“No, no, no,” he says to himself as he sits at the piano. If he could hear or see me, I’d assure him the song is going to be his masterpiece and will be iconic.
He repeats the opening bars, singing along. He stops again, curses and bangs the keys with his fist, then tweaks the chord progression and lyrics. He’s still not quite there. I wish I could help him.
He’s thinner than I imagined. Almost emaciated. Drugs? Or so consumed with writing and recording he’s not eating? After a few minutes, I have my answer; when his wife comes into the room and offers him a sliced avocado, he waves her off. It’s a small detail I’d never have known if I hadn’t witnessed it myself. She kisses the top of his head; he reaches up and touches her cheek Then she sits cross-legged on the floor with a stick of charcoal and a sketch pad. Maybe after I’ve saved enough for another excursion, I’ll see for myself if she really was the villain as she’s been portrayed.
After toiling at the piano for longer than I would’ve imagined, he sings and plays the song that’ll be known around the world as an anthem of peace. And I’m here to witness its birth. What a moment.
He turns toward his wife. “I’ll release it and see what happens.” She smiles. “If it’s not a hit,” he says, “maybe I’ll sing it to the grandkids when I’m 64.” He chuckles.
Even if I could tell him that’s not to be, I wouldn’t have the heart to. Besides, the cloaked machine that brought me here is signaling that my time is up — and his will be far too soon.
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