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It took a while to win the trust of some of the regulars. Not that I blame them;
they didn't have any idea who I was, really. But their stories were fascinating, and
I enjoyed sitting behind the old piano, so it was worth putting up with a little
indifference, just to listen in. At least the bartender seemed to like me, and she
had their respect, and was even in on their plan to memorialize some of the lost art
works. Gradually their resistance let up, and they began to trust me. One night I showed them
my grandfather's journal and they asked to tell some stories about
him. They were a little surprised to hear that I didn't really have many to tell; that
I felt I hardly knew him at all. All I could say was that, like me, he was a bit of a
barfly, and that it was clear he was haunted by some harrowing experiences he didn't
like to talk about. I wasn't able to learn the details before he died. |