The Brandywine Prophet

1.1 Two Years Earlier: William Carmel Hears the Voice

Please make sure you read the prologue before starting chapter one!

Enjoy : )

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CHAPTER ONE

TWO YEARS EARLIER: WILLIAM CARMEL HEARS THE VOICE 

Hyde Whitaker grazed a hand over his stiff blond hair in the lobby of Big Blue’s Piano Bar and asked himself again why the heck he was here.

He was here because women talk; they talk and they gather and they plan new ways to torture their husbands. “William’s a good guy,” Kayla explained that morning. “He just doesn’t have many friends.”

“He’s old enough to be my dad,” Hyde replied.

“It would mean a lot to me.”

“You talked to his wife?”

“He used to be a writer or something...”

“That’s supposed to make me like him?”

Kayla made her pouty face. “Please, Hydey-Wydey?”

The banter continued until she stormed to her puzzle of Van Gogh’s sunflowers and refused to acknowledge him for the next thirty minutes. Finally, she muttered, “I just want our new neighbors to like us...” 

And Hyde agreed.

It was hard to believe that socializing could ever be a problem for Hyde “Most-Likely-To-Succeed” Whitaker. Since the loss of his mother to lung cancer, and the uphill battle for business success, he had become quite proficient at meeting new people and sustaining lasting friendships. He was elected class treasurer his senior year of high school. The position not only taught him how to converse with peers and authority figures, but elevated him to a new level of popularity. The bulk of his friend base moved with him to Grand Valley State where he pioneered “Colleges Against Cancer,” an advocacy branch of the ACS. Business school and subsequent business ownership pushed Hyde into trade shows where he negotiated deals on electronics, presented them to investors, and sold them to customers. Before he and Kayla moved to the Brandywine subdivision a week ago, he led a monthly men’s church group in the living room of their one-bedroom apartment. 

Yet here he stood, double-checking the fold of his yellow collar and pressing his sideburns flat against his temples. He rotated the clip of his gold chain to the back of his neck, removed the bluetooth from his ear, and triple-checked the gosh-darned collar.

A group of college girls sat at the center table, fifteen feet from the man Hyde was forced to meet. He passed the women with a brief glance, then took a seat at the bar.

*  *  *

The first verse of William’s all-time least-favorite song didn’t deserve the red foot pedal hovering bellow the piano. It was a novelty song about a pussy cat; a double entendre that sees the kitten sore, wet and bald by the final verse. He would wait until the patrons of Big Blue’s Piano Bar became fully immersed in the stupidity of his all-time least-favorite song, then he would give in, push the damn pedal, and let the tips flow like a lucky slot machine into his jar.

A tacky bout of fog hissed from the nozzle above his head. The device was Big Blue’s response to the Michigan law banning smoking in bars. Even though Will hadn’t so much as bummed a cig in twenty-four years, he missed the taste of real tavern atmosphere.

The customer chemistry was ideal tonight. A group of businessmen were in the far corner, bathed in the cobalt light, ties loose, cuffs open, singing along to the classic rock. A table of coeds enjoyed their spring break by making cat calls at Will, jotting numbers for the more attractive waiters and belting along to the country songs. Folks sat in benches along the mirrored walls and on stools around the piano. Jesse and Milly filled orders from the bar; the clink of their mugs and rush of the draft added a syncopated beat to William’s silly song.

His fingers tapped the spunky tune and his smile told the crowd he loved his job. He wore a tweed fedora over bark-brown hair; at fifty-five, the grey was only evident in his stubble.

Stanley Bright was hunched at the bar. The man didn’t wear “mid-fifties” as confidently as Will, especially with construction drab over his left shoulder and crusted dust on his brow. Back in the ol’ days, Stan had potential. Now he was duller than the back of a butter knife and found his refuge in scotch.

Will enjoyed the physical act of “tickling the ivories,” but loathed his job at the bar. He was a writer and a director and a choreographer! If he wasn’t creating something, why not drill holes in a factory? He had passion like a tuning fork in his chest, reverberating through his organs, telling him to create something, anything, everything in the name of art. He longed to set fire to Big Blue’s songbook, to banish his all-time least-favorite song, to engage his audience in music of his own creation! Eyes closed, neck slack; his fingers would not be his but God’s and he would relish the piano’s sound and thank the Lord for bestowing him with such deep passion.

This job disemboweled originality. Anyone could see the misery in Will’s eyes if they only bothered to glance up from their mugs.

But without missing a beat, he pressed his foot against the big red pedal and--to great applause and hollering--the piano began to spin and the artificial atmosphere twirled around his hat.

Will raised his voice. He bobbed his head. And as he zipped his fingers down the plastic keys, he longed to be home.