He was an enormous Brit in a soiled white suit. His face was unshaven. Strings of black hair brushed the splayed collar of his pink shirt. He entered the bar with an air of proprietorship and great thirst. I had never seen him before and I never laid eyes on him again.
He knew what he wanted. "Jameson.”
"No spirits, mate. Beer and wine," the bartender replied.
"In that event, " the man said, extracting an unfiltered cigarette from a crumpled pack, "I will have a pint of Guinness." He spoke with a Liverpudlian lilt – the unmistakable nasal drone that seems to resonate from an undiscovered region of the human face.
A few minutes later, the bartender placed a glistening pint before the stranger's sad and resolute smile. "Cheers," the barman said. "First one’s on the house tonight."
The big man drained the glass and slammed his palms on the bar.
"Right. Let’s do it," he said.
He pushed himself backward and pivoted. With no hesitation, he walked to the piano which had always looked out of place in the corner of the bar. He sat down and began playing "Imagine."
All conversation ceased as the stranger sang the first verse. Hesitantly, a few others joined in. He followed with "Yesterday." Then, “Eleanor Rigby.” By the end of the third song, everyone in the bar was singing. Pints of Guinness found their way to the piano. The man never spent a penny.
We sat there for hours, singing the songs that had shaped my life and the words that had once altered the landscape of my brain.
The bartender threw everyone out at 2:45. The stranger walked away, disappearing into the warm December morning. I went home and turned on my television. The overnight news repeated a single, heartbreaking story until dawn.
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