band added new songs to their playlist. No one spoke to me and I spoke to no one.
I was simply thankful that my presence was tolerated. When the band decided to
end the practice I thanked each of the musicians for letting me watch and listen. For
the next couple of Saturdays I followed the same ritual, trying to observe everything
that the keyboardist did during the songs and its relation to what the rest of the band
was playing. At the end of the third practice, the piano player turned and looked me
in the eye for the first time since my curious appearance. Though no words had
been spoken about the music or me, he had discerned that I was interested in playing
the piano. “You wanna play the blues piano?” he asked me with a laugh—a snicker
that said to me “you seem kind of serious about this, white boy.” Realizing that this
was the chance I had been hoping for, I stood up and mimicked his manner and look
at me. “Yes,” I said with all the gravitas filtered through a cool irreverence that
I could project.