I would get a room at the Holiday Inn then go down to the “lounge” to drink and listen to this old man play the piano. I stayed there here and there and we would chat between sets. He had a southern accent. He’d get me free scotch. I could barely hear what he was talking about half of the time because his voice was weak. He was a bald, tall black man, kind of stiff and he was really old. But when he was playing the piano he would get lively. He banged the keys, rocked back and forth, stomped on those pedals.
He had a creeping lascivious look in his eyes. He would say something behind one of those looks and I couldn’t hear him clearly, but I suspected he was just saying something senile. “Blabida blah, bleet bleet yeah,” he said then he held his hands out a foot apart facing each other. So I asked him what he was talking about. And he just said, “Uh huh yeaahhh.” “What was that?” I was getting frustrated. “Dis looong,” he said. He nodded his head and his eyes got really wide. I was tired of saying “What?” so I just sat there and tried to figure out what the fuck he was talking about. He finally said, “When I was young it used to groooww ‘bout dis’ loong.” He was holding his hands out again, facing each other real far apart — like a measurement! “Oh shit!” I said. “You talking about your whatchamakalit? Good God!” “Uh huh, yeaaahhhhhhhhh…”