We arrived the afternoon before Halloween and took advantage of the three waning hours of sun, lounging by the Sunny Sands pool between three and six p.m. We arrived in time for what Jamie called the “Hunk Junk Parade,” which, living up to its name, was a carefully choreographed display of oiled, tanned, and toned hard-bodied men under thirty. In the setting afternoon sun, these men took a casual yet purposeful stroll around the pool.
It was a well-choreographed display of noteworthy physiques, contained only by skintight spandex that left nothing to the imagination yet still barely qualified as a swimsuit. “For god’s sake,” said a visibly frustrated Barry. “Why do they bother? Why don’t they just strip and wear signs saying, ‘I work out four hours a day, six days a week. And by the way take a look at my cock, boys.’”
Shane feigned a hurt look. “Hey, I was lucky to get us in here. And by the way, you paid extra for the parade.” Like it or not, these were specimens of muscled manhood whose physical beauty was only exceeded by their exhibitionism. We smiled and nodded in homage to the spectacle.
I made the night’s dinner reservations after consulting a former colleague and mentor from my early days in Chicago. Danny Evans, long retired and happily single, spent the interval between New Year’s Day and Easter Sunday each year in Palm Springs to escape the snows that blew into the lobby of his Lakeshore Drive high-rise and aggravated his arthritic knees. Danny knew great food and great kitsch. On his recommendation, I booked the four of us at Barbour’s, a restaurant/bar in the heart of Old Palm Springs. Danny said to ask for a table in the sunroom and for a gentleman called Thor.
When I called, their first response was “All full. Shoulda called last week.” But when I invoked Thor’s name and threw in Danny’s for good measure, a table—“You’ll want the sunroom, right?” —suddenly became available. Barbour’s restaurant served California American and was flanked by a large piano bar.
“Have fun” were Danny’s parting words. The wink was implied.
The room was as Danny had described it: “New Englandish, with a lighter, Californian look.” The piano bar, to the right of the entrance, was just and only that: a piano, a six-foot Steinway no less, and a bar of polished rosewood that was every bit of eighteen feet long. For good measure, they had sprinkled ten or so café tables with chairs throughout the room, and a few barstools around the piano.
“I’m in the Mood for Love,” wafted across the room as we entered. The piano player was good, with a light touch and a turned out to have a good memory for lyrics. A lesbian (she wore a t-shirt that read “Lesbian”) with short graying hair and built like a fireplug, she played a combo of requests and her favorite standards. A request without a tip got you ignored, except for a laser-like scowl sent burning your way. A tip got you a song. A large tip got you a song and maybe the hint of a smile. The servers in the piano bar wore pale yellow t-shirts that said, appropriately, “Don’t Mess with Jenette.”
Drinks preceded dinner, which led to dessert and after-dinner drinks. Jenette (her name confirmed by our model-handsome server, Chad) had been playing beautiful standards that floated into the dining room from the smoky bar. At our table, Jamie, happily plied with food and drink, was singing along with “One for My Baby,” and was crooning up to “one more for the road” when Jenette struck a loud, discordant jumble of notes, let out a “Go fuck yourself,” and slammed the lid of the Steinway so hard our water glasses shook, twenty-five feet away.
“Oh, shit.” Chad had appeared with another round of post-dinner drinks and was clearly annoyed by the rabble in the bar. When we asked, Chad explained that, while Jenette was temperamental, when she played, all the servers’ tips were double compared to nights the bar was dark.
“He plays,” Jamie offered, pointing to me. “And he’s pretty damn good.”
“He is,” echoed Shane. Barry smiled broadly and nodded vigorously. He was smoking a Cuban cigar that Thor had discreetly brought each of us as “friends of Danny.”
I wasn’t drunk, but with four days of glorious sun ahead of me, an afternoon parade of attractive men behind me, and an exceptional brandy and a Cuban in hand, I was brimming with optimism.
Thor approached. “Mr. Drew, Chad mentioned that you are a piano player, yes?”
“Oh, lord yes.” said Jamie.
Thor held my gaze and asked, “Would you consider playing for a while? Anything you’d like.” Feeling both flattered and tempted, I was about to graciously decline when Thor added, “Of course, we would be happy to comp your meals as a small gesture of our thanks.”
“And drinks,” Barry said with a drunken grin, suddenly regaining his voice. “I mean drinks would be nice, too.”
Mortified, I could only say yes at that point. Thor seemed enormously pleased to have music again in his piano bar on one of the busiest weekends of the year. With nothing left to discuss, I put my cigar between my teeth, grabbed my brandy, and headed for the Steinway.
The waiting crowd murmured restlessly, irritated by Jenette’s theatrics. They just wanted a pleasant night with a few songs and drinks with friends. As I sat down, a large, lip-sticked lesbian in a “Jenette” t-shirt gave me what I can only describe as the evil eye. A little bit unnerved, but committed to a few numbers, I began.
I hadn’t played a Steinway since I competed in my final year of the American Music Association’s winter nationals. I was pleased at how easily it played and how beautifully elegant it sounded. The crowd seemed willing to give me a shot, and the room fell silent as I launched into a soulful version of “Danny Boy.”
Deciding that if one verse was good, two must be better, I began again, and was joined by the most beautiful baritone I had heard in recent memory. Turns out this magnificent voice belonged to Tony Vicenti, Thor’s business partner and boyfriend. Midway through the bridge, Tony motioned for his guests to join him. Some, like Tony, sang like angels. Others, not so much. But, on the whole, it made for a convivial and pleasant chorus. With Tony’s blessing and a fifty in the tip jar, I launched into “Don’t Rain on My Parade.” The Barbra fans muscled their way to the front, and we were off.
Jamie and Shane served as combination wingmen, interpreters, and bouncers. Shane had fun watching and flirting with the crowd, and would echo to me the call-outs of those who had big requests but small voices. Jamie stood between me and the drunks. Occasionally an over-refreshed guest would take issue with my playing or the room’s choice of songs. Mostly, it seemed they wanted a fight. Jamie, who had made friends with Jimbo, the bar’s unofficial but full-sized bouncer, worked in tandem to make sure the keyboard was safe territory.
As the night wore on, the crowd settled in, and I developed a rhythm with them, the servers, and the music. Thirsty, but not stupid, I alternated two waters with every drink. The server with the evil eye turned out to be Jenette’s girlfriend, Terri, and she warmed to me despite the fact that I was in Jenette’s seat.
“You play pretty good for a skinny white queen,” Terri said.
I waited a beat to reply. “You serve a pretty good drink for a bull dyke.” Silence. And then thunderous laughter from us both.
“Well, damn, Drew. You can take it and dish it out. Who knew? Keep playin’, baby.”
Occasionally someone would call out, unbeknownst to me, a bar favorite.
“Say, skinny guy, play ‘As Time Goes By.’” Clearly having done this before, random patrons rose in unison and recited, “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.” And then, with Bergman-inspired forlorn faces and an extended pause for effect they pointed in my direction and said, simply, “Play it, Sam.”
Fortunately, I could. And I did.
And it earned me a place in the bosom of the bar. I had passed the test. Scheduled to stop at midnight, I brought the chorus finale to an emotional end and, gesturing to my watch, started to say goodnight.
But the guys in Barbour’s weren’t ready to call it a night and began their chant: “Encore! Encore! Encore!” I shot a glance at Thor. Then Tony shot a glance at me that said, “Best if you stay, I think.” And so I did.
I learned a lot that night. Until that stint at the Steinway, I had never heard an all-male chorus of “I Feel Pretty,” a baritone delivery of “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang” or “Getting to Know You” in full falsetto. At two, we closed the place down with an undeniably beautiful and meaningful rendition of “Over the Rainbow” that made some tough guys cry, myself included.
Jamie, Shane, and a very sleepy Barry met me at the piano as we readied to leave. Tony came over with the tip jar. “You raked in over three hundred dollars, kid. And you’re good. Here. You earned it.” I can honestly say it had been one of the most fun nights of my life. I looked at the jar, and then at Tony and said, “A round for your staff and give the rest to the servers. Thanks for letting me play.”
“You’re welcome here anytime, Drew.” And sliding a Cuban into my shirt pocket, he added, “Happy Halloween.”
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