Because the pianist is, like, “Oh, my God. You think I wished for a twelve-inch pianist?”Īnd as soon as the words leave his lips he regrets them.
And the pianist is, like, “Your genie’s hard of hearing.”Īnd the bartender says, “No kidding. And he’s, like, “I just wish I’d had a chance to say goodbye to my old man.”Īnd all of a sudden there’s this big cloud of smoke-and a beat-up Plymouth Voyager appears!Īnd the pianist is, like, “I said ‘old man,’ not ‘old van’!”Īnd everybody laughs. But before I could make it back to Tampa. And then he’s, like, “When he was in the hospital, he had one of the nurses call me. I’m a professional musician!”Īnd the pianist starts to laugh, but it’s a forced kind of laughter, and you can see the pain behind it.
He always said I wouldn’t amount to anything, because of my height? Well, now look at me. And he’s, like, “You know what? I’m over it.
