This story is called "Six Eight." It's about a young, impoverished woman in an unnamed city. If I really think about it, it's a story about determination, confidence, and struggle to live. It has a happy ending (as a lot of my stories do), and I like a lot of the symbols I tossed in there. However, I'm not entirely happy with this story. I feel like it needs to be in two or three parts. Funny thing is, I'm not happy with it, but I like it. I wanted to throw this out here because I wonder if any of my sporadic or casual readers will find it interesting. I love writing, I love sharing my writing, and this is my primary blog (and it's all about increasing traffic and producing material for the masses. That's why they invented Tumblr, right?). So if you're interested in seeing what this story is about, please click below :)
BE WARNED: It's fuckin' LONG.
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Six Eight
She sat on the window sill of her tenth-floor apartment smoking a cigarette, thinking just how easy it would be to slide out the window and fall to the pavement below. The numbness, the hunger, the pain in her hands, all of it would be gone. Too many years looking out the window, not enough time to actually do something worth leaving the window open for. Her gaze drifted into the clutter of the room. Her mattress was in the corner next to the heater, on the opposite side of the wall was a stove, a fridge, and a little counter. The bathroom had a broken sink, a toilet that flushed when it wanted to, and a shower that only ran cold. The radio was perched on top of her upright piano, her prized possession. She opened and closed her fist, stretching her aching, tingling fingers. The doctor said it was carpal tunnel, and if she rested her hands, it might go away, but surgery was her best option.
“How the hell am I supposed to afford this? And how can you expect me to rest my hands when playing is how I make my living?” she asked.
“Let me tell you something, Laura, if you save the money you spend on cigarettes, you can make it,” the doctor said, writing out a prescription for a thousand dollar surgical procedure her patient couldn’t afford with a seven hundred dollar rent. Laura glanced at the doctor as she wrote.
“You could have been a pianist,” she said, “audiences like a pretty face, big red lips, long blonde hair, and you’ve got the fingers.”
“I have a physician’s fingers,” the doctor quipped, handing her the paper. Laura shrugged.
“Just a suggestion.”
Laura wasn’t suicidal by any means. Sure, smoking was a slow and cumbersome way to take a couple years off her life, but as far as she knew, there were plenty of other drugs to take, none of which were of any interest to her. She had a gig later, one of those smoky little uptown bars where they paid her to play and sing for a couple hours. It was uncertain if she’d be able to face the pain long enough to get through one song. The doctor was nice enough to give her some medicine that would dull the pain. In conjunction with mineral ice, she would probably get through the entire night. Laura was giving herself a month to quit smoking and start saving money. It would certainly add up to a lot of money.
Every week, she bought two cartons of cigarettes. Costing her a little over twenty dollars, each carton had ten packs, each pack had twenty cigarettes, she went through two, usually three packs a day. She wasn’t a chain smoker, but she was damn close on days she got stressed out. That was forty dollars added onto the meager grocery bill she’d allotted herself. The bare necessities were all she could afford. Relying on the bars she played in for dinner (as they would usually feed her as part of the payment) and getting a few tips as well as some under-the-table cash from the bar, she was able to make the rent on her apartment, pay for groceries, and pay for the nice image she had to keep up to play in high-class establishments.
It had been difficult the last few years, keeping her thick black hair at a reasonable length, color, and style, maintaining nicely shaped and painted nails (people liked to watch tastefully colored nails skim across white keys, red was preferred), a face that was always made up impeccably, essentially, she became perfection the moment her high-heeled feet stepped on the stage with the piano. The process took a few hours to complete. Laura put out her cigarette, grinding it on the sill as she stood up, then tossed the butt into the bag hanging on the doorknob to the bathroom. She washed her face, her armpits, and put dry shampoo in her hair. Then came the makeup, quick plucking of eyebrows and any stray hairs, a contouring of makeup on her collar bones, her arms, and her cleavage. A few spritzes of perfume and a good application of deodorant. Naked, she walked into the main room of her studio apartment and headed for the dresser, selected some undergarments, and put them on. Earlier in the day, she’d steamed a blue strapless dress and cleaned a pair of her favorite silver heels, and she slipped them on. Next came the fake diamond jewelry she’d picked up at an accessories store for less than what a carton of cigarettes had cost her. She fastened a silver pendant around her neck, put rhinestones in her ears, and secured her hair off her face with a sparkly rhinestone barrette. After all of that work, her hands ached. She filled the sink with cold water and plunged her hands in to ease the swelling. Her hands turned red, then a faint purple before she drew them out and covered them in the medicine. After fifteen minutes it absorbed and, she was ready to go.
All she needed was a thousand dollars to cover the cost of the carpal tunnel surgery, then she could play without any hassle. While she walked down the sidewalk of the city, the illusion began. For a moment, she wasn’t a starving musician, a heavy smoker who got a headache if she didn’t get her fix, a pianist suffering carpal tunnel, a young woman who got all of her clothes, furniture, and jewelry second hand. She looked like a sophisticated, successful socialite who might as well be the trophy wife to a powerful CEO or celebrity. The fantasy surrounded her and she ignored the grumble in her stomach and the tingling in her hands.
The bar wasn’t too far from her apartment, and she played there quite regularly. Always arriving an hour early, the bar staff had a glass of red wine and her favorites off the bar menu set at a quiet table in the back when she walked in.
“Look who’s back again, same time every week,” the manager greeted her, he held out his hand. Laura smiled and took it, palm down, showing a graceful dominance. He showed her to her table and poured her a glass of wine.
“I hear you’ve got some established gentlemen coming here tonight,” Laura prodded, taking a bite of the petite fish fillet on her plate, “some attractive, wealthy, young, gentlemen who are turning into regulars.” The manager, Clay, raised his eyebrows and chuckled.
“Your attractive, wealthy, young, gentleman will definitely be here tonight,” the female bartender at the front of the bar called, referencing Laura’s primary admirer.
“They like something pretty to watch while they buy expensive liquor,” he said, nudging Laura’s bare freckled shoulder. He left her to eat, and she took to surveying the bar. It was narrow and L shaped, the front of the bar dedicated to serving the drinks and bar food, the back to socializing. They had a small, elevated platform, illuminated by soft colored lights and a baby grand piano finished with a deep red stain. It was darkly voiced and immaculately tuned, and Laura loved every second spent with her fingers on the keys. After her meal, she stepped out back for a smoke.
The first hour at the keys went well. Men and women gathered at the front of the bar, chatting, tuning the piano out, busy being socialites. But as the evening went on, it became apparent that one gentleman had seated himself in the shadows. Her shoulders felt prickly in a good way, like the gaze from the mystery man was an electric current running through her skin. The tingling drifted down her shoulder and into her fingers. The pain started, her thumbs became stiff. Wincing, she finished the improvisation and decided to stop for a break. Raising a hand to the bartender on her end of the establishment, he knew she wanted a glass of ice water, not to drink, but to wrap her hands around. The little wooden box on the bar was brimming with money. A sign taped next to it said “Entertainment tonight is provided by Laura Inghliterra, pianist.” The sign and sight of green, crisp, bills made her giddy. She took a seat at her table and the bartender brought her the ice water and a chocolate martini.
“Courtesy of the gentleman in blue,” he said with a wink. Laura smirked and shook her head. The cold perspiration on the glass felt wonderful against her thumbs. The tingling on her shoulder turned warm and she turned her head to see a young man with deep hazel “bedroom” eyes, full lips, and a mop of tamed blonde curls.
“I thought you could use something more substantial than water,” the gentleman said, “May I join you?” Laura shifted on the stool and slid the martini closer to her.
“Niccolo, what a surprise, please do,” she urged, wrapping her hands around the glass again. The air filled with artificial sounding music from the 1920s, with a trumpet blaring over a soft drum kit and piano.
“Ms. Inghliterra,” her admirer said, rolling the R like a native Italian, “Ms. England. Mi piace tuo nome.”
“I like my name, too,” she giggled, “And I like a man who can speak Italian.” She removed her right hand and opened and closed her fist, cracking her knuckles, rolling her wrist. Niccolo Cantalori had become a regular at the bar in the last few weeks. He always bought her a drink, understood that her hands hurt, and always offered to take her on a proper date. Laura had been wary of him, he was a high class gentleman, an interpreter for the company that seemed to have taken over the bar that evening. That was even more of an excuse to see her and charm her pink. She took a sip of the martini. “Thank you for the drink, although I’m afraid that if I drink too much, I won’t be able to play very well.” His hazel eyes twinkled when he laughed.
“I have to get back on the stage now, I can play better than this recording,” she released his hand and took another sip of the martini. Her hands felt ok, the tingling had stopped for now.
“Play me something,” he insisted, eyebrows lifting. Her eyes trailed from his, to his full lips, back to his eyes, and his pupils dilated. If she played her cards right, she could have his bedroom gaze locked on her all night. She went back to the piano and looked down at him.
“Pick three notes and a time signature,” said Laura, positioning her hands an inch above the keys.
“Six-eight. A, C, and F,” he said with a raise of his eyebrows. Laura closed her eyes, thought of the time signature, thought of the notes, tapped the keys gently and listened for the song to come into her head. She thought of Nic’s full lips, the way he rolled his Rs, the chocolate martini, inhaled, exhaled, and started to play. The room faded away and she concentrated on the smooth white keys below her long fingertips. Her nails clicked against the surface, her toe tapped against the golden pedals, the melody rang in her ear, danced around her. Images entered her mind and left as quickly as they came, she remembered every note, every pause—something she attributed to her excellent memory—and vamped it once or twice before bringing the improvisation to a close. When she lifted her hands off the piano, they curled into fists and hummed, buzzed, and ached. The entirety of the bar had gathered close to the piano, and erupted into applause. The clock next to the piano reminded her that she was done for the night, in fact, she had been done for fifteen minutes. Time had flown by as she played Nic’s song, and apparently, it had been a hit. The boxes all around the bar were stuffed and overflowing, some of the people had even placed money by the legs of the piano. This might have been the most she’d ever made in one night. She stood, careful not to step on her dress, and bowed, blew kisses with clenched fists, and sent a glance in the direction of her table. Nic sat stoic, a fresh glass of ice water at his side, his mouth slightly open and grinning, his eyebrows lifted. She endured a few minutes of handshakes, her hand feeling limp and swollen. Eventually, she made it to her table. Nic smiled and pushed the glass of ice toward her.
“That was beautiful,” he said. Their fingers touched as she took the glass, and before she could react he quickly and gently took her hand in his own. She rested one hand on the glass while both of his thumbs gently rubbed her wrist and palm.
“Thank you,” she responded. He maneuvered her aching hand around, stretching it, closing the fingers, gently massaging it. When he finished, he held his hands out, waiting for the other one, and she gladly accepted.
The evening wore on and the bar began to empty, but Laura remained, her hands under care from the gentleman with blonde curls. For the first time since she’d been diagnosed, things seemed to be looking up for her. The bartenders and the manager collected the cash from all of the tip boxes and the stage and handed her an envelope. Nic had stopped rubbing her hand and now just held it. He looked at her with bedroom eyes.
“It looks like you made a lot tonight,” he remarked. Laura opened and closed her free hand.
“I hope it’s enough,” she mumbled, “I have to decide whether to save it for rent or save it for surgery.”
“Surgery?” he muttered suggestively, checking out the sweetheart line of her dress.
“I have carpal tunnel syndrome,” she explained, attempting to direct his focus away from her breasts, “my hands go numb and tingly, they get stiff and sore. Your hand massage was greatly appreciated earlier.”
“How can such a brilliant pianist have such an ironic disorder?” Nic mused. She chuckled.
“You should probably know I’m also fairly impoverished, too. This is how I make my living.”
“You make a lovely socialite. You had me fooled from the start. I thought you were the daughter or trophy of some rich old guy who could afford to spend money on a pretty young thing,” he said, bedroom eyes glowing, chuckling. She brushed her thumb against his, sending a wave of tingles from her wrist to the tip of her fingers.
“No, I’m a heavy smoker—been trying to quit, living in a filthy studio apartment in a sketchy area of town, I have no motivation, I’m losing the use of my hands, and I dress up to impress the places I do my work. I have nothing to offer any company except a nice figure and a pretty face. So I compose and record music, and play piano every night at three or four different establishments. I live on tips. It’s a tough life,” Laura quipped.
“You fooled me,” he said, chuckling.
“I’m fooling everyone.”
“But you played for me.”
“I play for everyone.”
“You,” he emphasized, leaning in, “played for me.” Laura’s skin burned and something inside her melted. She met his bedroom eyes.
“Yes, Nic, I played for you.”
“It was beautiful.”
“Thank you.” The conversation teetered on the edge of something unusually serious until the bar closed. Laura walked home alone, despite the tempting invitation to spend the night at Nic’s. She took off her heels and walked home barefoot, ignoring the looks from the drunk men on the street, ignoring the scantily clad women in doorways, ignoring the gnaw in her brain that wanted nicotine, ignoring the feeling of her hands being inflated like balloons. She only concentrated on the fat wads of cash in her bag, the fat wads of cash that she would count and save, the fat wads of cash that would take her out of work for a month, pay for physical therapy, pay for the surgery, maybe pay for a hypnotherapy session to get her to quit smoking. Maybe she could keep playing piano every night at bars and one day, play Nic’s song for him wearing only a negligee, fall asleep naked in his arms, give up her old apartment, become the socialite Nic thought she was.
As she stripped off her dress in her apartment and stood naked in the moonlight, she thought about her fantasy trophy wife life. She thought about playing the piano in Nic’s penthouse apartment, playing on a Steinway, owning a Steinway. She thought about sleeping naked in silk sheets. She thought about holding the thin stem of a martini glass with three fingers. She thought about the ugly scars she’d have on her wrists, and the stories she could make up about them. She thought about the music she could write, every year for her anniversary with Nic she would write him a song. She would play for him and after he would massage her hands, and then she would massage him, and then they would make love.
Yes, that’s what would happen. She put on an old, large tee shirt and a pair of underwear and sat on the window sill to smoke a cigarette and count her tips. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, sixty, hundred ten, hundred sixty, hundred eighty, hundred eighty five, hundred ninety five…two hundred…three hundred…four hundred…five hundred…six hundred…seven hundred, seven hundred and five, and fifteen, and thirty five, thirty six, thirty seven.
Seven hundred and thirty eight dollars.
“Well shit,” she mumbled, “There’s rent. There’s cigarettes.” After separating the money into two separate piles, she did mental math. She had a couple thousand in the bank, which she could use for groceries and rent while she recovered. If she took out the thousand, she could get the surgery.
But—If she played the game with Nic, she could live with him while she recovered, mooch food and hot water, scratch her itch, live her fantasy, stay as long as he let her, and then see about starting her life over. She could be a nonsmoker, a socialite, naked in silk sheets, playing Mozart wearing nothing but pearls, have a handsome and sensitive man to come home to, someone she could rely on, someone who would let her live the life she wanted, play piano as long as she wanted, live happy as long as she wanted. She liked him, she liked him a lot, she liked him a heck of a lot and they’d done nothing more than held hands. Who was she fooling? She played for him. She earned money because of him. Maybe, just maybe, she thought about a future with Niccolo Cantalori, the golden song of victory. She lit another cigarette, but didn’t smoke it, instead, she let it burn on the window sill.
The next morning, she called her doctor and scheduled the surgery. An hour later, she called Nic and asked him a favor. A week later she was in and then out with bandages wrapped around her wrists, Nic let her stay in his apartment. A month later, she was making progress with her hand movements. Another month, she quit smoking and moved into a nicer apartment, a week after that, she could move her fingers, two months, she played in the same upper class bar and Nic massaged her hands between improvisations.
“I hope you know you’re the first and only woman who’s ever done something for me,” he said, his arms around her as they lay naked between silk sheets, “thank you.” Laura traced the thin scars on her wrists.
“I hope you know you’re the first and only man I’ve ever wanted to play for.”
“I hope you know you’re not living in that studio apartment anymore, you’re moving back in with me. And you’re going to play for me, and I’m going to take care of you,” he said, his voice a gruff and protective tone. She tilted her head back to look into his hazel eyes.
“Spero che tu voglia una vita con me,” Laura said.
“I have always wanted a life with you,” he said. Laura smiled and got up from the bed. She crossed the room, taking the dark blue negligee from the armchair by the door and slid it over her head as she made her way over to the baby grand piano in his living room. He lazily followed her, putting on a black bathrobe and tying it loosely around his waist. Her fingers twitched and stretched as she sat down and let her hands hover over the keys.
“Pick three notes and a time signature,” she said. With bedroom eyes and a smile, he said, “Six-eight, C, G, and B.”
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