On my morning walk I stumble upon a Steinway grand piano in the middle of a footpath on the east side of Washington Square Park. It is being tuned. I am intrigued.
I slow down and approach the piano tuner, engrossed in his lower register, "Is there going to be a concert today?"
Barely looking up, he nods his head to his right, indicating a man sitting on a park bench staring at nothing.
I approach him, again with my smile and ask, "So are you giving a concert later today?"
He looks up, his face displaying something between annoyance and impatience and without making eye contact offers,"Well, I'll be playing."
Undeterred I press on. "What will you be playing?" Now I'm starting to feel like an aggressive jilted lover who just won't take No for an answer.
"Classical."
"That's pretty broad. Which composers?"
"A lot." And with that he stands up and walks over to pretend to ask his piano tuner a question but the message is clear:
STOP FUCKING TALKING TO ME ASSHOLE!
It strikes me as so odd to be about to embark on something so intrinsically whimsical as giving a piano recital in the middle of a public park and yet display not one ounce of human joy.
Sad. Sad Sour Piano Man. Sad.