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Betrayed
Cheated
Embezzlement
The Front
The Miracle
Pollyanna
The Strange Disappearance of Al Fine
Suicide Notes
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Cheated
I have been cheated -- there is no other way of putting it -- and thus am I plunged in the deepest despair. But I shall tell the tale and let you the reader decide.
Shall I confess it? Once I was happy! Yes, once upon a time (it now seems infinitely long ago) I enjoyed not only the best, the most robust health, but as well I delighted in myself, in my capacities, in my ability to please others, to live life to the fullest and taste ail its sweet pleasures. Of course this was in my youth. Ah yes! Fortune smiled upon me in those days, so that indeed, it seemed as if I could not fail to continue to be happy, healthy and carefree. Of course I had a certain measure of luck; that I do not deny. But when one is lucky over an extended period, then one comes to believe that one has, so to speak, drawn a lucky number - that this is the way it will always be.
Alas for that feeling! I discovered too late that, in order to continue a lucky streak, one must help out Fate a bit - gently direct it to one's own best ends. But, since I believed in my destiny as One Chosen, as the Lucky One, I did nothing: I trusted to luck. And in time, as with any gambling venture, my luck failed me.
At first it was not so, of course. At college I met, almost by chance, the people who could most benefit me. I was, again by chance, in The Right Place at The Right Time, and thus landed a perfectly Brilliant Position. My future seemed assured.
Yet -- I did little or nothing, as anyone does who is convinced that he is sufficient unto himself. When the time came to show results, I had none to show. I had only -- myself.
My position became precarious; there were others who were capable of hard work and productive of results. At length I was shunted onto a siding, a polite form of rejection. The work I was forced to do just to keep my job was singularly unrewarding, passed among strangers in whose weary countenances I read my own destiny.
My luck, to be sure, had turned. But now, as well, my health began to decline. Severe stomach pains drove me to the doctor, who assured me that I didn't have the ulcer I secretly wanted. The pains, however, continued. I began to lose weight, until the sight of my wan, shriveled frame began to genuinely alarm me. Again I consulted the physician, who discretely assured me that the pains were the result of anxiety. He recommended exercise. Exercise! As if after a day of stultifying, useless work, I could do anything but fag out, allowing myself in my exhausted state only the luxury of sentimental reflections on my once-proud state.
For, in truth, I hated myself, my life and what it had become! Because I had never acted in my life, I was unprepared to act now. Vaguely, but without conviction, I put my trust in Luck -- that It would provide me with the Better Days as formerly.
Fate, however, decreed a different twist. A third visit to the doctor convinced him to order some tests -- a biopsy. Within three days he called me back. There, in the sterility of his office, he grimly informed me that the tests had confirmed his worst suspicions: there was a malignancy -- one far-advanced, in fact. When I could only respond with the usual "How long?" he fixed me with a tragic look for a moment, then replied: "Six months".
Shall I confess that, when the initial shock wore off, I was not unduly disturbed by this news? That, in fact, I almost welcomed it?
Yes, Fortune had, for the last time, smiled on me -- by releasing me from a hated existence.
My family, of course, was devastated by the news. Only I, surrounded by tears and beseeching looks, remained calm. I placed my affairs in order, providing a generous will; I remembered false friends who had slighted me. I was the model of decorum, of Dying Gracefully. I even began to enjoy life again: for it seemed that once more I was, as in those Golden Days of my Youth, the center of attention, one about whom all the world turned. Once again I had to do nothing but exist, be myself. I only regretted that it all had to end relatively quickly...
Alas, it all ended sooner than I expected, and in the most unlikely manner. The doctor called: the test results had been mixed up with those of an unfortunate other; I myself was suffering from nothing more serious than indigestion, an excess of acidity brought on by poor diet and sleepless worry.
And so, I cry again: alas! My life returned to its former state -- not those Golden Days of Youth, but those wretched days and nights of my unhappy adulthood.
I ask you: have I not been cheated?
1981
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The Front
It was one of those typical storefronts which lie along the side
streets of run-down suburbs -- not anachronisms exactly, but rather the once-going
small businesses which decided, at a certain point fifteen or twenty
years before, to simply stop changing and remain fixed as a sort of museum.
The particular one which concerns us here was situated just off the town's
center called, colloquially, Three Points.
Ed Dipus stood hesitating before Thebes Real Estate, on the threshold,
he knew, of the most momentous act of his life. Abstracted, he gazed
through the amber cellophane, half-reading the faded hand-written cards which
advertised houses some of which he knew had been long torn down. It was
the motto under the name of the establishment, however, which caused him to
start with recognition: "Old School Houses Our Specialty".
Yes, this must be the place -- there could be no mistake. It fitted the
description given him by phone a few nights before -- an anonymous
caller identifying himself only as "a friend of a friend who can help you
solve the problem with a certain relative."
"A certain relative"! Shaking as he was, Ed Dipus could not help
emitting a chuckle. Damn it, this bit of sinister discretion could be laughable in
its parody of cheap suspense thrillers! The laugh was short-lived, however,
as he remembered grimly the matter for which he had come and its intended
object.
Father: The Old Man was sick, to be sure -- bad heart, gout. Ruining
the family business through obstinacy and cantankerousness. Another month,
two months, it'll be too late. Health's not so bad as to kill him off
before a year or two. Completely estranged. Now -- help Nature out...
Scenes of past bitter family struggles whirled around in his mind and
mixed with the memorized cant given him over the phone. His head itself
seemed to be spinning: now or never. He stepped over the threshold.
"May I help you?" A small bald wizened man looked up from the desk near
the front of the spare room. Except for another chair and a file, the room
was bare.
"Yes, I -- I'm interested in -- in an old school house. You have some,
I hope?
The man, whose age seemed impossible to guess, regarded Ed silently for
a moment. His eyes looked past Ed, or rather through him. They seemed to sparkle.
"School houses? Yes, yes we have some -- school houses. Please take a
seat. What -- kind -- of school house?"
"An old one -- the one-room variety."
"Ah, yes -- for vacation use, or permanent residence?"
"Permanent"
The man regarded him fixedly, his head nodding at a rapid rate. Ed
seemed to detect the hint of an ironic -- almost a supercilious -- smile; or
maybe it was just his over-crowded imagination playing tricks on him.
"In the country? A large plot?"
"Yes -- for health reasons, you know".
"May I have some information -- your name, phone, an alternative
address at which you may be reached".
Ed gave the oral information he was asked for. He noticed that the man
was writing in a code he had never seen before. Reaching in the file, the
man extracted something and showed it to Ed. It was the picture of a
typical country school house, dog-eared and dirty.
Is this what you had in mind?"
Yes -- yes, that's it exactly".
The man regarded him again for a long moment. His eyes seemed to dance
with glee.
"We require a deposit, to make the place over to you. The rest under
the terms of the mort-gage when the deed is completed.
Ed opened his wallet and counted out ten one-hundred dollar bills. The
man placed them in his own wallet. "I think that you can be assured of action on
this business within the week. A few days are needed for the new lease."
Ed Dipus rose and without another word or glance stumbled out the door
under the man's laughing gaze. Done, done -- no remorse either -- just -- relief...
Three days later the phone rang. Ed Dipus, nervous with expectation,
picked it up. It was the County Hospital.
"Mr. Dipus? Yes, this is Doctor ---. I'm pleased to tell you that the
operation on your father's heart has been a complete success. His
constitution is excellent, I must say, for one his age! The transplant
has made a new man of him -- he's been asking for you all morning. If you
could stop by the office on your way up to his floor ... Someone -- your
uncle, was it? -- a small, bald man -- already paid the thousand dollars
needed to assure the operation. When you get here, we'll discuss a plan for the
balance."
1981
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Betrayed
I ran for formal elective office only once in my life. A sort of friend
(now dead) persuaded me to run for president of a dorm section, along with
himself for vice-President and another close acquaintance for
treasurer, reasoning that if we could all get ourselves elected we would have a
sort of dynasty. This "idea" - if such it could bo called -- intrigued me: my
childhood had been free of any such actuality due to a delicate
physiology; the possibility, for the first time, of attaining a measure of power
seemed irresistible.
My campaign, waged against the incumbent (Henry Niemeyer by name
-though this is irrelevant) was a model for any politician. I visited and spoke
at length with each of my thirty or so future constituents in their rooms.
With infinitely patient magnanimousness I requisitioned their views,
suggestions, complaints -- all pertaining to that miniscule part of one building
among many in an insignificant institution. I commiserated with their jibes
at the personality and manner of my opponent; in fact, I adroitly constructed
such situations by means of oily innuendo, thus allowing the voter to
articulate for himself the ad hominem slanders. I expatiated at length upon a
vaguely gargantuan political platform which, with its innumerable planks, would
transform that Lilliput into a utopian paradise. By the end of the
campaign I had verbal promises for more than enough votes to win the election.
At the section meeting which would culminate in the voting and (I
constantly held in mind, with the smug satisfaction of one who already possesses
the key to a future) my election, I half listened with a paradoxical sort
of bored exhilaration as my lame duck rival hacked his way through the
"relevant evening business" (and, I was certain, more votes for myself as
his manner was brought home to his supporters.) After what seemed an
interminable period, the time arrived for each of us to address the
gathering.
My opponent spoke first. As his nasal voice droned out a list of
insipid accomplishments, I could not resist slyly glancing around with a
supercilious smile in order to bolster the sureness of my success with
proof of a shared contempt. Such evidence was not forthcoming: in the serious
mien of the others I read the first possibility of a disaster. Taking the
cue, I began listening to my opponent's speech. With an offhand modesty he
detailed a splendid academic accomplishment coupled with a genuine record of
achievement during his tenure of office. After a few succinct remarks
concerning possible further undertakings he sat down. Everyone glanced
at me challengingly...
Panicked, I stood up. Later I would be told that my hands were visibly
shaking, that I wore the sickly frozen smile of a mannequin. All this I
was unaware of at the time. One thought dominated everything, colored all I
said and did: I have no past!" My speech was halting, rambling, empty of any
content. With the idiotic words, "Maybe we can have a party sometime!"
I abruptly sat down -- crushed.
It did not take long to collect and count the votes. Yet the mind was
far quicker in the vicissitudes of its changing states. At first, of
course, I entertained the desperate hope, short of overt prayer, that the
promises would be kept despite the disaster of my presentation. Reassured for
the moment, I attempted to imagine myself ensconced in the president's
chair, fulfilling the duties of that office. Panic began to well up again
inside: I realized with horror that I had no idea what I could do as president --
indeed, had never ever had any idea whatsoever. I had run for election
with the sole end of being elected; the campaign had been the only thing of
interest to me. From an indifference as to the outcome of those votes
still being counted (infinitely slowly, as it seemed) I passed to the fervent
hope -- a real prayer -- that my dorm mates would prove me false - that I
would lose the election and thus be spared the bother of an unwanted duty.
The votes were finally counted, tallied. And the looks of shocked
surprise on the faces of my friends must have contrasted sharply with my flush
of relief and gratitude.
1965
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Suicide Notes
Once again that evening, as on too many evenings before (he had lost
count: perhaps he had preferred not to count, since enumeration would attest
to the finiteness of a time he felt to be infinite) he sat paralyzed, unable
to write a single note. For too long he had known only the intensity of
pure Desire -- the need to Act, but never, it seemed, the ability to do so. Actually, this is not
quite true: he acted, wrote -- but immediately judged each such action as
Inadequate, as a travesty of whatever Ideas he felt he had. As with an
aging virgin, the urge to absolute purity of expression led at all points to
the denial of any expression whatever. His writing table became a battle
ground wherein Language was the enemy to be vanquished; yet he himself was
always the one in the end defeated, if only out of an excessive pride of
feeling himself chosen to both define and meet only the highest, noblest,
best-armed Foe.
Inevitably this process of constant struggle and retraction led to a
questioning of his basic premisses about himself. He began to wonder,
frighteningly, whether in fact there were ideas after all: did he
entertain the exalted notion that he did simply to sustain a form of self-respect
through what amounted to a continuously absurd undertaking? On the
other hand, did he project the Ideal as a neat means of avoiding all
actions? Such things he asked himself at various times and in various guises;
but such questioning did not help him in the end. He simply could not compose.
He could console himself at times with the negatively noble quality of
his undertaking: for every Joyce (he reasoned) there are scores of
second-rate writers, thousands more of the hack variety; I at least reject for
myself, for the sake too of others, the possibility of anything less than the
Best! Better, then, to do nothing than to hand posterity the means of
rejecting me as Irrelevant or Mediocre!
This type of reasoning could not be sustained for too long, however. He
had seen others "hang it up" for such or similar reasons, and he knew that
he hadn't admired them for that action -no, he had seen it as giving up,
as settling for less than the Highest Calling, as allowing themselves to
slip back into the amorphous pool wherein daily existence becomes Mere
Existence; for them he had in the end nothing but contempt. No -- one exists as an
Artist, or one gives up Existence -- one takes at least one final,
definitive Action...!
He had thought about it a good deal of late. He had a sort of maudlin
joke which ran, "I would kill myself for my cowardice -- if I only had the
courage!" Cowardice! He saw his life becoming regressively a series of
excuses, of avoidances, one big Excuse...
There comes a time when such people as this man muster the resolve to
do what the others afterwards call "caring only for himself". Those others
seldom understand, from their bleak perspective, how inextricably the
selfish and the selfless are bound up together in such a terrible act:
is it any more "I no longer wish to live!" than "I no longer wish that others
have me to live with!"? Is not there something -- philanthropic -- in the
suicide? "I cannot offer you an example of the Creative; I refuse to allow you
the example of my Impotence!"
As he sat there he thought of all the people who had favorite pieces
which they wanted him to play at their funerals. Such maudlin sentimentality
he had laughed off -- with a feeling of disgust, of course. Though it was
fitting, after all -- to have the music which swallowed and negated
them in life linger yet awhile over their corpses! He had always vehemently
warned against memorials to himself: "Do ye nothing in my name!"
Now, however, he had a perverse notion -- to write himself a dirge
which would show up the depths of his degradation. No Funeral March on the
Death of a Hero -- no, more likely would it be called "Dirge on the Death of
a Dolt"! Yes -- he would write the piece he had always, "on pain of
death", refused to write; he would show what is possible for one who has given
up that fight, relinquished the calling to do the impossible, the
never-yet-heard. And for this time (he reasoned -- if this be
reasoning) no piece is too bad, too bland, too mediocre. He would write the bloody
thing, and then -- do what he knew he had to do.
The opening rhythmic obligato was already in his head. My god (he
thought, as he wrote it down in all its limpid mundaneness), how easy to write
when you know it's all for naught! Now they will see What I Was Led To!
He saw that they wouldn't see at all. The dirge was just that -- they
would react the way people react to such things because they always have to
react, never act. Pathos or bathos, it's all one with them! "Just give me
something to feel to..."
The thought af the weeping and wailing "for the poor dead composer",
precipitated by his own dirge, made him furious. They wouldn't see at
all -- it would all be a horrible joke, to be sure -- but in the way directly
opposite to the one he intended.
He began to alter the rhythms, double-dotting some, smoothing out
others in triplets, so that the piece contracted and expanded like a beating
heart. Too regular! The heart, after all, is sick, diseased! He began to
retroactively correct the downbeats, the rhythmic emphases. "Now let
the bastards try to march behind my coffin to this!" These shifts, he now
noticed with some delight, altered the tone of the maudlin melody
above: its completely regular phrase lengths were now called into question, and a
few changes of the slightest degree threw both parts -- melody and
accompaniment-- into sharp contrapuntal relief.
A process began to form, and he sketched ideas as quickly as he could,
in a kind of fury. The piece would, in pretense, begin as a "normal" dirge
-- to draw in those who wanted to use it only as a means of forgetting who he
really was. The maudlin melody would uncurl itself above the steady
drone. Imperceptibly, a truly terrible form of the melody, distorted,
seemingly diseased (but he knew now what disease really was, and who was
attracted to it) would begin to intrude in the base, disturbing the placid texture,
hurling accusations at the saccharine treble. Gradually those sinister
(literally: in the left-hand, he wryly noted) inter-eruptions would
take over, making the rhythms -- now no longer four-square but rather given
a new life -- the piece itself -- their own.
Then, suddenly, a new theme -- something which surely sang -- began to
emerge from the counterpoint of the Old Always-Was, and the new
not-yet-existing: something which at each of its moments negated the
old idea of "melody" yet was undoubtedly that. It rose and fell, soared to
new heights and dived to new depths, regenerating itself out of each past
it seemed to judge as inadequate just because it was past. Unlike the
maudlin melody, it refused to confirm any truth; just as much did it not
destroy anything for its own sake. Rather, it affirmed, not truth, exactly, but
its right to exist, to develop, to change, to grow ever anew. In its
development it caught up the old rhythm of the dirge, took it over gently and make
it over in its own image -- an obligato which was not an obligato -- a
transfiguration of the whole idea of obligato, as Purcell had once
accomplished so wonderfully well...
Gradually, the whole texture dissipated, leaving as a kind of
precipitation the once-maudlin melody, now sounding alone, without dirge
accompaniment. He knew that, after the experience of the rest of the piece, that no
listeners would now be able to confirm that melody in the way they had at the
start. Rather, they would hear it, in that ending, as a beginning, a generator
of something new, alive...
"It is finished; and lo, it is good!" he breathed, laying down his
pencil in exhaustion. And he crawled off to bed, to blessed rest, knowing full
well that he needed that rest to gain the fortitude for the copying task he
knew would be awaiting him on the morrow.
1981
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Embezzlement
lt was my first summer job and I was damn lucky to get it - with a little pull.
Ths friend who got me in -- he worked there too -- his father was the real estate agent who
sold Wetson's the land on Route 46. You may have heard of it -- "Wetson's 15˘ Hamburgers" --
it's gone now. They worked our tails off for a buck fifteen an hour, but we weren't about to
complain - we were the highest paid except for the manager. He was a slave driver but he gave
us two guys longer hours so that we could make extra dough. There was an old Greek guy there
who shoveled french fries into bags fifteen hours a day seven days a week for 75 cents an hour.
He didn't complain either since he was in the Country illegally; and he got a break every couple
of hours for a Pall Mall in the back room. I learned how to count up to fortynine and say
"Thank you, Call Again" in Greek -- a sort of frea classical education.
I learned a lot that summer besides that -- how to cook thirty hamburgers at a time, clean out
sink traps (and practically get sick doing it), make french fries from raw potatoes, and a lot of
other things. That fresh french fry process was Wetson's specialty - now all the hamburger places
use frozen preprocessed ones.
Wetson's was very tight on money and food. True -- they let you have free food for lunch; but leave
a spare piece of meat laying around and they were on your back. They made you work all the time too
-- every moment; if there weren't any customers you had to shine the creamer or mop the floor. Of
course they watched you like a hawk when you were working the register; whenever we rang up anything
we had to yell out the price loud enough for the manager to hear it in the back. They had little
tricks to get people to order more than they might want. When someone asked for a Coke, we were to
say, "Large size, sir?". That was one of the rules posted on the wall -- no kidding. Cokes were
their largest profit item.
My friend there was always looking for ways to cheat Wetson's a little bit. He claimed the pay was
lousy and that we should "supplement our income" however we could. I don't know that he ever stole
anything, though -- the security was too tight. The manager checked the cash register slips against
the money received very carefully every night -- any discrepancy, you had to make up the difference.
One guy told us about a drug store he had worked in the summer before. He had made a lot of money on
the side by what hs called 'underringing' -- ringing up less than the cost of the article and
pocketing the difference. The drug store finally went broke, and had to have a fire to get the
insurance. This guy thought that was very funny. Me -- I was happy enough to have that job without
pulling any of that stuff. Handling money makes me nervous anyway.
It was the business with the cash register that almost got me in hot water. It was a close call --
I knew important things were on the line and I had to play it cool. What happened was this. A guy
came to the window and ordered a burger and a chocolate shake. I gave him the order and called out
"Thirty-five cents, sir" just like I was supposed to. I changed the Five I thought he had given me
and he started walking back to his car. Suddenly I realized that he had not given me a Five at all
but a One. I sort of yelled to him out the window, but he kept walking as if he hadn't heard me
(I guess I didn't yell very loud -- I hate to attract attention). For a while I was mad as hell at
that crook, but when I started to cool down I realized what I was up against. My register was now
short by four dollars! I almost panicked and ran back to tell the manager; I knew he'd make me make
good on it. But that didn't worry me so much, as the fact that he would know I was stupid twice over.
Yeah -- a dumb jerk who not only gave some wise guy three-plus hours wages but let him walk away with
it in the bargain! I couldn't take that, I knew right away. But I knew that, if I didn't do something
about it, he'd find out that evening and then I'd be up a creek for not reporting it. I began to
consider seriously the possibility of underringing for the rest of the day -- I had maybe two hours
left to work. But -- no - what the manager didn't see, some customer would -- and then I'd be really
up the creek without a paddle -- in jail, probably.
It finally hit me what I had to do. It wasn't easy, I knew, with someone around me all the time,
and Big Brother back there knowing when I burped. But I had no other choice. I had to get four dollars
into that cash register, by hook or by crook. As soon as there was a lull, I checked the ol' wallet --
thank goodness I had four ones! Now all I had to do was get them in the cash tray. Simple? Not quite.
How do you suppose it looks, for a guy to be seen hovering over an open cash register with his wallet
in his hand? Right -- I risked being accused of the very opposite of what I was trying to do. I finally
decided to use my head and do the thing in two operations: first, I surreptitiously removed the four
bills from my wallet when no one was looking, and hid them, crumpled up, in my hand; then, when I waited
on the very next customer and rang up his order, I expertly slipped the four dollar bills into the drawer
with no one the wiser. Phew, but that was a close call!
That was last summer. No one ever found out about it and you can bet I'll be the last to tell them!
Since then I've gone on to bigger and better things -- separating perforated computer sheets in a payroll
office at two sixty-five an hour. The job beats Wetson's: I only dread it whenever I have to work with the
printed checks. That makes me very nervous. I just hope I don't screw up somewhere - I'd hate to have
people think I'm stupid or something.
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The Strange Disappearance of Al Fine
The case of the disappearing cocktail pianist, known professionally as Al Fine, from the Old
Refrain Lounge, caused a brief stir at the time because it completely baffled investigators unable to
turn up a single clue as to motive or act, nevertheless locate the man dead or alive. At first, of course,
it was assumed that, like most performers in clubs and bars, Fine had connections with The Mob and that
they, for whatever reason, had 'done him in'. Careful investigation proved otherwise: Al Fine had gotten
the job, incredible as it may seem, purely on the basis of merit, of talent. One night he filled in for a
regular who decided not to return, and his ability to play virtually every song that has ever been written,
from cabaret to obscure movie title songs of the 40's, made it convenient for the manager to retain him.
At the time of his disappearance, he was in his seventh year at the Lounge. Fine's private life, his habits,
provided no clues whatever, being if anything singularly dull and uneventful. A bachelor, he lived in a
single room of one of those seedy hotels whose obscure winding corridors, lined with dull gilded mirrors
and musty faded rugs, tiredly whispering of opulent days long gone. He had no family or friends
(at least no evidence of such was ever turned up), he spent his days for the most part in the cinema,
taking advantage of the so-called Continuous Showing to no doubt garner more tunes for his already vast
repertoire. For the rest, his life was a model of routine, of repetition; he played at the Lounge every
night of the week.
The circumstances of Al Fine's disappearance, well known to newspaper readers at the time, can be
briefly recounted. He vanished sometime during the course of an evening of playing. Certain witnesses,
whose perceptions of the exact circumstances were certainly clouded by alcohol, dim lights, and the usual
low-key excitement which continuously pervades night clubs, went so far as to suggest that, as it seemed to
them, he had vanished during the course of a piece he was playing. None of these had actually seen him disappear
or leave; one moment he was there, playing, while the next moment some people realized that he was no longer
there, "even while (to quote a paradoxical statement by one) it seemed as though the music continued".
Naturally the authorities discounted such 'observations' as 'useless'. The only other thing concerninq that
moment-which-no-one-saw worth noting here is the fact, significant because exceptional, that Fine, contrary
to his usual custom of drawing from his prodigious memory, used sheet music for the rendition of the particular
piece he was playing. Some witnesses recall someone requesting a piece which no one else in the Lounge had ever
heard of -- an ignorance which Fine, with genuine incredulity, admitted he shared; that Person (who was never
identified or located) then produced -- conveniently -- the sheet music and placed it on the piano stand. Al
Fine read the piece expertly (so say the connoisseurs who heard it). Otherwise, testimonies are consistent in
their descriptions of the piece (or song) as "longish". Some called it "intoxicating" in its obligato-like
repetition. At any rate, the song continued past the point where everyone lost interest -- enough so, that no
one could tell at what moment the pianist disappeared: they only realized he had when only an empty piano stool
mutely greeted their next request.
The name of that song (as anyone familiar with this case recalls) was, "I Keep Coming Back to You".
I have searched the catalogues of all publishers (even the most obscure flyby-night ones) dating from five years
before Al Fine's disappearance up to the present. I was unable to locate a song of that title. The actual sheet
of music from which Al Fine played that evening has since been lost -- it was not at the time seized as evidence
because investigators did not consider it as 'having relevant bearing on the case at hand'. Yet, in thinking about
this strange case (and, indeed, I have been nearly obsessed by it) I would like to think that, not only does that
song -- or that sheet of music -- have 'relevance' to Al Fine's disappearance, but, far more, it must provide
(if we could see and peruse it, which obviously we can't) the key and the solution to the whole mystery.
Here is my conjecture: Al Fine was presented on that fateful night with a so-called 'typical' piece of
popular music. Such pieces have several verses, and a chorus, together with the usual da capos, al signes, codas
and so forth, which make it possible for any hack to write a longish song with a minimum of different notes. Yet
this particular piece of music, whether by insidious design or the accident of a printing error, did not allow
the hapless musician to ever reach the coda; or, if it did, another direction awaited him by the end to proceed
back to an earlier portion of the piece. Forced, contrary to his usual habit, to read the music -- a slave, as it
were, of the score -- Al Fine found himself led into a simple-but-effective circular labyrinth from which he could
not extricate himself. He played, turned the page, played on, turned back, played again -- on, on, and on -- until
the piece swallowed him up.
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