Easy & Slow

Jack sat at his bench, as he did each night, and he considered smashing his head through the keys. No. This time, he wished the weight of the piano would be too much for the stained carpeting to bear and the gorgeous 1969 Steinway would fall all the way down to the first floor as a result. That’s where the ugliest, cheapest gamblers played. It would crush a few of them - if he was so lucky.

Things were so different, now. Jack didn’t enjoy these recurring violently insipid thoughts and he really didn’t enjoy the pleasure it brought him. But, he saw no use in fighting them any longer. Jack closed his eyes and gave the empty lounge room an accompaniment of a song nobody in this casino would remember. Dim lights cast shadows across the white face of his piano as he looked around the room for any type of fleeting glance. None met him in his pursuit. There was hatred behind every swipe and he imagined eternal doom preceding each of his notes. A young woman entered the lounge; her mascara ran down her cheeks in a stereotypically tragic way. Jack felt no sympathy for her - she was one of many girls that had been run through the cyclone of Reno hopes. Dime a dozen in this town - Jack played a happy song as she cried alone. With each tear, he was transported to some forgotten past. A smiled peered outside an inescapable chasm of hurt. From the view of his piano, Jack had witnessed so many women cry and he’d seen even more approach the bench with sad, pathetic, last-ditch desires to make a quick dollar off the ugly piano man. Never did he bite; many women went hungry on to the strip, away from his comped room - fading from their supposed salvation. 

“"Tea For The Tillerman" is too short to be considered a true, authentic song,” his breath stank like budget cigs, “and, anyway, it’s a dumb hippie manifesto, Jack.” Jack glared at Joshua Albert, his pompous and well-loathed boss - whatever that meant these days. Jack couldn’t hazard a response for fear of his paycheck. “Happy day, my ass. You know who buys steak? And I mean the big primo steaks, here,” Albert sighed, “well, it’s men like me and you, Jack… Honest men,” he snickered, “so let’s do some honest work, huh?”

It was a Friday night, as it often was, and Jack hoped for some type of crowd. The faces didn’t matter - young, old, black, white, exotic, he’d take whoever would listen to a tune. Nobody showed. As always, his main listener was Roseann. Roseann was the bartender up on the third floor, an old kook that mostly served her friends free of charge. Jack strolled by the counter for a Tom Collins. So what? Fuck off - he’s cutting down on booze. Roseann well obliged and put in her usual request - “Aubry”. Jack didn’t care for “Aubry” and felt the power of it came from the lyrics, rather than the melody, but he gave Roseann whatever she requested. So, he played “Aubry” and he smiled towards the bar, as he imagined some yuppie dropping a couple dollars in her jar, and for some reason that brought Jack a type of joy. The same type of joy he sought from the imaginary death of casino guests. She hummed unrelentingly as the song came to close; when silence filled the room, she housed a shot of gin. Jack laughed at that, shouting across the vacant floor - “Really… Gin?”.

Roseann would’ve drank anything with a spout. They shared a smile. In a glance, Jack saw his reflection bleed out beneath beautiful craftsmanship. It all poured out of his lips; choking on the irony of his guilt. Closer to her than to him, Jack closed off the keys in a hurry. 

Hidden deep in the bowels of The Alamo Casino, there’s a skinny little closet that houses a number of different costumes for daily use - Jack’s tuxedo hung stiffly here for a few decades. The Alamo is too cheap to pay any mind to the incessant requests for a double XL tux, maybe in white this time, and so Jack is stuck with a waistcoat designed for the hips of a younger man, a slimmer man. It’s bulging, it’s awkward, it’s somehow loose in only the wrong areas, and really it’s a complete embarrassment that he must bear to the public each and every night. Most of the casino guests are bulging, awkward creatures themselves, and that eases his self conscious torment, but the young ones hurt. It was football playoffs, January or so. Frothing groups of kids, mostly college students run off with daddy’s money, had taken over The Alamo to toss around their dollars inside the newly-created sportsbook lounge. Joshua Albert was thrilled at the sight of it, and his boss was likely somewhere orgasming at what he hoped to be the revival of youth-oriented gambling. Hell, even Jack was glad to see some adolescent energy vibrating throughout the building. It didn’t last; one of them pointed at Jack’s shitty, ill-fitting outfit and laughed loudly, slapping the back of his other drunk frat pals to make sure they, too, saw the old freak covered in lumps. 

“Some of these shitheads don’t even wear pants, Al. I mean… the fucking gall to walk around a casino in trunks and some sandals - as if they’re on a fucking beach vacation in Jersey Shore,” he spoke from the corroded center of his bruised ego, “and they’re probably placing dollar bets.”

“Jack, don’t you ever get tired of being so damn crotchety and spiteful? They’re kids - they don’t have self control,” Albert smirked, “that’s good for us - real good.”

“You don’t get it, Al. Look at their tickets, I’d bet you it’s all baby shit prop bets. This generation is full of pussies and losers, and not even our type of losers - true, real life deadbeats.”

Jack’s stomach poured out beneath his off-white dress shirt; his own boss pitied him. 

That was three years ago. 

There’d been worse guests, since, and even more despicable coworkers. A wayward croupier working off a travel visa almost slit Jack’s carotid artery, he’d been jumped by a dishwasher in the parking garage, and plenty of waitresses dreamt of beating his ass. They were all animals to him. On so many nights, there were wishes for an empty lounge; better yet, a casino filled only with women who desired him and men who worked beneath him. His former wish had come true, now - The Alamo was crumbling. These living, breathing nuisances that Jack had forever hated, all of it in delusions of earnest rage, turned out to be the only reason for his survival. He was a bullet without a target; a gun with no trigger. 

Dr. Jerry Buss was a personal hero of Jack Robechau - he admired the dramatics of that era. It was never about Magic, or Kareem, or McKinney, and it was definitely not about Paula Abdul - it was always about Jerry Buss. Look at the L.A. Lakers without him - nothing. Gamblers, of all creeds, suffered the ceaseless ranting of how one man revolutionized the sport of basketball - that the game, now, was a disgrace of what it once represented and anyone who bet on it was a fool; but all they had wanted was a song or two. One of the few tears to ever grace the cheek of Jack came courtesy of Jerry Buss’s death - 80 years old, a miracle for his lifestyle. That was 2013, and Jack himself was now 58 years old, but he felt older than Buss and had lived a whole lot less in life. 58 years of disappointment, 30 of them spent as the angry, drunken piano man. 

Every request felt stale now. He longed for the desires of simple interest. His piano would play classic renditions of some top fifty hits so long as it meant someone was there to listen. Desperately seeking warm bodies, hoping for anyone present enough to feel emotion towards his performance. All he wanted was a reaction; let them all boo, if that’s what it took. There was now a sense of power to those he had once treated so cruelly, and yet, they would never know it. He pondered that idea from the edge of his bench, exploring feelings that had been liquidly repressed; guilt that had been drowned even deeper, until he realized that the solution required abilities beyond him, beyond man. Too much time had passed and too many guests had long cashed out.

Jack waltzed into The Alamo, as he had done for the past twenty or thirty years, and expected a day no less different than the others. Joshua Albert would greet him at the door, and his boss would debrief him on the day’s trivialities, while Roseann would wash away the stresses brought upon his tense shoulders - she knew the value of letting him sink into a song; but also, the dangers of him drowning in yet another sad melody.

Today was different. 

Today was not that day. 

A 2007 Yoshida Sing-a-long 3000x sat still in the Empire Lounge. It hummed idly as Jack entered the room. Joshua Albert teased him with each step; his breath tracing every footprint. 

“Well, Jackie, you’re looking at the future of music, man. This shit is automated to a fault,” he giggled, that awful fucking childish laugh, “and nobody misses a request on this thing. No complaints - that’s new for us.” He cackled loudly. 

Jack was a few seconds away from permanently wiping away the grin off his ugly, rat-like face. “I’d take it you know what this means,” he exclaimed loudly, “but I’ll let you know - we need to talk, Jackie.” Communal sighs. “We’ve really appreciated everything you’ve given us these years, Jackie…” A deep, vengeful inhalation. 

“Jack… call me Jack, you piece of shit,” he responded with pure vile interlaced within spit, “and I don’t thank you for shit, you fucking prick”.

Albert nearly leaped back in shock. “Jack, we’ve given you a home here for what? I mean, we’re clocking almost 40 years these days,” he scoffed as a point, “the kids don’t want to hear some sad piano garbage - they want something new and hip. You’re not hip, Jackie. You never were, man,” he sighed deeply, “listen, I'm truly sorry about this, and I hope you find yourself on better feet but there’s no need for sour grapes, brother.”

Fractured skulls, sweat mixed within blood, Jack pictured every bit of damage. He wanted to grab Joshua Albert by the temples and show him what it meant to be a man; the violent actions it took to achieve a respectable sense of masculinity. Jack wanted to split his head open clean and he’d have done that in his younger years, but he chose to walk away, because he feared what it would’ve meant towards his life in Reno. A quick breeze slapped the back of his tight tuxedo; the ornate doors met him from behind. Albert would fall - it was a certainty. He’d crumble, as classless goons like him always did, and when he’d search for the pieces of some long gone old-school dynasty, Jack wouldn’t be there to save him. Men like that always bury themselves under the soil of progression; Jack was comfortable dying alongside classic tradition. Pity me when you drown; just don’t beg as you gasp for air, he thought. Fucking businessmen. They weren’t worth a dime in his town, God willing. 

It was a Saturday night and The Alamo was packed. Jack was nowhere to be seen; he’d been fired three years ago and none of the guests missed him - the weekend crowd didn’t remember a single song he played. Not one soul sought his presence; Jack’s legacy was nothing more than the ’13 Lakers - even old Buss would’ve spat upon on his name. Shameful. Joshua Albert sat in a wheelchair these days, and he struggled to put his pants on every single morning, but The Alamo promoted him just before their 50th anniversary. They finally allowed him to be the man that he had always wanted to be; his years of sacrifices paid off in title only. Being replaced by a robot had made Jack regret ever feeling guilty for his behavior, or compassion for those who had to bare it, because he felt he was right. Nobody really wins in the end of it, he thought - what’s there to learn from failure? If a person makes the right impressions, and they hit all the lucky slots, then their connections might drag them to a glory stuck beneath bounded feet. Those who fail suffer the wrath of social ineptitude - a fate, in many cases, worse than death. 

Jack Robechau passed away peacefully at home, surrounded by nothing and no one.