I already felt awkward about stepping into a piano bar to begin with, let alone with the quest I was bequeathed to perform at the command of the fraternity I was going for. Hazing has become quite a controversy on campuses. So this must’ve been the less harmful option. I remind myself of this as I clutch the forbidden fruit in my hand. My pockets were not deep enough to conceal it, I could not hide it.
I must admit, this was not my normal scene. Piano bars, I mean. I am sure they are entertaining. However, I seldom go to regular bars. But it doesn’t hurt to broaden one’s horizons. Heck that’s why I joined this club, aside from parental pressure. Even the securtity checking my license could see that I was out of my element. And I wasn’t sure what they must’ve thought, if they had noticed, of my fruit. I held in in my hand, balling my hand tight around it, hoping that was enough. They nodded me through after giving me the third-degree interogation on my license validity and my age.
The moment I stepped past the threshold, I was immediately enchanted by the haunting melody echoing from the center of the room, which of course, the focal point of the venue sat. The siren like voice that accompanied the piano came from a woman so astonishingly beautiful I had the hardest time denying my innate attraction to women like her. The bar around her was crowded with people dressed in elegant suits and dresses, all eyes were on the siren on stage. Her pianist, was dressed in black robes, complete with an elegant kerchief and broach that I could see shining from across the room. The wait staff were masqued and adorning blushing french buodoires or dramaticly sewn suits resembling that of the 16th century. I felt horribly underdressed, and now wished that I had looked up the dress code before walking in in my jumper and jeans.
The room was round and the ceiling reached high, meeting at a point like a large carnival tent. Small shimmering lights dangled from the rafters to create the illusion of stars twinkling in the night sky. The walls were painted a midnight blue. Small floor lights guided the paths between the small bar tables that led the way to the piano bar.
I followed the lights and weaved between the tables, believing I saw a clearer path than what was originally laid out for guests to use. Passing by a one of the tables, I experienced an intense sensation as I had encounter the effects of burning sassafras. A sagely woman was performing a tea-reading for a young couple, who had fallen victim to this sham. However, I was intrigued. She set the tea leaves ablaze and let the fire work it’s magic, I could hear her hum under her breath but just loud enough to know that it was all nonsensical gibberish. And then with a whimsical twirl of her small frail hand, the fire was snuffed out; leaving a conglomerate mess of ash and smoke at the bottom of the cup. I must admit, I was impressed with this little charade of visual illusion. So much so that I had not noticed that the fruit in my hand had fallen from my grasp and rolled out of sight.
I dropped to my knees in a panic to search for it, but alas, it had vanished into thin air. I jumped to my feet and bolted for the bar – only to lose my footing and trip over a protruding table leg. Laying sprawled out onto the floor, I was certain I had sprained my ankle. The service staff raced to my aid, and carried me to the bar.
While we awaited the paramedics arrival, the pianist asked if I had any requests, to which I replied, “Yes, do you by chance have an apple?”