"Marigolds"

Rio shuffled the stack of beverage napkins on top of the piano. “Piano Man,” the first one said. Creative, Rio thought, though he didn’t roll his eyes because customers were watching. Someone would complain if he made faces, whether he played their song requests or not.

“Sweet Caroline,” the next one read. That was better. Besides the person who requested the song, audiences would get into that and sing the “bum bum bum” part, which meant good tips. I’d really rather play Bach, but this isn’t that type of bar.

“Wagon Wheel.” Jeremy, one of the bartenders, would sing harmony with him if he played that; he shifted it to the top of the stack, with “Sweet Caroline” beneath it. There was another “Piano Man” under that; he slid that to the bottom with the first one. I’ll have to do it before the night is out, but for now I can probably get away with announcing that I’m saving it. The bartenders liked it if he could get people to stay and order more drinks, and holding onto a song request from more than one person could have that effect.

Journey, Bon Jovi, Guns ‘n’ Roses, Bruno Mars… he put Bruno Mars below “Piano Man,” since he didn’t really have the range for it. Thomas Rhett—country was good. Beyoncé? Do I LOOK like a single lady? Nobody answer that, please. He put that one even below Bruno Mars. He could probably pull it off, but for a piano player who really preferred Bach, it just took a bit more of his dignity that he was willing to give at this stage in the evening. I need about six more drinks for that.

“Great Balls of Fire.” Jerry Lee Lewis is good, Rio thought. I can work with that. He put that one on top.

The last napkin was a surprise. It read, in all caps:

MARIGOLDS BY KISHI BASHI NOT THE CREEPY NIRVANA SONG

Rio’s breath hitched for a second. Nobody knew Kishi Bashi. The writer probably didn’t expect it to get played.

* * *

Rio pictured his grandmother, in their kitchen in Virginia, just over a year ago. “Omoiyari,” she’d said.

“I know, Baba. Sympathy and compassion. What about it, right this second, though?”

“Kishi Bashi.”

“Baba, I don’t understand you.”

“A new film they are making. A friend was telling me. They go to the places where the camps were.”

Ah. The camps. It was tricky for Rio, who just wanted to study piano at NYU, to listen patiently to his grandmother’s explanations of the camps in California where her parents had been interned during World War 2. “I was born in the camp,” she had told him. I only have one Baba, Rio reminded himself. She was actually his only family. So he listened. He didn’t know what she was talking about, with this film thing. But he got online and found every album by this Kishi Bashi and he learned every song, and it made his grandmother happy.

He got into NYU; he had to audition wearing a face mask, and then he had to learn remotely because of the pandemic, but he got in. He got a little apartment in New York, and he got the job at the piano bar, although the manager hesitated because he hadn’t turned 21 yet, thinking his playing would be too juvenile. “I’ll be 21 in a month,” he’d said. “Let me play one night and see how I do.”

The bar had just opened back up, and nobody else was begging for the job. He got his one night, and then he got the job.

* * *

“Marigolds” was a beautiful song. The words were a little melancholy, but pretty, and the melody was nice, and it translated well to piano (Kishi Bashi played a lot of instruments, so sometimes playing his stuff took a lot of arranging). Rio smiled and tucked the napkin under “Great Balls of Fire” so he could get the bar’s attention. He laughed—the program was incredibly awkward, like an acrobat with a sprained ankle stumbling through a carnival, in terms of flow—but the bar was apparently full of people who liked strange music today.

Rio swallowed his drink, opened the piano, and began his second set.

* * *

The word that you

Had found for me

A favorite sound of mine

It swayed under a canopy

To fill the end of time

After the noise of Jerry Lee Lewis, the bar clapped and went back to not listening; when he started “Marigolds,” though, he kept his eyes on the crowd. At the bar, one dark-haired figure sat up straighter and turned to face the piano. The part got too intricate to give any more attention to her, but he made a mental note of where she was sitting. Anybody that asked for Kishi Bashi at a piano bar would be worth talking to.

He sang as delicately as he could manage, enjoying the sweetness of the poetic lyrics. He let silence linger for just a moment. Then he played the rest of the crazy program, even “Single Ladies.”

After each song, he glanced over at the bar. “Marigolds” was still there.

* * *

“Appletini is an interesting choice. Can I buy you another one?”

The girl looked up, and Rio noticed that she looked Japanese. He knew non-Asian people said they couldn’t tell the difference, but he’d grown up around Japanese-, Chinese-, Korean-, and Armenian-Americans, and his best friend in high school was from Cambodia. There were some similarities, but he was usually right if he guessed. Her long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, hanging perfectly straight to her waist, and her dark eyes sparkled. “Not much of an opening line from somebody who knows Kishi Bashi. I was expecting better,” she teased.

Rio just grinned. He knew the difference between flirt-teasing and go-away-teasing. “If I’d mentioned that the apple slice is turning brown because of oxidation, would that have been better?”

The girl laughed and twirled the toothpick that was stuck through the apple. “Yes, my drink is rusting. I think you’d better get me another one.”

Rio sat beside her and waved to Jeremy, who already had his beer in hand, and a second appletini. Bartenders made great wingmen.

* * *

Her name was Hana, and she stuck around for a third set. He played another Kishi Bashi song in the middle of it, and “Marigolds” again at the end; the bar was almost empty, and nobody else was listening, anyway. While Jeremy closed up, they chatted a bit more. Hana used the word “Sassafras” instead of cursing, which Rio decided was the most adorable thing he’d ever heard. Finally, they stood, and he walked her to the door.

“Please tell me you’re having as much fun as me, and you don’t want this night to end yet,” he said, then blinked rapidly, a little surprised at his own daring.

Hana smiled. “I’m having a great time. I should warn you, though—I had a bad breakup, about two months back, and I’ve been coping in a very controversial manner.”

Rio shrugged. “Coping mechanisms vary from person to person.”

“Even if they involve hanging out in piano bars requesting obscure songs nobody knows?”

Rio laughed. “That’s the best kind! You get to meet weird piano students that way!”

Hana had to laugh too. “Why do you know Kishi Bashi?”

“It’s because of my gran. Let’s go somewhere open and I’ll tell you all about it.” He sang softly, the last verse of “Marigolds” again:

Wish that I had met you

When your heart was safe to hold

When you were simple and fancy

In that field of marigolds

“Do you think we can ever go back?” Hana asked, wistful.

Rio shook his head. “No, we can’t go back. But I’ve thought about it, and I think new flowers bloom every year.”