The Humble Artist

He played here every night for the past five years. The tunes were the same, as were the people in the crowd. They never got tired, but he did. Every night he went home and cracked his old knuckles. His wrist hurt, and his fingers were always stiff. The process of opening even a jar could take upward of fifteen minutes. Yet, every night, he continued to play. A tune in D minor, he played, and they sat watching. Watched with their painted eyes. Fixed on him like pinpricks of black. Dazed as if they couldn’t move a muscle. Emotionless faces reflected cold expressions. Never did they clap, nor did they cheer. Every night they were just there.

Tonight, he would play them a new tune he would say. Always though, he played that same low tune, nothing different. He couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing them. They were his audience; he had them in the palm of his old, wrinkled hand.

He sometimes felt as if he controlled these people. With his music he put them into a trance. They sat upon their wooden chairs, and soon mirrored them. His mind wandered sometimes. Thoughts of all that he could make them do with the flick of his feeble wrist thrilled him. He wasn’t Mozart, Beethoven, or Bach, but he carved out music with precise flicks of his fingers. If he was but a little younger, he would say.

Old and alone, the piano and this crowd presented his only companions. Were they his friends he wondered? Though, he was so old, what could he do with a friend? His mind too old for new games. His body too weak for old ones. No, he would play his piano. That was good enough for him.

He had plenty of joy as it was. The piano might have been his only friend, but not his only hobby. For every night he found himself chipping and shaping. Wood was his canvas and a knife his tool. He crafted like a genius they said, those who had seen his work. They called him , or they would if they ever talked. He gave his crafts faces, legs, arms, sometimes he wondered if he gave them a personality. He only began to wonder this odd question five years ago. Around the time he began to play every night. For they sat staring at him when he played, with cold painted eyes.

They didn’t move, nor did they clap, but they watched every night. They listened and never got bored. The old tune in D minor he would play. He would tell himself tonight I will play something different, but he never did. He couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing them. Were they his friends he would ask? Though what could he do with a friend? His mind too mushy to learn new tricks, his body too broken to do old ones.

No, he would just play, that made him happy enough.