Please help me answer the question in the imagine
Passage: The tip far was fling up. On a Friday
night, late-season tourists and
business types shouldered
together ina
cafe, most of them waiting for
tables in the restaurane next dbor,
ahason warched them with a
sardonic eye, his
fingers aromatic on the piano
keyboard. Heid eaten in the
restaurant one time, when he first
got the job. The
food was good bur pricey, and he
didn’t like sitting alone a acable
with linen cloths and too many
forks. julia
would have loved the place,
though; she'd grown up with crystal
and silver even at breakfast. Mason
had
adjusted to all that when they got
married, but he didn't have the
patience for it anymore.
One of the requlars came in and
gave Mason a wave. He dipped his
head without missing any notes.
Most of
the regulars stayed away on weekends, but some of them liked
the atmosphere of the place when
it was crowded.
On a night like this, sooner or later
somebody would yell, *Play The
Piano Man;
" and Mason would
honor the
request with a silent apology to
Bily Joel. He felt like a phony
singing that number, but it was
Mason's job to
make the customers happy, and
the song never failed to galvanize
the house and fill up the tip jar.
He finished up a jazz set and
launched straight into Gershwin,
* Variety was the spice of
employment. Once in a
while he mixed in a classical piece
to remind himself of the world he'd
left behind, and to amuse himself
by
making big Tommy squirm. Tommy
was a good guy, but he took his job
as cafe manager way too seriously.
The piano was a Steinway grand, a
privilege to play, its black
lacquered surface mirror-bright. An instrument
like that was an anomaly in the
cafe. Its presence hinted of a
classier past, before the area
around the cafe had
Parton, joced" Bind that was Santa
money and kitsch? all squashed
together like
an overpriced sandwich. That's
what made the place interesting.
And a good place to get lost.
A courist stuck a five in the jar on
his way to dinner and Mason showed his teeth. Can you spare it,
buddy? The
guy had on a seven-hundred-dollar
suit and would probably tip his
waiter at least twenty.
The Steinway was the reason
Mason was here. The piano and a
huge stone fireplace were the
signatures of
Santero's Cafe. On the lighted sign
out front, some anonymous artist
had rendered the two symbols with
a few. Picasso-like stokes. Now the sign
was cracked now the e had fallen
of the cafe, subtracting ten bucks
from the price of the dinner
His gig at the cafe was from 7 to 12,
five nights a week, and it wasn't a
bad deal. While he was anchored
to the bench, his mind could travel
anywhere. Even if he didn't want to
go there.
He traveled now to the day he
drifted into Santa Fe with his money running out. He'd sold his
car to pay the deposit on a cheap
apartment and few months' rent in
advance. The cafe was within
walking distance and he had gone
inside because of the sketch of the
piano on neon signs. He hadn't
touched his violin in months and he
was starved for music. But that
afternoon he Steinway sat closer
and silent. He'd watch it witha
the coal ivory keys. After one more
coffce he went up to the piano and
cranked out a dozen tunes in a rOW.
The piano had neoded runing, bur
it sill sounded pretty good. Fardly
anybody was in the place that day,
but
the few patrons gave him a round
of applause and hooted their
approval, Tommy had hired him on
the spot.
and
The pay was lousy, but the tips
were good and the coffee was
free.
Hie finished the Gershwin set with the few patrons qave him a round
of applause and hooted their
approval, Tommy had hired him on
the spot.
and
The pay was lousy, but the tips
were good and the coffee was
free.
Hie finished the Gershwin set with
Rbapody in Blue. A woman with
red hair sidled up to the platform
and asked