Nonfiction

Mrs. Allison could always tell when I hadn’t practiced. Before my fingers ever even touched the keys, she knew. In retrospect, it was probably obvious. I’d hand her the twenty dollars from my parents, take a seat on the gaudy bench upholstered with red velvet, and instantly dive into pointless conversation to prolong the inevitable. She would let me stall. She would tell me about her children, her cats, her job at the library, I would tell her about my high school’s upcoming musical or my last cross-country race. We would talk more than she taught some days. But of course, our conversations always had to be cut short at some point. I would line my hands up on her Yamaha, take a deep breath, and then proceed to butcher the assigned song from the week prior. Courteous as ever, Mrs. Allison made my excuses for me. She would always stop my playing to tell me a story about a professional pianist who once refused to perform at a venue because his hands weren’t familiar with the new keys. 

“Every piano is different,” she would tell me. “I’m sure you sounded absolutely beautiful on yours back home. You probably just aren’t used to this one.” 

In my defense, she was partly right. I’ve come to learn over my years of playing that no two pianos are ever exactly the same. Some keys are smoother than others, some require more weight to fully press down. The bench could be just an inch too high or too low to comfortably hold down the damper pedal. Each sound made by the strike of a string is slightly different, even the same note, perfectly in tune. Sometimes the variation in tone alone would be enough to confuse my hands. Of course, most of my hands’ inability to play the piece was a direct result of barely looking over the music that week; her story about the professional pianist was mostly to make me feel less guilty. But there was also some truth to what she said. I think of her every time my fingers just can’t quite understand the keys.

Before I ever studied with Mrs. Allison, I took piano lessons with my elementary school music teacher. Miss Kite’s piano always sounded somehow metallic, the keys resisting just enough that pressing them down felt like a bite into something soft. They must have been spaced a millimeter further apart than the keys on my own piano; I could never stretch my hand the full octave like I could at home. She would have her students perform at a recital every May to showcase their progress to the dozen parents that attended. I remember practicing a piece called Great Wall so many times before my fourth grade recital that I didn’t need the sheet music. It was the first song I ever memorized. As soon as I sat down at the bench on stage—at a foreign instrument chipping with black paint under a sweltering spotlight—I played the wrong chord. She nodded at me from the first row of seats to take a breath and keep going.

Playing the soft, glossy keyboard that was gifted to me for my fifteenth birthday was quite a challenge after spending so much time at our century-old, weathered upright piano. My fingers would fumble and slip across the keys faster than my eyes or my mind could travel. I eventually got used to the feeling of the plastic instead of ivory, and would practice bits of songs in my bedroom with the keyboard volume almost all the way down. I stopped taking lessons halfway through high school. Instead, I’d print out songs that I could sing along to and spend hours working through the sheet music, making scribbles and notes all over the page like my past teachers did. My new method was tedious. But I still loved to play. 

My keyboard felt the most like one of the first pianos I ever encountered, a smooth and sensitive baby grand in the living room of my first babysitter when I was three or four. I don’t remember much about my mornings there, but I do remember her piano. Miss Kristi wasn’t my teacher. She would help my older brother plunk out simple melodies in the morning before he caught the bus while I sat on the rug and listened. After he left for school, she would let me experiment on the piano until my Nana came to pick me up. The keys fell a half-second too quickly, ultra-sensitive to the slightest touch. They were cold and smooth, not as warm as Mrs. Allison’s. I remember that her house smelled like buttered toast and sounded like early morning cartoons. She always let me say hello to her newborn, Gracie, before I was picked up to spend the day with Nana. 

The phenomenon that Mrs. Allison described really applies to every instrument, no matter how subtle. It was the same for my time in elementary school as I learned to play the trumpet. My father had gifted me his old instrument to use, the same one that he had played at my age. I remember being so excited to impress my band director with the skills I had picked up practicing over the summer before fifth grade. I had already become so familiar with its frame; the weight of it in my hand, the ridges of each valve adorned with abalone, the exact shape of the mouthpiece that my lips needed to mold to. 

Becoming acquainted with an instrument makes it much less a tool to use, but an extension of the player’s body itself. And I loved my new acquaintance. I can remember one instance when my trumpet needed a deep clean and had to soak in our utility sink for a full two days. In the meantime, I was given my band director’s personal trumpet to use during rehearsal. I could barely play it. It was too soft, too malleable. It was silver instead of the honey shade of brass I knew. I made do for that rehearsal, but I was grateful when my own instrument was ready to be played the next day. 

In my junior year of high school, I was asked to switch from trumpet to euphonium. It took me most of the autumn and winter to learn to read the sheet music in a different clef than I was used to. There were three valves, like a trumpet, but the fingerings for each note were not the same. A euphonium requires significantly more air pushed through its many slides and its giant bell. Sometimes I would get lightheaded during rehearsal. Eventually I made an acquaintance with the instrument, although my time playing it wasn’t long. By the end of my senior year, my fingers had just begun to melt into the valves. I was just starting to feel the vibrational hum of each note within my lungs. Perhaps with more time, I could have truly understood it. But our time was cut short. I returned the euphonium back to the school the week before graduation.

The summer after seventh grade, my brother decided that he wanted to learn how to play the ukulele. I then promptly needed to learn too. He would sit at the edge of my bed and attempt to strum the chords of our favorite songs while I sang along, until I eventually learned how to pluck with him. We never took lessons. We learned from each other, swapping the names of notes on the living room floor until we had a finished cover to perform for our parents. I got my own ukulele when he moved away to college and took his instruments with him. 

Now I’ve also moved away from the living room floor. At the end of the night when my eyes are red from staring at my laptop and I don’t have the willpower to do another calculus problem, I sit on the floor of my dorm room and play. I’ll sit there for hours fighting off sleep, creating new plucking patterns and finding tabs to my favorite songs with my acoustic guitar in my lap and my back against the radiator. My fingers have become more calloused in the past few months than ever before. I sit and I play and I remember how much softer our green living room carpet was than this linoleum tiling. How this new stage of my life has brought a different feel to the keys, one that I’m unfamiliar with. A new room and a new bed in a new place. I pluck the steel strings, as cold as Miss Kristi’s keys. Her infant, Gracie, will graduate high school next spring. The shimmering white tuning knobs shine just like the abalone valves of my father’s trumpet. Passed down to me, and now to my younger brother. I feel the whirring radiator on my back and I remember the feeling of a high school orchestra permeating through my chest. My fingers do not quite know the steel strings yet. They fumble and slip and hesitate over the correct chord and I am reminded of the warm keys and Mrs. Allison, who passed away last February. Of how every piano is different. I sit and I play in the light of my desk lamp, watching as one day turns into the next.

Across from the bay and down the road from Dunkin is a moderately occupied parking lot. There are no directional lines, just an array of unaligned cars. A morphed idea of symmetry and unison. The lot is never empty, but rarely full. In comparison to the other parking lots around town, the average car in this gravel has more bumper stickers than those in places like the Dunkin Donuts down the street. The intricate mural on the side depicting the Grateful Dead attracts the kind of people who decorate their car in excess. There is one spot always taken in the back left corner. There reigns a tan -worn but well kept- Volkswagen Bus. It is the Barista’s and tastefully decorated with adhesive intent.

Walking into Stella Blue Bistro is the favorite part of most of my days. The entrance bell chimes in unison with the soft rock that echoes throughout. There is a little step to get in (that some people miss) under a sign that reads “hippies enter here.” Most of the left wall is taken up by a famous black and white photo from Woodstock in 1969. Pictured are hundreds of people getting out of their cars and walking to the concerts soon to come. It’s the type of photo where new things keep catching your eye no matter how long or how often you stop to notice it. The walls are lined with stickers and posters and frames of forgotten and famous musicians. Primarily the Grateful Dead. All sorts of teddy bear’s dancing and reminders of the song Stella Blue, where this coffee shop received its name. Quotes and post-its reminding people to chill out and that weed is always an option. What seems to be hundreds of mini buddhas and natural remedies with an appreciation for bees. All decor in a “where’s Waldo?” fashion.

I am always welcomed by a smile from every barista in their tie dyed shirt. They know me here. I come often but I am not sure enough to be considered a regular. They know my name but my order is not memorized like for some. I bring my Stella Blue reusable cup which lands me a discount on coffee. I’m loyal to oat milk and caramel if I choose for there to be a sweet touch to the morning. Every table is different and no chair looks alike. Out of 13 there are two tables I gravitate towards the most. The one with the chessboard and the one by the window where I have a perfect view and close enough range to see and hear every interaction. I watch quietly as she opens the door gently. She looks around and smiles in every direction genuinely. The kind of smile that is soft and its strength is delivered through the eyes.

She gracefully enters and waits in line poised with the stance of a lifelong ballerina. Politely she views the menu behind the counter even though she orders the same drink every Tuesday and Thursday when she finds herself here. She addresses the Barista by name asking how her morning was and waits for a response. They talk as her drinks are being made. The Barista’s eyes dart up and down as she switches between her work and looking above the counter at the woman in the long floral dress. The Barista compliments something I cannot hear and the woman touches her hair flattered and blushes embarrassingly. She orders a green karma smoothie filled with spinach, kale, avocado, chia seeds, almond milk, and agave, and a hot green tea to keep the day alive. She says thank you and her body bends forward just a little in grace. The Barista says anytime. You could tell she meant it.

My attention is interrupted as the sound of loose keys slams into the glass door upon entrance drawing out the hum of the chimes. A woman enters quickly, pulls her sunglasses down briefly over her tanned nose and decides to keep them on despite being indoors. She examines her surroundings only to check out those around her, seemingly unimpressed. She had long visibly dyed and recently blown out hair and a workout set on that never really broke into sweat. She speaks loudly to the phone in her excessively manicured nails. I then noticed the kid. A little girl laughing and smiling hopping up and off the step trying to get her attention. She grabs the girl by the wrist and begins to complain about how the line at Starbucks this morning was just something she could just not do. The Barista looks confused about the ruckus and asks her what she wants from afar, understanding the attention of a little girl.

She runs around picking up anything her tiny hands can get around. She tugs on her mom’s sleeve and points to things her mother’s eyes do not have the interest to meet. The woman in the floral dress notices the girl’s excitement for a crystal beyond her short arms reach. She picks up the amethyst, bends over so her dress tickles the ground and places it in the girl’s wide eyed hands. She explains how it is not just pretty rock, but it’s spiritual powers will fill her with grace and protection. Plus, it matches the bow in her tangled hair. The girl says nothing, but looks fondly at the kind tall stranger. Her mother notices her sleeve tugging stopped, looks around, and finds her daughter. She tells her to put the junk back and sits to finish her very disruptive gossip sipping a large iced vanilla latte with extra espresso, extra cream, and extra vanilla with only 4 ice cubes as requested. The Barista made eye contact with a customer who had sat before. Nothing was said out loud or on their faces, just a mutual understanding.

The bell chimes again and an older man enters smoothly. He was youthful despite his age, tanned and hair stamped white. He makes eye contact with as many, as if he was eager to say hello. He places a worn book and Newsday Newspaper on a table. He examines it briefly as if something had surprised him. He walks up to the counter, says good morning and references how beautiful the weather is. He includes all the other customers in his outgoing courtesy. He sits and opens the paper with a dramatic “newspaper flop” to make it remain upright. He peeks around briefly again. This time more at his surroundings than its inhabitants and his face comes to a satisfied smile. He begins to read. He is tall with the looks of a once great athlete and the eyes of someone who would be very educated on every aspect of last night’s game. Despite never ordering, food is brought to his table. Some sort of omelette with hash-browns and a coffee with half and half. He does not read while he eats. He watches the young girl admire the wall of Woodstock goers.

He spoke on how it’s a shame that young people won’t have anything remotely as fun and culturally significant in their lifetime due to technology. He received nothing from the mother whom this was directed towards and a customer out of pity or interest responded asking him more. He then went on to explain to anyone that would listen how he worked at Woodstock, built some of the stages and is even featured on Netflix’s documentary. He was a college athlete at the time but that summer changed his life. He grew out his hair, hitchhiked home and never looked back from the hippie lifestyle. The Barista shakes her head subtly and smiles over in his direction, as if she has heard this story a thousand times. He places a 50 dollar bill in the tip jar that reads “the Beatles are overrated, change my mind.” He fills his coffee up with a tad more half and half and goes back to his book and drinks his coffee with the lid resting on the table and a napkin strategically around the side. The door opens again. There is a pause as a middle aged woman waits for an older man with cane to hobble up the step and into the doorway. With a deep breath of relief he looks up and gives presumably his daughter a dirty look, curses and begins to leave.

As he turns his daughter grabs him, whispers something aggressively, and leads him to a table looking around apologetically. He sat bewildered, looking around in disgust and genuine confusion. He adjusts his Vietnam War veteran cap and mumbles how this is a load of hippie crap. Did the peace signs act as bulletproof vests? He asked out loud and was ignored except for a few confused eyebrow looks. His daughter returns and they engage in historical conversations about anti-war protests of the past. The daughter finishes his sentences in mockery to shut him up. He sighs knowing she will never understand and looks to the side making eye contact with a sign that advises to make love, not war. He scoffs about how his brother would love this place and makes a face when Bob Dylan echoed around him. His daughter gets up and he adjusts his jeans emptying out his pockets. She returns with a hot black coffee that he sips despite its visible steam. He opens his mouth about to complain and shuts it surprisingly satisfied. He takes another sip and leans back into his chair.

I look back down at my food. The ice in my coffee has begun to melt. This does not bother me. Instead, I sit amazed by taste buds and timelines. How a series of footsteps guided people to Stella Blue Bistro at 8:58 on a Tuesday morning through a door that chimed when they entered. Years of knowledge and preference determining how they take their coffee and interact with the world around them. All have an acquired opinion and an acquired taste. Some come once, passing through and share their existence with all those around them for those given moments. Others come, and decide to stay.