort of place. No one was even dancing. Ridiculous. 

I thought it best to not interrupt my dear friend and let him work, to see how he was naturally. As Vernon made some questionable song choices, I made chit chat with the wenches sauntering about. Their names were unfamiliar to me, which was damn near a crime in my book. In a town of a hundred or so folks, I should know everybody by name, for they sure knew me. 

As that thought trailed through my noggin, it dawned on me what the issue with Vernon’s playing was. He may have had the technical ability, but there was no ‘feel’. He did not build energy with the audience, only himself. Perhaps why even I wasn’t engaged. In a crowd such as this, he should’ve known better than to be selfish. 

It was never easy to read an audience, to work with their emotions and desires, but any so-called ‘master’ would have known better. 

In due time, I saw a few stomping their feet, but no heart attacks like I managed the night prior. A shame really, for Vernon. He finished up, bowed to measly clapping, and walked to meet me by the bar. 

“So, improved a lot since you last saw me, didn’t I?” Vernon said smugly, as if my socks were blown off. They were, in fact, still squarely secured on my person. 

“That was some mighty fine playing. You and I have come a long way. Though there is one thing I should advise on.” I hesitated before going into the details. I remembered how poorly Vernon Randall McCall reacted to criticism. But being a close friend of his, I assumed he could handle it and I divulged my thoughts. 

A good chunk of time was spent getting into the intricacies of it all, so much so the wenches got bored and walked away from us. Their loss. Vernon spoke not a word while I gave him the blueprint to piano playing glory. He seemed more interested in the bottom of his glass than what I had to tell him. But there were no cursing or physical attacks when I finished, as I’ve seen him do in the past. 

“Thanks, Rocky. I’ll work on it.” He said in a kind voice. After picking up his hat he traveled upstairs to his rooms and fled from sight. 

It was a strange interaction, I’ll admit. I expected to at least be able to talk to the bastard about what he’d been up to for six years. Maybe those years had changed him. Perhaps he really was going to think about what I said to him, and dare I say it, improve further. 

The Wild Feather Saloon was boring me into a slumber, so I left, back to my side of town. 

Now, I would consider myself a blessed man. Of course, one has to be to claim godly musical abilities as I do. But the following days were some of the unluckiest a man could go through. 

My horse ended up breaking an ankle, even though I seldom ever ride her. A snake appeared in my boot, the rattling kind. An anvil nearly fell atop my head walking to the outhouse. No clue what an anvil was doing there, or how, but I’ve learned not to ask questions. It ain’t called the ‘Wild West’ for nothing. 

Most egregious of all though, was someone tampering with my piano. You don’t go touching another man’s instrument, and yet some ruffian did. Done loosened up all the pins creating sounds causing a few to throw up their breakfast. 

It was during the repairs which my mind began to wonder, was all of this connected? Perhaps, but who the hell would have it out for me, Rocky Top Mathers, best musician the west had or will ever see? If any ruffian had qualms with me, they would settle it in violence, via a duel, or by a more rambunctious destruction of my piano. The gears in my brain spun, and conjured an answer. No one else would know to make a fool of me by loosening every pin in my piano. No one except — Vernon Randall McCall. 

He wouldn’t dare, would he? All over a critique, and a helpful one at that. I wouldn’t believe it, not for a long time, nor would I tell anyone. His reputation I held dear and did not wish to see him get shot down in the streets. I also wasn’t entirely convinced. Vernon did not have the physique to lift an anvil above an outhouse, so perhaps all of this was God smiting me. 

I saw Vernon often the following days, trying to catch something off, but seemed himself, shocked even by my stories.

His reputation as the new musician in town was growing, and was getting fans of his own. Hopefully his envious tendencies would ease from this, if it was him.

One night, I would have the answers. He visited my saloon when I was on top of my game, and saw the difference in emotion of the crowd. He had disgust all over his face. Not because my playing was poor, it wasn’t, but because I could do what he couldn’t. Sure, he would act cheery after the fact, but I knew his true feelings. If he simply listened to what I told him, he could be controlling a crowd’s movements as easy as spotting sand in the desert. 

Vernon clearly had enough of me showing him up, so he bought me a drink from the bar. An expensive whiskey not many had. He wasn’t aware I was watching him, but I saw what he did. Cross my heart and hope to die, honest to God he put something in my drink before walking it to me. I was dumbfounded. 

Still, I dared not make a scene. I accepted his gracious gift and pretended to take a sip, barely letting the liquid touch my lips. He watched eagerly, waiting for something to happen. 

From my time spent amongst the Navajo tribe, which was a tale for another day, I recognized the concoction as a mixture of Wild Heliotrope and Northern Red Oak. Nasty business. One to cause hallucinations and even death, depending on the ingested amount. 

This treachery cut me to my core. I could not even look at him. 

Leaving without a word, I fled to find my favorite woman, Anne. It was only to her, in the confines of my room, that I would confide in her the details of Vernon’s dastardly deeds. I needed someone, anyone to tell, though I still wished for it to be kept secret. Surely, the more violent bunch would gun Vernon down in a heartbeat. I must have forgotten that Anne was a wench and spoke to every other man in town throughout the week of every secret she hears. 

It was not out of hatred for Vernon which she dispelled his doings, it was simply in the nature of a wench to speak of town rumors, and wench talk spread like bushfire. 

Due to my popularity with the people, a slight against me was a slight against them. They rallied and drove Vernon Randall McCall from town. I didn't even get a chance to speak to him about it. 

The townsfolk all thought they had won a victory as celebrations ensued. But I only grew more sad by the minute. There were not many in this world I would call a friend, and I had just lost one, perhaps forever. 

Weeks went by, not hearing any word of where Vernon might have gone. Not until Anne acted less spritely than usual, meaning something was amiss. It took some convincing, but she told me in her recent excursion to the town of Tumbleweed she had run into Vernon. He played his little heart out, giving the people an enjoyable jig. But all he received in return was an arrangement of comments all saying the same thing. “That was good, but it ain’t no Rocky Top Mathers.” 

“I just had to speak with him.” Anne told me. “I could see the sorrow in his eyes, the same sorrow which fills yours. It pained me too much to see it. I got down on my knees and begged him to come back to Old Water. I told him you two could make up, work with one another, be better playing together. He could show the people he wasn’t a monster, and show them he was just as good a musician as you are. I could tell his spirits were lifted, but I do not know if my advice was taken, or if he would return.” 

It seemed Anne had cozied up to Vernon much more than I thought while he was in Old Water. Whatever, that’s how wenches were. I couldn’t be mad of their nature. 

Though my spirits would lift as well if Vernon returned, since our plan as youngsters was to play together one day. Such a thing never came to fruition as we parted ways too soon. 

I kept my eye watchful on the town entrance, to see if Vernon had what it took to make things right. One day, it pleased me and surprised me to see Vernon Randall McCall strolling back into Old Water. He made his features unobvious to not attract the wrong attention. But it was clear to me. 

We didn’t say a word when we spotted one another. I didn’t quite know what to say to a man that attempted killing me. 

“If you got iron,” He said, finally, “don’t go pulling it on me just yet.”

“I ain’t got no iron. Though I should knock a tooth or two from that skull of yours.” I said without hesitation. 

“I wouldn’t blame you.”

“So, were you the one to tinker with my piano?” 

He lowered his head. “Regretfully.” 

“And the snake?”

“Yup.”

“Anvil too?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Anvil? I don’t know nothing about no anvil.”

Damn, that really was God, then. 

Vernon got off his horse and strolled towards me. “Why don’t we discuss some things over a drink. Give me a chance to apologize, will ya?” 

Slowly, I nodded. We both walked into Bob’s saloon with the piercing stares of everyone inside. Some were confused about why Vernon would return, others holding their tongues and fists from lashing out against him. 

They all watched as we talked for a long while. He explained to me the jealousy within him and how it was no easy thing to let go of. I told him it was difficult to forgive someone willing to poison you over playing the piano, no matter how damn good I played it. 

No conclusions were reached, none but one. That we had to play a number together, the two of us. To work as one and cement the names of Rocky Top Mathers and Vernon Randall McCall as the team which shook the ears of west and be remembered in its head for ages. 

Adding someone else into one’s arrangement after playing alone for so long was a bit of a wonky feeling. But masters adapted quickly, and so I did. I hoped Vernon did his best to do the same. 

“What are we playing?” He asked. 

“Whatever they want.” I motioned my head to everyone watching. 

To be frank, I didn’t know what the hell I was going to play. Though, that was usually when the greatest of feats occurred naturally. So I played, and Vernon followed. 

Heads began to bob, feet began to move, it wasn’t long before hips shook and the men twirled the women. Drinks spilt and glass shattered. Chairs were knocked over. This was an affair of high emotions which everyone enjoyed. I even noticed an old woman nearing her eighties dancing atop the bar. 

By the time it was all over, the people gave their standing, or collapsed on the floor, ovations. Just as it had always happened, the chant of my name began. 

“Rocky Top Mathers! Rocky Top Mathers! Rocky Top Mathers!” 

I couldn’t help but be carried away by the energy. They lifted me up in the air, paraded me around the saloon, only dropping me due to their drunken foolishness. 

“I know all that playing was you, Rocky.” A man with little teeth expressed to me. “You ain’t need that Vernon devil at all. No reason for him even to be here.” 

His thoughts were echoed amongst the others in the saloon. 

My own ignorance of fun blinded me to the fact that Vernon was not celebrated alongside me. Before I could reprimand the rude words coming out of the minimally toothed man, I heard the distinct ‘click’ a pistol made when its hammer was cocked from behind me. My gut told me it was Vernon about to blast the rude man away. I turned, attempting to stop him, only to see the barrel of the gun pointing at my head. 

That same expression of disgusted envy which I had seen earlier was painted across Vernon’s face yet again. It was the last thing my eyes would ever see. The bullet from Vernon’s gun sprung out of the barrel and into my brain, splattering them all over the walls and some unlucky patrons. 

Quite the shame, to die like that. I reckoned I had at least another few good years in me. But it wasn’t so, nothing I could do about it. 

Vernon looked down at me, the friend he killed, and there was relief. The envy was too strong in him for any self control to take over. 

My death was swiftly avenged by every able bodied person in Old Water. He was hogtied and thrown in a jail cell. In the morning, Vernon Randall McCall was read his crimes, preached to by the priest, and hanged at the gallows in front of the eager eyes of the entire town. 

Decades would pass. Vernon Randall McCall was not a name anyone remembered and only a few would remember the name Rocky Top Mathers. But that mattered not. I fathered many children in my living days, and a hundred years later my legacy in music would live on, in none other than Marshall Bruce Mathers III. In his time, he would be known as ‘Eminem’. Hopefully he knew better than I to trust a wench with secrets, and to befriend the violent jealous types.