Old dogs teaching new tricks.

In the apartment complex that we lived in, all of the buildings had three floors.

The first one could be considered the basement since half of it was below grade level with windows that allowed peering out directly over the cut grass. The second floor was just that, nothing spectacular. Those on the third floor had the best view of the landscaping, everyone coming and going on the streets, and the parking lots below.

We lived on the third floor.

Sure is quiet around here

All in all, it was a pretty nice place, albeit full of people who seemed more likely to tuck out of sight when they saw you than actually speak to you.

It got to the point where on more than one occasion I would ask a neighbor how they were without actually caring because they weren’t going to respond regardless.

Almost small talk, but even smaller.

The laundry room was located two floors below. After a few weeks, it was easy to determine most people’s clothes-washing schedules. I felt like I had more confidence than most in the building and didn’t have an issue periodically checking here and there to see if the machines were empty.

I caught on early to the fact that if I moved too quickly down the stairs in my typical Disney movie skipping manner, I’d scare the locals and they’d scatter like mice. I learned to slow the skip to a careful and more nonchalant finish as I rounded the corner and headed down the final half set of stairs.

My dance partner

Each step being carpeted lent to my silent arrival and the nowhere-to-run look of the woman in 2B. I say 2B, I have no clue what her apartment number was.

Our entire relationship consisted of us meeting face to face in the entryway of the laundry room upon my successful stalking to see who I could surprise when I realized that I’d been wearing the same t-shirt for more than a day.

There I was with a basket full of dirty clothes and she’d freak out like I was some gangbanger looking to follow her back to her apartment to see where she hid her kids.

Timid was an understatement.

She and I often danced in the doorway right on the cusp between what was dirty and clean. Sometimes I’d quickly anticipate her left veer as she faced me and I’d go to my right to sneak in just one more Dirty Dancing moment together. It all happened in a matter of a second or two and then she was gone until next week.

I could never pin down her washing schedule. I really had no schedule of my own. I can only assume that she was also busy trying to pin down mine to avoid our awkward dance lessons or having to come in contact with another human being in general.

The fire down below

The apartment immediately across from where the washers and dryers did everyone’s deeds wasn’t exactly quiet before the piano man moved in.

For the two or three years that we lived there, it had three different tenants.

The first ones were there when we arrived. I don’t recall very much about them other than having to weave my way around boxes and furniture as they loaded the rental truck on the day that they moved out.

I remember slightly more detail about the tenants that followed.

They must have moved in while I wasn’t looking and definitely in between wash cycles. I also have to assume that they had some heavy furniture that required constant rearranging based on the grunting and groaning that could be heard from outside the door as I tossed another sock in the dryer to try to chase after its match.

I first realized that someone had moved in when I heard what I thought was a girl by herself doing all of the heavy lifting. Within moments it was clear that she’d had all the help that she needed. Whatever piece of furniture they were moving had to be heavy. I could tell right away that they were doing it all wrong.

Initially, I wasn’t sure if we had a wife-beater on our hands. It took a minute for me to conclude that this particular event wasn’t a one-sided boxing match and was indeed a cohesiveness between them on furniture Feng Shui.

Between her uh-uh-uh noises that followed every time he’d smack the heavy object, it was painfully obvious that neither understood the concept of one, two, three, push. Instead, he’d smack, she’d make another uh sound. Lather, rinse, repeat. There was no working together with those two.

After a few minutes, you could tell that she was doing most of the work and he was quickly giving up as her primal groans grew louder moments before they finally got whatever it was in its appropriate place.

Both clearly satisfied with the achievement and the object’s new location, an uncomfortable quiet fell upon the hallway.

I quickly glanced around to see if anyone else witnessed the couple who wouldn’t soon be hired by any local moving company.

No? Just me?

Carry on.

Over the course of their stay, she seemed to be the more vocal one. He was kind of a big guy who didn’t say much. Then again, aside from the sparring and moving sessions that they regularly had behind closed doors I rarely caught more than a glimpse of either of them.

They moved out the same way they moved in, without me being aware of it.

Stepping aside

It was laundry day when they were carefully navigating the upright piano through the building’s back door and down the half-flight of stairs into Mike Tyson and Robin Givens’ old apartment.

Being a musician, I welcomed knowing that there would be another melody-minded tenant below me. I do a little tickling of the ivories myself, but nothing crazy, or at least not while anyone is watching.

My knowledge of those in the building was limited.

It was basically the lady who preferred not to get her groove on with me or anyone else in secluded places, a guy with the same name as me down the hall, and Punch and Judy who had just moved out and were no longer an option to hang out nearby.

I was in hopes that new-old-guy might present more of a friendly face.

Figuring that I’d only be in the way, I let them do their thing. I postponed my linen chores and just let my dance partner do her thing of separating the whites from the colors that day.

The following morning as I was on my way out for a walk I heard something in the stairwell below. I want to say that it was music, but it was more like a first grader who’d just come home from their first piano lesson and was being forced to practice.

It turns out that Mozart, he wasn’t.

I never once got to speak to him. While I was having my coffee and taking advantage of my third-floor views of the ants marching, I would catch him as he stepped out each weekday morning. He’d return a couple of hours later and it began again.

He was pretty elusive and definitely on a mission of sorts.

Whenever I was in the hallway or stairwell the missed notes and inconsistencies caused me to start to wonder if I had Tourette’s. Thankfully no one witnessed the squeamish looks on my face or my combined eye and mouth twitches as I realized he and I weren’t going to be bandmates anytime soon.

This routine went on for eight hours a day, every single day.

The turning point

I continued my morning ritual of crow’s nest observations while sipping from my coffee mug.

The hours upon hours of listening to what seemed like him repeating the first three pages of book number one on how to play piano had me starting to draw some conclusions. I’ll never know if those conclusions were correct as he moved out exactly one year later.

I came to the assumption, however correct or incorrect it may have been, that this elderly gentleman had recently lost his wife. By all accounts, he was at least seventy-five years old if not older.

He now lived alone, that was clear. It was also clear that for his entire life, he had always wanted to learn to play the piano. No one invests that much time into something that isn’t a life-long dream.

It was apparent that he now had the time to pursue this passion. I’ve never witnessed such dedication by anyone in my life, even to this day.

I’m fairly certain that his morning jaunts were for daily piano lessons which he continued to build on once he returned home.

For eight hours a day, seven days a week, his practice soon graduated into rehearsal. In a single year, he went from the most elementary piano student to a musician who I would have a hard time telling was even the same person who moved in such a short time ago.

His playing just prior to his moving out became something that I would sit in the stairwell and listen to thoroughly enjoying in those final few months of his tenancy. So much so that I’d walk a little slower down to the laundry room and even spend a few more minutes just across the hall from the closed door of the man who had become an amazing concert pianist in an unbelievably short amount of time.

It was inspiring.

He was simply fantastic.

Lessons learned

We moved out shortly thereafter and bid farewell to the place that was home for a short time.

In the years that have followed since then, I’ve made sure to do some things a bit differently.

I politely say hello if given the chance. If I’m not given the chance, I try to make the opportunity.

I take a moment to acknowledge someone’s persistence and perseverance. I hope that somewhere along the line a kind word or reassurance from me helps to positively enhance someone’s life.

Lastly, I realize that it’s never too late to pursue anything in life. The pursuit may take a different path than we initially thought, but going after something that has always been a dream is so very important.

After all, we all only have so much time here. We should all try out new tricks.

I’m as surprised as you are.

I stumbled upon a piece about how influencers weren’t reading people’s stories, so the collective “we” should stop reading theirs.

It wasn’t the actual article that got my attention. It was a comment posted by a reader where they basically told someone with a rather large following on Medium to f*ck off. I say large following, the targeted person probably has one of the largest followings.

News flash, that person’s not going to read or see your comment, either.

They’ll never know that they should f*ck off.

The premise of the comment seemed to imply that writers with large followings only want you to read their material, but don’t have time for us little people.

Hmm, okay. You mean those same writers who freely share their wealth of knowledge and have potentially inspired thousands of readers to start writing?

I’m here to burst your bubble.

If you’re doing anything in your life with the goal of the person or people that influenced you to start doing it in the first place actually acknowledging your work in any way, stop it. Now.

First, Stephen, Steve, or whatever his friends actually call him, doesn’t give a sh*t about me. Sure, I’m a nice guy. I’m sure he would very much enjoy visiting with me and having coffee and a blueberry muffin at the small cafe in his home state that he occasionally visits based on the local rumor mill.

Truth is, there’s actually a better chance of that happening than him reading anything that I will ever write. Even if I wrote some amazing horror novel, he won’t care or call me to share his thoughts. Why?

Dozens of reasons.

For one, people like Steve are too busy doing whatever they’re doing and paying attention to events, music, movies, and literature that they care about and enjoy. Plus, I’m too small of a fish in the literary sea.

I guess I could always leave a copy outside the gates of his Bangor, Maine house. The chances that he’ll do anything more than run over it with whatever cool car he’s currently driving are nil.

I’ve actually been almost up to the gates. It was years ago, but, I was in town and figured I’d stop by. I’d like to think that he didn’t answer because he was probably already out and about that day and we just missed each other.

The truth is, he didn’t give as sh*t about me then, either.

Admittedly, I don’t write horror stories. Full disclosure, I like a lot of Steve’s books, but in movie form. I’ve never read a single one.

However, he’s apparently pretty famous if even I know his name.

Yeah, that’s how you sound, too, if you think that anyone who’s that big respectively on any online format or in the world is paying attention to you or what you create.

Nope, I’m not comparing someone with “100 million” Medium followers to Stephen King. I’m simply referencing those with the largest reach on a given platform.

I’ll extend it a bit further.

Let’s say that you picked up the guitar because one of the many virtuosos out there sparked your interest. Maybe you painted your first sunflower, either because you stumbled on a Bob Ross rerun, or you were enlightened by an original Picasso that was stolen on some TV show. Good for you! But, stop right there and slow your Prussian blue roll.

If you believe that you’re entitled to the reciprocity of engagement of your work by someone more well-known than you in the same field as your undertaking, best of luck. You’re going to find out that it’s still just as cruel of a world out there as it always was.

You started the thing because you were inspired, not for the accolades of anyone else. Keep that in check, be consistent and consistently improve. Do that, and your audience will take notice. Maybe not that famed person that initially inspired you, but plenty of other people that you don’t currently give a sh*t about either.

Probably not gonna include Bob Ross or Picasso at this point, though.

Write the book, sing the song, paint the picture.

And if you see Stephen around, tell him that he still owes me for the coffee and muffin that he never showed up for.