Syndicate Lanes

Obviously he was a smoker. You could see it in his veiny neck and gnarled features. He had a husky, low croon that sounded as if he was talking to you from his death bed. His eyes were set deep in their sockets, with dark circles providing a contrast that struck you like a tossed wasp's nest everytime you had the misfortune to make eye contact.

At the piano he was a different person. He hunched over the worn ivory keys and the broad grin of the old leviathan would welcome him and turn to jelly, as the old man dabbed his crackling, dry hands into a pool of raw melody, harmony, and rhythm. The carnival of sounds lit up the old saloon in a sadly beautiful cacophony that was frequently accentuated by the cling-clangor of pints of beer and the deep laughter of the village drunks.

The smoker looked over at the entrance to the joint and gave me the once-over. Then he broke into "Nobody Knows You."

-S