Barry is monochrome.
The piano is monochrome.
Standing in front of one is, for Barry, something like staring at a flattened version of his own existence laid out in a row — and something about this is deeply, quietly, profoundly disquieting in a way he can't explain and hasn't tried to.
He plays it anyway. He said he would. Barry is not a complainer.
Subject approached the instrument with the calm confidence of a gremlin who has already decided the outcome. This confidence was, in retrospect, slightly optimistic.
The thing about the piano — and Barry will tell you this if you ask, and sometimes if you don't — is that most of the keys are fine. Neutral, even. C5 is perfectly agreeable. D4 has no strong feelings. The sharps and flats are professional about the whole thing.
C4, however, is combative. Vehemently so.
Barry has tried approaching it from different angles. He has tried playing around it. He has tried acknowledging it beforehand, the way you might acknowledge a difficult colleague before a meeting. He has tried ignoring it entirely and then coming back to it with fresh energy.
C4 remains uncooperative.
Barry has concluded, after due consideration, that C4's attitude is C4's problem and not his. He has noted this formally, in his internal records, and moved on. He bears no grudge. He is not built for grudges.
This is, if you think about it, exactly how Barry approaches everything. The music doesn't wait for good conditions. The depot doesn't stop. The forest path doesn't ask if you're ready. Barry just shows up, opens his mouth, and the sound comes out — unconscious, constant, because it has to go somewhere.
Even when one key is being insufferable about it.
C4 knows what it did. Barry has moved on. These two facts will coexist indefinitely, and only one of them is causing problems.
Happy World Piano Day. Play the keys that cooperate. Acknowledge the ones that don't. Move on with dignity.
Barry would.