The Player

by Joe Cosentino

  The room spun around me as tiny silver stars in my eyes turned to blackness.

  Chapter Two

  THE EARLY morning sun covered me like a gold leaf gently falling from the sky. Yawning, I rested my back against the Art Deco fanned silver headboard of my king-size bed. Glancing at the mirror over the adjacent matching bureau, I realized I was in my T-shirt and briefs. Scratching at my bedhead, I slid off the violet comforter and made my way to the window seat. Plopping down, I took in the sky forming a cyan canopy over the busy city street, sparkling Hudson River, and New York City skyline in the distance. “Was what happened last night a dream? How did I get here from the living room?” Shaking myself fully awake, I lumbered into the bathroom for a shave and shower. Returning to the bedroom, I threw on a sapphire polo shirt and jeans and headed into the kitchenette to make breakfast. Then sitting on the stool at the counter, I ate my oatmeal. “Did Chester’s story about the original owner of the pianola cause me to hallucinate? Sleepwalk?”

  Again, I found myself drawn to the player piano in the living room. After grasping a different roll from inside the bench, I switched it with the one at the face of the pianola, sat down, and pedaled. “Night and Day,” written by Cole Porter in 1932, played boldly. Again the room turned cold, the lights flickered, and my nostrils filled with the scent of champagne. An icy feeling crept up my back, and my heart pounded wildly.

  The satiny voice asked, “Why are you playing my piano?”

  I sat frozen at the pianola.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  I spun around slowly to find the most handsome man I had ever seen in my life standing over me. He was tall and lean with slicked-back jet-black hair, violet eyes, high cheekbones, a thin nose, and rosy cheeks. Though he had a youthful quality about him, I would place my visitor at about thirty years old. He was meticulously dressed in a pinstriped black suit and vest, white silk shirt, and gray suspenders with matching bow tie and silk pocket handkerchief. His shoes were shiny black patent leather with white spats. Even more interesting than his looks and wardrobe was his alluring bon vivant smile. I tried to speak, but my dry mouth forbade it. He sat next to me. I shivered as his broad shoulder pressed against mine. Since he was now pedaling, the song continued.

  “James, that’s Cole’s real name, wrote this song for me.”

  Everything came together in my mind. Gasping for air, I somehow managed to rasp out, “You’re Frederick Birtwistle!”

  “Freddy the four-flusher to my friends who loan me jack.” He offered me a dazzling white smile.

  “Four-flusher? Jack?”

  “Ah, you don’t play poker. Pity. A four-flusher is a bluffer, and jack is money.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “I must be dreaming.”

  “No, you’re very much awake. Now.”

  I swallowed hard. “Did you….”

  He nodded, still pedaling. “I carried you to bed and took off your clothes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” He winked at me. “Care to neck?”

  I couldn’t believe a ghost had made a pass at me. “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I barely know you.”

  “Look here, I could have had my way with you last night, but I was a perfect gentleman, given the fact that you were unconscious. The least you can do now is repay me for my prior civility by engaging in a smooch session.”

  I came nose to nose with him. “I’m not making out with a ghost. And an arrogant ghost at that.”

  “So, I’m a ghost, am I?”

  I nodded.

  “Since you know your onions—”

  I cocked my head. “Know my onions?”

  “You know what’s going on. So, clue me in, will you?” He rested his long thin fingers on my knee. “I’m all ears.”

  I rose slowly and backed away. “I know your father made his money in the railroads. You lived here in this house with him, your mother, and your sister, until they all died of influenza.”

  He nodded sadly. “I miss them terribly.”

  “Why didn’t you get influenza?”

  He grinned. “It must have been all the alcohol I drank protecting me from the pox.” Rising, he added, “Speaking of alcohol, the giggle water has been removed from my bar. How’s a fellow supposed to get zozzled?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “On the wagon, are you?”

  “Oh no, I never liked the taste of alcohol.”

  “It is definitely an acquired taste, which I was fortunate enough to acquire at a young age. And to keep acquiring into adulthood.”

  I heard myself ask him, “What did you do for work?”

  He gasped. “I never worked a day in my life.” He seemed proud of it.

  “After your parents passed away, how did you afford this place?”

  “I spent their inheritance.”

  “And after that?”

  He chuckled. “I became a dewdropper.”

  “A dewdropper?”

  “Yes, a mooch with wealthy and generous friends. Speaking of which, butt me?”

  “Excuse me?”

  A dimple appeared in his cheek. “Have a cig?”

  “I don’t smoke.” Realizing the insanity of the situation, I added, “And neither do you, since you’re dead! You were shot on your thirtieth birthday!”

  Freddy nodded. “A most inappropriate birthday present.” He leaned against the pianola. “It was a bum rap.” Gazing at the player piano, he added, “I remember sitting here pedaling while I told the gent his wife and I had never engaged in barneymugging. Nonetheless, I saw the gun, heard the shot, stared at the pianola, and everything went black. The next thing I knew, I felt myself being pulled out of the player piano while you were playing last night.”

  “In what year were you shot?”

  “1935, of course.”

  Not believing it myself, I said, “Your spirit must have somehow gotten trapped inside the player piano. When I pedaled, you… appeared decades later. Like Aladdin rubbing his lamp to manifest the genii.”

  Freddy shrugged. “That’s as good a supposition as any.” He grinned at me. “Maybe you do know your onions. Who are you?”

  I found my full voice. “Andre Beaufort.”

  “Are you a dewdropper too?”

  “I’m a grade school music teacher.”

  “Why are you living in my house?” He glanced around the room. “And I must say, I don’t care at all for what you’ve done with the place.”

  I was surprised to feel offended by a ghost. “What’s wrong with my decorating?”

  He gestured around the room. “Gustavian scalloped pedestal and side table? Why celebrate the kings of Sweden? I had a Swedish friend who was descended from royalty. He was incredibly generous with possessions but wildly possessive. Having dinner at his chalet from time to time was lovely, but I wasn’t about to move into his west wing, no matter how many servants, rings, gold cigarette cases, and silver walking sticks he gave me.” Moving to the fireplace, he said, “And that screen is faded.”

  “Because it has survived decades.”

  “So did I, but I’m not faded.”

  “Actually, you are a bit, being a ghost.”

  “I’m crystal clear.” He pointed upward. “Unlike that chandelier, which needs a good cleaning.”

  “It’s hard to reach.”

  “That’s what servants are for.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Then get some!”

  “I can’t afford it. And even if I could, I wouldn’t be comfortable with people serving me.”

  “Whyever not?”

  “For one thing, it’s not fair to them.”

  “Applesauce!”

  “Applesauce?”

  “Horse feathers.”

  “Horse feathers?”

  “Nonsense! My manservants adored helping me in and out of the tub. Thinking I didn’t see them sneak a glance or two at my family jewels, which by the way are ab
undant.” He headed to the bay window area before the balcony. “Turquoise is all wrong for the chaise. The throw pillows clash miserably. The chairs are not in the correct location. They should be side by side rather than facing each other. And one lamp will suffice, not two.”

  “Why?”

  “When guests attend a soirée, it’s best they not see each other well. Light and close distance add age and proof of alcohol consumption. And why is there a plant on that end table?”

  “It’s a gift from my aunt.”

  “Well give it back!” Continuing, he said, “And that wall mural and the statues depict piano players and singers unknown to me.”

  I ended his critique session. “I purchased these things in a local antique shop. They are all from your period.”

  “I knew most piano players and singers of worth, and I’ve never met any of them.” He pointed a finger at me. “And you still haven’t explained why you are living in my house.”

  “After you were shot, one of your cousins inherited the house. Eventually, it was sold and converted into apartments.”

  Placing his foot on the bench, he said, “You mean my house has been divided into smaller dwellings?”

  I nodded. “Ten of them.”

  “How dare you destroy my family’s mansion!”

  “I didn’t destroy anything. The house was already converted to apartment buildings when I was born. I grew up in my aunt’s apartment downstairs in 1B. She manages the building.”

  “Who is the owner?”

  “The Tzar Me In Corporation in Florida.”

  “A corporation owns my home?”

  I nodded. “This is apartment 3A.”

  “Are you saying my bedroom, sitting room, bar, and bath are now considered your apartment?”

  I nodded again.

  “How frightful! And speaking of my bar.” He sauntered over to the kitchenette. “What have you done?”

  “It was converted to a kitchenette.”

  “What happened to the large kitchen downstairs?”

  “It was converted into an apartment.”

  He seemed astonished. “Without servants and the kitchen, how do you enjoy hors d’oeuvres at cocktail hour, tea sandwiches at lunch, and oysters Rockefeller appetizer, parsnip and celery root bisque, Waldorf salad, cranberry orange roast ducklings, and cream puffs dipped in chocolate for twenty?”

  “I cook for myself.”

  “How horrible!”

  “Sometimes my aunt Nia cooks for my friend Victor and me. He lives down the hall in apartment 3C.” I couldn’t believe I was discussing all this with a ghost.

  “Look here. This is all quite a change for me.” He rubbed his forehead. “And I don’t like it one bit.”

  “Well like it or not, you don’t have much choice in the matter. Unless you know how to get back inside the pianola.”

  “Actually, I do.”

  “How?”

  “Last night, after I tucked you into bed, I thought about resting myself, and back I went.”

  “So, why don’t you go back now?”

  “How rude! I still have more to say to you.” He strutted across the room and plopped down on the chaise. Glancing outside past the balcony window, he asked, “What’s all that?”

  I followed him. “Other apartment buildings, stores, restaurants.”

  His eyes widened. “How did they get there?”

  “People built them.”

  “Why?”

  “So other people could live in them, shop, and eat there.”

  “Why didn’t they build more mansions?”

  “It would have been a lot more expensive. And most people couldn’t afford that.”

  “Because of the crash? I thought that Democrat FDR’s New Deal took care of it.”

  “Yes, but then Republican legislators created ‘trickle-down economics,’ ensuring all the wealth went to the top one percent.”

  He scratched his neck. “Look here, what you’re saying about the Republican Party isn’t true. They’re the party for banking and finance regulation, conservation of energy, veterans’ benefits, supporting farmers and those in need.”

  I burst out laughing. “A lot has changed since the 1930s.”

  “Not everything.” He pointed to the mall movie marquee below. “Is that a petting pantry?”

  “If you mean a movie theater, yes.”

  “Have you seen It Happened One Night?”

  “Yes, I have. But movies in color are the norm now. And we can watch them on smaller screens in our own homes.”

  “A petting pantry in your home?”

  I nodded. Something occurred to me. “Can you go outside?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  “Let’s find out.” I opened the balcony door.

  Freddy joined me outside. “I can stand on my balcony.”

  I hurried back inside and Freddy followed me. After I opened the door to the hall, Freddy tried to take a step outside but froze. “It seems as though I’m linked to my rooms.”

  I shut the door. “Do you mind if I touch you?”

  He whistled. “Are you trying to get hotsy-totsy with me?”

  I groaned. “I’m wondering if you’re solid.” I held his hand. It felt warm and inviting.

  “I’m as solid as they come. Unless a bearcat wants a handcuff.”

  Freddy’s Roaring Twenties lingo confused me. “Bearcat? Handcuff?”

  He explained, “When a woman wants an engagement ring.” Then he asked, “Are you engaged?”

  “No.”

  “Muzzled?”

  I realized he meant married. “No.”

  His shoulders relaxed. “I’m not either. Though many tomatoes have tried.”

  “That’s sexist.”

  He winked at me. “So, you’re finally puckering up.” Placing an arm around my shoulders, he said, “Ready for a smooch?”

  I shrugged off his arm. “Not sexy, sexist. The word ‘tomatoes’ is demeaning to women.”

  He seemed offended. “I adore women, and tomatoes too.” A thin line appeared on his porcelain-like forehead. “The problem is most women adore me more.”

  Continuing my spectral investigation, I asked him, “Do you have a reflection in the mirror?”

  “I haven’t the vaguest idea, but if I do, I’m confident it will be quite handsome.”

  I led him to the mirror. Only my reflection stared back at us.

  Beads of sweat lined his smooth forehead. “Being new at this ghost thing, it appears I don’t know all the rules.” He scratched his head. “What year is it anyway?”

  “2020.”

  He collapsed into an armchair. “Are you sure you don’t have any giggle water?”

  “We don’t know if you can eat or drink.” Taking him by the arm, I led him to the kitchenette. After pouring a glass of water from a pitcher in the refrigerator, I said, “Drink this.”

  “Is it gin?”

  “Water.”

  He grimaced. “Why?”

  “Just try and drink it.”

  He pressed the glass to his lips and then placed it on the countertop. “Do you have any panther piss?”

  “Panther piss?”

  “Whiskey, chum.”

  I took a bottle of cooking sherry from a lower cabinet, poured some into a glass, and handed it to him. “Sip this.”

  He tried unsuccessfully. “Drinking doesn’t seem to be in my ghostly powers. Imagine that!”

  “I’m guessing eating is out of the question too.” I took an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter and handed it to him.

  After trying unsuccessfully to take a bite, he handed it back to me. “Do you have an olive-cheese-stuffed celery stick?”

  “No. But it seems ghosts can’t eat or drink.”

  “I guess you’re in the trolley.” This time he explained before I asked. “You’re right.”

  “Do you sleep?”

  “I was never very good at that. But I rested inside the pianola—until you pedaled i
t.”

  Bringing him to my baby grand, I asked, “Can you play the piano?”

  “If I could do that, why would I have purchased a pianola for two hundred and fifty dollars?”

  “Good point.” Summing up the stupefying situation, I said, “So you can’t leave the apartment, eat, drink, play the piano, or sleep. You have no reflection in the mirror. But you can talk—at least to me, whistle, and enter and exit the pianola.”

  “That seems about right.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose I should thank you for bringing me back. But I’m not sure I like all the ground rules.”

  Standing opposite him, I couldn’t avoid his piercing eyes. “Maybe you should stay inside the pianola.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve asked me to go back inside the player piano. And I believe I know why.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you can’t resist being near me.”

  “What?”

  He placed a hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “I can tell you’re a cake-eater.”

  “You can tell I eat cake?”

  He explained, “A cake-eater is a man who enjoys the company of other male friends.”

  “If you mean I’m a gay man, that’s correct.”

  “I can be as gay as the next man, but I’m referring to a gentleman who has… special male friends.”

  After motioning for Freddy to join me on the chaise, I said, “Things have changed socially since 1935.” I tented my fingers. “For example, being a homosexual is now legal in all fifty states.”

  He seemed astonished. “A homosexual can be a teacher or work for the government?”

  “Yes. And a gay couple can legally marry and adopt children.”

  His square, cleft jaw dropped. “You mean a sodomite can—”

  “Freddy, nobody calls us that anymore, except for the evangelicals. We prefer ‘gay and lesbian.’ And yes, everything I said is true.” I smiled. “We’ve come a long way.”

  Freddy looked like a child hearing a fairy tale for the first time. “And homosexuals speak openly of this?”

  “And live openly too. Unless they’re in the closet.”

  “Some people live in a closet?”