The secret life of Pizzly Bears

It shouldn't be allowed. It can't be permitted. It should never happen. And if anyone had told him, he wouldn't have believed it. If he had read it on social media, he would have thought it was fake news. But he is witnessing the event with his own eyes. He can't deny that it's happening. He can't ignore it. It’s lifelike.

The girl sits on the piano bench as if she's been doing this for years. Playful, flawless, attentive. Her fingers glide over the keys as if she were a professional musician. And all the things she performs. Bohemian Rhapsody. Set Fire to Rain. Breakfast in America.

How many customers are standing around her? Silent, admiring, lost in thought. It's clear from the scene. She enchants the room.

He would have been one of the spectators. He would have listened to her version of "With or Without You" with tears in his eyes. He would have clapped and cheered the loudest when she finished the song. He would have shouted too. We want more! We want more! Because who wouldn't when you hear her play the piano?

He would have done it all. If it weren't for her sitting on his stool. Behind his piano. Among his crowd. That's why the artist stand like a rusty lamppost in the bookstore doorway. And while it's some party inside the store full of crime novels, fantasy, horror, literary fiction, young adult, cook and children's books, he feels the urge to run away. To hide. Under mountains. Under Pacific.

How old is she, anyway? Twenty? And despite everything, he has to admit it's a good choice by the bookstore owner. Of course, he can play perfectly well. And he has been doing it for over ten years. In this bookstore. An he performed great songs. Moonlight Sonata. Salt Peanuts. Gymnopédie. Honky Tonk Blues. But he is more like the wallpaper, the cabinets, the carpet, the pendant lights.

The girl is like a spring breeze. When she plays, you look up, you're moved. She fills the space with new life, with joy, with playfulness. He fills the bookstore with seriousness, heaviness, and greyness?

The owner is standing behind the counter. He sees the artist standing. He raises his hand. As a greeting? As a stop sign? The manager looks to the left where crowds of customers are gathered around the piano. A customer approaches him, wanting to buy a magazine. After handling this, he closes his eyes and makes it clear to the saleswoman that she is now in charge of the cash register.

"I wanted to warn you," says the owner. "But strangely enough, no one of us had your phone number. Or your home address."

Theu are sitting in the small office. The piano playing is clearly audible. "Who wants to live forever?" Around them are stacks of new books, unopened boxes, old newspapers, and magazines. The bookstore owner is drinking coffee from a paper cup. The artist’s cup of coffee sits untouched on a narrow glass table.

"This new pianist is the daughter of one of our new saleswomen," he says. "A natural, don't you think? A true artist. Can I refuse to let her play? Basically, the idea of the instrument is that anyone who comes in can play it. And she turned op this afternoon."

The artist know the bookseller is right. It's not his piano. Although, after ten years, it started to feel that way. So many words, emotions, memories, impressions well up inside the artist. But he just stares at the paper cup as if it were a stuffed panda bear.

"We always enjoyed you’re playing," says the manager. "It was solid, respectable, sturdy. A bit like the antiques in my mother's house. It's beautiful, expensive, fragile. But is it still contemporary? Surprising? Functional? Amazing? Does anyone use it?"

He doesn't dare say it. The salesperson beats around the bush. But the artist senses what the owner means in every way. He is old-fashioned. He is done. He is what a tape recorder must feel like.

The moment bookseller begins with conviction about the new era, about social media, about change, the artist shuffles out of the office. And as he makes his way past the children's books and crime novels to the exit, he hears the customers clapping. The girl smiles politely and starts a new song. "Goodbye Stranger."

"Like I'm trash," says the pianist. "Like I'm leftover food in a frying pan. A saucepan. And you're just shoving me into the wheelie bin."

He's in a pub. "Ale's well that ends well". On his way to the taproom, the performer met Jakup. Or Jacop. Maybe his real name is Jakip. His new friend is too drunk to pronounce his own name properly. The musician doesn't care. Intoxicated or sober. As long as his buddy is willing to listen to him. Because that's what the artist needs most right now. To vent his anger. To talk things out.

"Did I deserve this?" the performer wants to know. Jakup sits next to him on the stool, engrossed in the newspaper on the bar.

"It must be me," the pianist thinks. "But after all these years, it felt like my job, like my destiny, my life, my world. I was the bookstore musician. I was appreciated, I was recognized. I was admired."

"It's really written here," says his companion. He speaks with a thick tongue. "A couple is going on vacation to Spain. For four weeks. And they just dump their cat in the utility closet."

The musician signals that he wants a drink. Cherry Coke. He was sorely tempted to get drunk. It would be his first drink in ten years. The performer has managed to restrain himself. This is in contrast to his soulmate. He's downing glasses of beer in a breakneck speed.

"People who hurt animals," his friend says, "should be locked up immediately. Or better yet. They should be put to death."

"Do you know how I often feel?" the artist asks. "Like a Pizzly Bear. Do you know what that is? A cross between a Polar Bear and a Grizzly Bear. You're not a Polar Bear. But neither you are a Grizzly Bear. That's me. I'm not a respectable citizen. But I'm not a dandy either. I feel very unhappy in an office, for instance. But I'm not a full-fledged artist as well. I find that to obscure."

“I had a cat once,” says his companion. “I called her Kitty Gaga. I really loved the animal. But I lost her after just one day.”

“A Pizzly Bear,” says the musician. “And that’s why the job at the bookstore suited me so well. I didn’t have to be an artist. But also not a respectable, well-mannered, average citizen.”

The pianist watches the pub grow emptier and emptier. Outside, it’s dark. He just doesn’t want to go home. What will become of him now that he’s lost his purpose, lost his identity? At home, he’ll waste away, wither away. And maybe then he’ll no longer have the strength, the motivation, the willpower to stay off the booze?

“Come on, I’m going out into the street again,” says his companion. “Let’s see if we can find a place to sleep.” He leaves the newspaper on the bar. He drinks the last of his beer from his pint glass.

The pianist strolls after Jakup. He doesn’t care. Even if he were to go to Vladivostok. Or  Tokyo. As long as he's not confronted with himself. As long as he doesn't have to face himself.

"Last week I slept in a four-poster bed," says his friend. "What an experience! What luxury! What an adventure! I slept like a baby. It was a shame the villa's residents came home after midnight."

The performer doesn't recognize the streets, the alleys his friend takes. Does his companion realize where he's going? Worst case scenario, he'll break in again to find a place to sleep.

Then Jakup stops in front of a building. A former elementary school? It seems his companion has been here before. He rings the doorbell, and the door is opened immediately. Is someone waiting for them? A man is standing in the hallway. Gray jacket, black T-shirt, jeans, haircut like a rodeo clown, shoes like a mime artist.

His friend is talking to the man. It appears they know each other. Jakup points to the artist. The man nods and looks at the performer as if he were a lost dog. And maybe, the pianist thinks, I am.

They enter a brightly lit room. The floor is covered in gleaming blue linoleum, the walls are stark white. There are tables with chairs, a cupboard filled with books and games. Here and there are groups of men. Unshaven, emaciated, dirty clothes, dull eyes.

But the artist doesn't let this deter him. With confident strides, he rushes to the instrument. He blows away the dust, lifts the lid, makes sure the stool is at the right height. He tries out a few keys. And begins playing the piano with gusto. Honky Tonk Blues.