Usual disclaimer: Ben and Stan aren't mine, so I'll be gentle. Melly, Manny, and Manny's Place, however, are the sole property of the author. "China" lyrics belong to Tori Amos, no infringement intended.

I've always wanted to do a DS story from an outsider's point of view. You know, just an average character of my own creation that was somehow just in the story, commenting on what he/she observed. Since there seem to be plenty of stories here written from a main character's P.O.V., I figured I'd try it out. This is my first full-length story-I have two poems archived-so let me know if it sucks. Of course, compliments are welcome and encouraged. Send them to jive_baby99@hotmail.com

Enjoy!

Piano Bar Blues

Friday night. Slow laid-back grooves here in Manny's Place, the best (and pretty much only) piano bar in the Chicago area. Dim lights, live in-house music, cushy chairs...Manny's Place is a dying breed. However, the drinks are cheap, the atmosphere a bit gray but still friendly, and the music soft and sweet, provided by yours truly. A walking nightmare combination of brains and a bad attitude, so my godfather Manny says. The name's Melissa or Melly for short. Tickler of the ivory and observer of the human nature. And there's some strange nature in the urban nights.

The crowd is still pretty thin, but it's early yet. I always find myself watching the bar's patrons from the stage while I play the shiny old grand piano and sing for all I'm worth. It's interesting, wondering behind the flowing melodies about the lives of the people in the audience. Where are they going? Doing? What force brought their paths to cross with mine, an orphan being raised by her godfather in a Chicago bar? These things tumble around in my mind as I begin playing the scales on the piano for my warm-up exercise. Twelve years of playing the piano and I still do my scales out of habit.

A soft melody to begin with, something popular to draw the crowd. A composition of my own, with lilting notes and a dreamy harmony. I can't really start playing in earnest yet; my two favorite patrons haven't arrived. I very rarely start my show without the comforting presence of two strangers in the corner booth, near the back of the bar. I don't know who they are of from whence they came, but I depend on their honest, open reactions to my playing. It lets me know how I'm going along.

I look out over the crowd, smile at the sprinkling of applause for my finished song. No sign of them yet. Since it's Friday, they should be coming in around 10:00, any minute now. Don't know how I got so dependent on people I don't even know. They're strangers to me, but they've been coming here so long that I feel like I know them inside and out. Ah, finally. Now I can begin scribing my soul in notes of music. It's two men; one of them tall and dark-haired, wide and with eyes that have no business being so blue. The other one's a bit shorter and slender, a scruffy blonde god in his own right, with a smile that could melt my piano if he got close enough to it. Mostly it's him that I watch for critique; the other one usually seems lost in his own thoughts. They sit in the same old booth they always do, towards the back of the barroom.

Time for a love song. The set seems to be going well so far. Blondie raises his glass in a salute, and even the dark-haired one manages a weak smile and nod in my direction.

I finish the song and crack my knuckles, something a piano player should never do. Life is lonely up by oneself on the stage, so during my break I sit on a stool beside the bar, eating pretzels and observing my favorites. They always get the same drinks from Manny, who acts as owner/bartender around here. Shot of whiskey for Blondie, Snapple for Blue-Eyes.

I lean back against the bar and gaze in their direction. They're talking, laughing, and Blondie's making huge gestures with his hands. Probably in the middle of a really good story. I still wonder who they are, and why do they always come here on such a set schedule? Are they strangers or lovers?

"Cops," Manny tells me. He's been watching me watching them, an amused look on his face. Dear Manny still thinks I'm a little girl of five, newly orphaned and needing every inch of his care. A regular doting Dad.

"They sure look like lovers to me. Who are they?" I ask. Blue-Eyes is looking intently at the blonde one, like every syllable tumbling off his lips was crucial. Maybe so.

Manny chuckles softly. "You're too young to know of such things. The blonde one with the smoky eyes is a detective for the Chicago PD. Stanley Kowalski by name. The tall one, Constable Benton Fraser, is with the RCMP, helping out around here. Don't know why exactly. Still, they never give any trouble. Always a friendly smile, never skimp on the tip. In fact, Fraser always leaves about five dollars in your tip jar."

This brought an arched eyebrow from me. I had wondered who was responsible for the neatly folded bills, since the old Mason jar was usually graced with nothing but coins. Manny sets me up a root beer, brown bottle so I can feel all grown up (his idea), and I return to pondering my cop friends.

"Always slips me a coupla fins, does he? Well now, I like them even more. Still, I wonder about them, Dad," I say. Manny smiles and sets me up another root beer, pleased that I called him Dad. I down the root beer and set the bottle back on the bar. "Look at 'em. Mr. Kowalski always seems like a ball of energy, never settling in one place. I love his hair, it seems to have a spiky attitude all its own. But Mr. Fraser always seems to be kind of distracted, like he's never really all here. Seems like his soul only comes alive when Kowalski laughs."

My godfather wipes the old oak bar with a damp cloth and sighs. "You always have had the heart of a poet. Such a bright child. But I don't want you pestering those gentlemen. They're regular customers, and good ones at that. Now go and finish up your set, your breaks are getting too long."

I roll my eyes and hop off the barstool. "Yeah, yeah. I won't bug 'em. And I'm not a child, I'm eighteen years old." Manny pulls affectionately on my long brown braid, and shoos me away with the cloth.

Making my way back to the piano in the corner, I steal a glance in the direction of the cops' table. Two pairs of eyes are looking my way, one pair a piercing blue, the other a more cloudy blue-gray. I feel my ankles start to itch, something that only happens when I'm really nervous. This isn't good.

I make it back to the piano, sit, and place my fingers on the delicate white keys. Ah, my dearest love, my constant friend, who has been there through thick and thin. I turn my face to the audience and make my nightly query.

"Thanks, ladies and gentlemen. You've been very kind tonight," light sprinkling of applause, "Are there any requests from the crowd? A favorite melody, or maybe a love song? Don't be shy now."

And so it goes for a couple of hours. Patrons requesting old memories, and me only too happy to supply them. Lots of dancing tonight, and the old tip jar is starting to look very nice indeed. I've caught more than one glimpse of Manny smiling, so bar tips must be excellent as well. I've also noticed my cops talking and laughing more earnestly now, but Mr. Fraser keeps sneaking long glances at me, like he has an awful secret, or like he's sizing me up.

Hmm...midnight. The bar doesn't usually close until 2 am, but the requests are getting fewer. The Place is really swinging, and people are more interested in their alcohol than in me. Suits me just fine. The only ones not too far-gone, I notice, are the two cops at the back table. Neither has made a request, and they look like they're about to leave. I suddenly don't want them to go anywhere, and I start into the sweetest melody I know, a Tori Amos song:

It's my first performance of this song, yet "China" brings down the house. I stand and bow, applause ringing in my ears. I straighten and look at the two men in the back booth.

Kowalski's got a big grin on his face, clapping like mad. But it's Fraser that catches my eye. He looks at me with teary eyes, like I've read his spirit and answered a deep question that'd been burning in his mind. Lord, his lips are trembling!

I make my way to the back of the room, bent on finding out what I did to this poor man. I hope I haven't made a painful memory of an old flame resurface. One has to be careful with sad tunes around people who are a bit tipsy. I pass the long bar, and get a warning look from Manny. He's not in the mood to deal with weepy drunks, and I had best watch my step. I nod and continue back.

Kowalski starts toward me, smiling all the way up to his wild hair, and descends upon me with the energy of a typhoon.

"Great show, kid, great show! Beautiful song, wherever did ya learn it? Damn near made me start bawlin'. You got an awesome voice, honey. Say, you're Manny's daughter, aren't ya?"

I barley have time to catch my breath during the barrage of questions. "Goddaughter, actually, the name is Melly. And thank you, Mr. Kowalski. Glad you enjoyed it. I'm never quite sure when to try out a new song, but I guess it worked out okay this time. " I say and smile. Geez, I sound like a dork.

"Call me Stanley," he says, and he leans over and kisses me on the cheek. I think my heart stopped beating. "Real beautiful song, we love hearing you play. Say, where's your bathroom?"

'This man jumps from topic to topic faster than a horny rabbit,' I think to myself, and I barely manage to hold in a giggle. I turn and point in the general direction of the restroom, and he tugs on my braid as he walks by. How very annoying. That always makes me feel about twelve years old. Does every man on Earth do that?

I turn back and walk over to where the Mountie is sitting, eyes cast downward and peeling the label off the bottle in front of him. There's a strange air radiating off this man, and I wonder about his thoughts. Is he still mourning a love? Maybe he's just had a bit too much...Snapple. Wait, that doesn't make any sense. Hoping that I haven't drudged up something painful with the song, I sit down across from him in the booth.

He looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes yet...he smiles at me. I smile back, not quite sure what to do. I thought he was back here grieving for his long lost Lenoir, or something like that.

"Please forgive me for the display, Melly. The song moved me so, and I couldn't help myself," he gave me another half-smile, it was almost cheery.

"S'okay," I tell him. What genius. "I mean, I thought I had really depressed you or something. You looked so sad, and I feel just terrible. I'm sorry, Mr. Fraser."

He gave me a hundred-watt smile and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. "Not at all, you just made me realize something tonight, something I've got to resolve before it's too late. The song was...almost alive. It was pure, like a cry for love itself."

"Thank you Mr. Fraser...I...uh...thank you," I stammer, blushing like an idiot. My tongue's doing that old knot trick.

"It is I who should be thanking you. I felt the pain in the song so acutely...I haven't got much time," he says and rises from the booth, jacket in hand. He looks down on me with a soft glow in his eyes. "If you'll excuse me, I have a Great Wall to tear down".

Realization clicks in my head, causing an eyebrow to arch up. "A wall between friends?"

"Exactly," he says. Another big grin. They seem to be spreading lately.

I grin and nod, he rushes off to find Kowalski. I turn my head to watch him go. I can't wait to see what happens next.

Saturday afternoon, six months later. Soft piano dreams weave in between the people of the crowd. A celebration of a wedding, and all seems to have gone well. Here I sit on my regular perch, caressing my black and white 88 and spreading the cheer. Tip jar is overflowing, already had to empty it twice.

The newlyweds are happy, wreathed in smiles, and generally making a fuss over each other. Manny looks dapper in his black tie and tails, the newlyweds resplendent in gray English-style tie tuxes. We all look beautiful, and it's one of those moments frozen in time that we can genuinely call perfect.

Fraser walks over to me, carrying a piece of wedding cake. He stops beside the piano and smiles at me with such joy that I can almost feel my heart turn over with happiness for him.

"Thank you again Melly. You'll never know how much you've helped me," he whispers, "and Stan and I are so happy now, thanks to you. I don't think I would've ever had the courage to try for Stanley if you hadn't touched my heart with that song. Thank you".

"Anytime, Ben. Anytime," I say.

He places the cake on top of the piano, and gives me a huge bear hug. I smile into his shoulder and give a pleased sigh. I had always hoped that one day I would move someone's spirit with my musical tastes, and it feels wonderful to have finally done so. I feel quite happy with myself.

We part from the hug, and I return to the keys to play "China" in the newlyweds' honor.

Just as I lower my head, feeling at one with the world and really quite grown up at last...

Benton pulls my braid.