Piano Man

By Dan Baxter

After his bandmates abandon him at a hotel in northwest Oklahoma, Dick Gill, a big-band piano player from New York City, doesn't know where to go or what to do. Work is hard to find in a post-World War II small town, but Dick is fortunate to become the night clerk at the very hotel at which he has been staying. As he integrates himself into the community - finding a job, friends, and even love, a long-held secret and a medical crisis threaten his new life and force him to question everything he knows.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543915358

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Chapter 1

Sunday, October 22, 1948

Bell Hotel

Alva, Oklahoma

The sun in his eyes roused Dick Gill from an alcohol-soaked sleep. Swimming up from the depths triggered every pain fiber and squeezed the contents of his stomach toward his throat. Headache and nausea flooded his consciousness for a few seconds until a sudden realization pushed them aside: The sun shouldn’t be this high. We’re supposed to be on the road at seven.

Dick shaded his face with his hand as he looked at the bed next to his. He saw only rumpled sheets and blankets. Howard, the drummer, was nowhere in sight. The bathroom door stood open, the sink unlit. He heard no water running in the shower. A wet towel had been dropped on the bathroom floor.

Dick propped himself on his right elbow and glanced around the room. Howard’s luggage, battered from years on the road, was not on the stand by the closet. An empty bourbon bottle lay on the carpet between the beds. His watch said ten after nine.

Where is he? Why aren’t we on our way to Amarillo? Did the bus break down again?

Dick snatched his pants off the chair and threw on the shirt he wore the night before. He didn’t bother to look for socks, thrusting his bare feet into his shoes. He grabbed his suitcase, opened the door of the hotel room, and found no one in the hall except a maid with her linen cart.

Choosing not to wait on the elevator, Dick ran the three levels of stairs as fast as his hangover would allow. He missed a step and almost fell on the last flight, but he caught himself with a tight grip on the bannister. In the lobby, he set his suitcase on the floor, braced his hands on his knees, and took a deep breath. When he stood and looked through the front window, he found the parking space for the bus was empty. He was alone except for the man behind the counter of the mahogany front desk.

You must be the piano player, the clerk said. How is Sleeping Beauty this morning?

Where are they? Dick asked.

Most likely near the Texas line by now. They’ve been gone nearly two hours.

Why didn’t they wake me up?

Oh, they tried. Your roommate went back upstairs and the manager knocked at your room door one more time before the bus pulled out. He left you a letter.

The clerk pushed an envelope across the desk. Dick fought another wave of nausea as he recalled what might have been a dream of Howard attempting to get him upright, without success. It had become an every-morning ritual for Howard to drag Dick aboard the idling bus under the icy stares of the other band members.

Dick opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of hotel stationery folded around two twenty-dollar bills.

We’re tired of waiting for you every day. We will find another piano player in Amarillo. Here is the money I figure you have coming.

There is no reason for you to try to catch up with us. Good luck. We’re done.

Elwin

The line under the word done was firm and heavy. There was no second chance waiting down the road. Elwin, the band leader, had been Dick’s friend since they played together in the Army band in Europe. When he started his own band a year ago, Elwin offered Dick the job playing piano. One-night stands followed by hours of driving to the next town were not what Dick liked, but it was a gig. With enough whiskey to numb him every night, he had depended on Elwin and Howard to pull him halfway across the country. His drinking worsened on the journey westward, and it all came to an end here.

Where am I? he asked.

Son, you are in Alva, the armpit of the state of Oklahoma. The clerk raised his right arm parallel to the floor. If I am Oklahoma and my arm is the panhandle, we are right here in the armpit—in more than one sense of the word. Welcome to red dirt country.

Dick swallowed hard as another wave of nausea flowed over him. He gripped the desk until the feeling ebbed.

What am I supposed to do?

Well, the fellow who left you the note didn’t sound like he wants you on his bus again. You might go back to your room and clean up. Check-out time is in an hour. You don’t have a lot of time.

Not having a reply, Dick stooped to grasp the handle of his suitcase and walked toward the open door of the elevator. The room key was next to the bed on the table; but the maid, recognizing him from his sudden departure only minutes before, opened the door. A long, hot shower and a shave—along with his last two aspirin tablets—made him almost human again even though his head continued to pound. Movement triggered nausea, so dressing and packing took longer than usual. Then, key in one hand and suitcase in the other, he returned to the lobby.

Well, your hotel bill was paid, the clerk said. So, I guess we’re done.

How does someone get out of this town? Dick asked. I obviously don’t have a car, and I don’t drive even if I bought one. Is there a train station or bus depot?

The train is at the north edge of town. We’re on the main line of the Santa Fe, so most of the trains run between Chicago and Los Angeles. The bus comes through on the road from Oklahoma City to Denver. It stops on the highway near the college. Where are you headed?

I’m not sure yet. My home is New York City, but my family is dead or gone. There aren’t any friends or relatives I could go visit.

Unless you have more money, those twenties the band left you are not going to take you very far. The bus won’t be through until tomorrow morning, and the next train is late tonight. It looks like you have time to think about it. You can leave your suitcase in the closet over there so you won’t have to drag it around with you today.

Is there a taxi service to get me to the station or bus depot?

Yeah, there’s a taxi. They spend most of their time delivering bootleg whiskey, but they’ll take you where you need to go. You’re right here in the center of town, so you can spend the day finding your way around the square.

What do you mean when you say bootleg whiskey? Don’t people just go to the liquor store?

Not in Oklahoma. Will Rogers said Sooners will vote dry as long as they can stagger to the polls. There are pool halls that serve beer on the other side of the square, but the whole state is still under prohibition as far as liquor is concerned. If you want something besides beer, you’ll have to convince the taxi people you’re not a cop. Then they’ll bring you whatever you want.

That’s strange, Dick said. I bought my last bottle in Kansas, so I guess I didn’t know Oklahoma law. The taxi service delivers your liquor?

It’s hard to convince people they need to have liquor stores when the private clubs have arrangements with the police to look the other way and bootleggers will deliver booze to your door. If people don’t want to skirt the legalities, the Kansas line is just fourteen miles north of here. Be sure you don’t open the bottle in the car. The highway patrol is busy on the road back and forth to Hardtner. They keep the court coffers full with ‘open container’ and driving under the influence fines. They also watch your speed close, too. But since you’re not driving, I don’t guess you’ll be speeding.

Dick’s head and stomach reminded him again that he and the bottle were not strangers. Given how he was here without a plan, he decided it might be best not to renew the acquaintance right now.

As Dick set his suitcase in the closet and walked toward the door, the clerk called out, My name is John. If you don’t know when you’ll be leaving, I might make you a deal for the night.

Dick stopped and turned to face the desk.

The wife wants me to take her to a program at the college this evening. Since we lost our night clerk, the maid stays late on occasion to watch the desk. She can’t do it today. How about filling in for a few hours in exchange for a bed?

My name is Dick, John. I’ve never been a desk clerk, but it can’t be too hard. You and the Mrs. have a good time. When should I be here?

Come back after three and I’ll show you what needs to be done. She’ll want me to be home before five if we’re going out. That’ll make her happy. She thought she was going to have to go by herself, and she doesn’t like to be out alone after dark. Just be sober and it’ll be fine.

Chapter 2

Dick stepped from the lobby into the crispness of an October Sunday morning. The Bell Hotel cast a long shadow from the south side of the downtown square into the street toward the red brick courthouse in the open park. Dick had noticed six buttons in the elevator, and a quick look around confirmed the hotel to be the tallest building in the business district. The skyline was dominated by a row of grain elevators towering behind the storefronts on the opposite side of the square. He had known this was wheat country, and the tall cement grain bins confirmed the abundance of crops produced on surrounding farms. Standing beside the railroad on the north edge of town, these sentries guarded the community just as the cathedrals he had seen crowning the cities of France.

It was chilly, and Dick shoved his hands in his pockets. The cold blunted the headache and nausea of his hangover, but his stomach was not yet in the mood for breakfast. The storefronts were larger on the west end of the square to his left, so he turned toward them, staying in the cool shade. An insurance agency and a florist shop shared the ground floor of the hotel building. They were closed this Sunday morning, as were most of the other stores and businesses on the square. Beyond the doctor’s, the J.C. Penney store, and the optometrist’s office, he found a drug store with the door open and lights turned on. As he stepped inside, he saw the pharmacy counter in the back. The entire wall to the left was fronted by a row of glass counters filled with perfumes, cosmetics, hair products, and other accessories that enabled women to face the world. A newsstand and comic book rack stood next to the window on the right, leading to a soda fountain backed by four booths. Two rows of display cases formed a center aisle to the pharmacy. Dick noticed a large wooden case against the back wall with a sign advertising veterinary supplies for cattle and horses. He could see boxes of medicines and tools for animal care—a distinct departure from what he had grown up with in New York.

Settling onto a stool at the counter of the soda fountain, Dick expected someone to take his order, but there was no sign that anyone had heard his arrival. As he looked around the store, his gaze rested on a display with small tins of aspirin next to the cash register. He rose to retrieve a small box of twelve and placed them on the counter in front of him. A slim man in a pharmacist’s jacket appeared from behind the pharmacy shelves.

What can I do for you? he asked as he walked toward the soda fountain.

Just coffee. Is it always this quiet in town?

Only on Sundays, the pharmacist said as he poured. Most people are in church, and those who aren’t are probably sleeping off Saturday night. He set the steaming coffee in front of Dick. Cream? Sugar’s next to the napkins.

No thanks. I drink it black. Dick wrapped both hands around the warm mug, using the coffee’s heat to counter the effects of the chilly morning. He savored a sip of the strong, brown brew before opening the tin of aspirin and taking two. The sour graininess of the aspirin dissolving in his mouth caused him to gag until he washed it down with more coffee. It was always during the first cup each morning that he began to feel he could face another day. When he was dragged aboard the bus without coffee, the day seemed much more menacing. The life of a traveling musician did not lend itself to a habit of traditional breakfasts. The upsets of the morning, combined with the lingering effects of last night’s bourbon, killed any inclination to test his stomach with food.

Forgive my prying, the pharmacist said, but I don’t think we’ve met, and I hear the east coast in your voice.

You’re right. I’m from New York City. My name is Dick Gill. I was the piano player with the band that played the college homecoming dance last night. The bus left without me this morning, and I’m just trying to sort it all out.

That will make your day interesting. The pharmacist extended a hand. I’m Jim Holder, the proprietor, pharmacist, janitor, and soda jerk of this place. All the pharmacies in town rotate Sundays so the doctors can order medicines. Then we still get a day off most weekends. Today is my lucky day. Tag, I’m it.

Dick shook Jim’s hand, then looked down into the nearly-empty cup on the counter. I hear that I am stuck here. John at the hotel offered me a room for the night if I watch the front desk for a few hours. Then we’ll see what comes next.

John needs help, for sure. He used to have a night clerk, but there were some problems and he ended up leaving town. John’s been on the hook day and night for several weeks. Maria, the maid, fills in from time to time and his wife Phyllis has helped out, but it has to be getting old. Jim picked up the coffee pot. Let me pour you a refill.

Dick drank the second cup and paid for the coffee and the aspirin. As he pulled