The Piano Man Chronicles: Footsteps
Guest Author J.C. Wesslen shares a short story on loss, memories, and connection.
Life provides its own bit of entertainment, and I try to capture the conflict and joy that arise from what we experience every day. My stories offer a brief respite from this crazy life, and I hope you enjoy them. There’s something new every Friday.
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The Piano Man Chronicles is a two-year anthology project. Every two weeks, you’ll see a story surrounding the fictional novel PIANO MAN (You can read about PIANO MAN below the story). Some stories are small three-part serials.
This week’s installment comes from guest author JC Wesslen, author of Ace on the Hill and Guardian Son. Check out his work at jcwesslenwriter.com
By JC Wesslen
Day one.
Today I saw where you died.
The sky was overcast. The air was warm and surprisingly humid for the area. Rain would have been more suitable, considering my mood.
I wondered about the conditions that day. Was the afternoon sun a factor? Elevation was, obviously. Sorry. You know, I turn to dark humor when I’m in a mood.
The authorities called it an accident. You lost control—hard to imagine for you, at least not the new, sober you. Mom thought you looked “settled” when she last saw you. Celia said you were “chill.” (Did you really FaceTime with her from a library?)
It was three o’clock by the time I arrived at “your” place. My old Volvo climbed the short, steep drive, tires crunching on pebbles and pinecones. I parked beside a dusty Dodge Durango, stepped out, and inhaled the mountain air. I was expecting crisp, but no such luck.
The house was as I pictured it, though: a two-level wooden A-frame with sliding glass doors that opened onto an upper deck. Did you send a photo with your last letter—the one where you told me you’d reached out to Dad? I can’t remember. I only recall being upset you wanted to reconnect with—
“You must be Rick,” someone said, pulling me from my thoughts.
I looked up to see a man in his 50s by the open door, wearing Timberlands, blue jeans, and a vest. I assumed it was Mr. Thomas, the owner I had been emailing over the past few days.
“Yes,” I said, approaching. “And you’re—”
“Stu Thomas,” he said, and we shook hands. “How was the drive?”
“Long,” I said, “but other than that, no trouble.”
“Good to hear. Oh, before I forget, this is for you…”
He handed me a brass house key.
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s warmer than I expected.”
“You know the saying about weather…give it a minute, it’ll change its mind.”
I forced a smile, and he gestured for me to follow him inside.
In the entryway, he asked if I’d visited before. I told him no. We climbed a steep staircase to the great room, and he joked that I’d build up my quads if I stayed long enough.
“Had a cleaning crew come by last week, but the place was still a little stuffy. Hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of opening a few windows,” Mr. Thomas added.
I told him I appreciated everything. He mentioned that you paid three months’ rent in advance, so I could stay that long if needed. We agreed that he’d refund me your security deposit, minus any applicable cleaning fees, after my departure. I told him I was unsure about my plans, which was the truth, and that I’d keep him posted.
“You do what you need to do. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I appreciate that.”
After a brisk tour of the kitchen and upstairs bathroom, we returned downstairs. He showed me the two bedrooms, including the primary where you slept. Everything was clean and tidy.
Mr. Thomas asked if I had any questions. I said no, and he departed after another handshake.
I dropped onto the edge of your bed, alone with my thoughts. Options for the afternoon flickered by, but before I could decide on a plan of action, the weight of emotion set in. I hadn’t counted on that so soon.
There were bags in the car, but unpacking could wait. Instead of settling in, I grabbed my keys and headed out again.
Fifteen minutes later, I merged onto Highway 79—the infamous road where your final moments unfolded. I hadn’t planned to take that route, but there I was. The clouds had lifted, and my hands were moist on the wheel. Before I saw the “Summit View” sign, which I recognized from the Mountain Express story, I knew I was close. For a second, I felt I was seeing the road as you had a week or so earlier. Clouds, tinged orange, stretched to the horizon—everything serene and beautiful, as if I had reached the edge of the earth.
I tapped my toe on the accelerator, thinking…what if? What if I had been locked on the same trajectory as you? The kid who had always been pegged to follow in his big brother’s footsteps—
“Stop!” a voice cried out in my head. It sounded like yours, and I pumped the brakes. Images blurred past—a caution line, guardrails, a sign for a turnout. I pulled into the vacant overlook, let out a sigh, and killed the engine.
“I’m good,” I said, as a trickle of perspiration rolled down my upper arm.
Vehicles passed in both directions, but no one stopped to check on me. Why would they? Just another sightseer, as far as they could tell.
I don’t know how long I remained there—at least until the sun dipped below the horizon.
Back at the house, I devoured a can of clam chowder and a package of oyster crackers as I tried to piece things together. No one had raised any suspicions about your death. The highway patrol officer who called Mom said there was something about “that damn road.” No witnesses, no signs of foul play, and no indication that you were under the influence, according to the report. Still, I wondered if anyone planned to dig around for insurance-related reasons...
After I finished my meal, I walked from room to room again, determined to look more thoroughly at your things. No note. Nothing on the bulletin board. No grievances, no reasons. If you had dirty laundry, you kept it to yourself. The only thing in your nightstand drawer was a five-year sobriety chip and an old Chapstick.
“Chip and Chap,” I thought to myself.
Quick update: a week has passed, and I’m still here. I’ll admit, this place is growing on me—not just the house, but the town, the lifestyle, all of it. The cell reception is crappy, but now I have time for new things. I meditate, sketch, and cook. Oh, I brought the old Hohner harmonica you gave me for my 14th birthday years ago. I play it on the deck at night to help me wind down.
I’m starting other routines: shopping at Kinney’s Market and renting DVDs from the county library (since you only have basic cable). I also found a laundromat since it looks like I’ll be staying longer than I expected.
It’s been almost two weeks now, and for the first time, I’m feeling restless.
I wonder if you ever felt lonely up here. Did you have any friends or girlfriends? Since Mom and Dad opted for a small service in Smithtown, I’m wondering not only what you left behind up here. To his credit, Dad made the trek out and identified you for the coroner. Mom and Celia wrote the obituary. You would have appreciated it, Jim. Remember how you were always the star of the family Christmas letter? Imagine that times 20.
I browsed the caller ID on your landline and noticed that all the calls—both incoming and outgoing—had been deleted. Did this mean you were tying up loose ends before your fateful day? Or had Mr. Thomas done it? I could call him, but would it change anything?
Another development: Your next-door neighbor with the thick glasses and white hair brought something to my attention yesterday afternoon. It was a bizarre exchange over the fence. First, he was wearing flannel pajamas when it was 79 degrees. Second, he called me “Jimbo.” And third, he told me I was “slipping.”
“Why is that?” I asked, amused.
“Well, because you forgot to take out your darn garbage cans is why!” he exclaimed.
“Oh,” I said. “Guess it did slip my mind.”
I probably should have corrected him, but I didn’t have the heart. Also, if I’m being truthful, I was flattered that someone thought I was you. It had been a while.
The conversation stuck with me, though. Back inside, I called the county sanitation department and discovered that you had issued a stop service order for the afternoon on the day of your death. That gave you time to set the trash bins curbside and then return them, emptied, to the shed.
A stack of newspapers in a copper bucket by the fireplace offered another clue. I called the Mountain Express circulation department and learned you’d canceled morning delivery the same day as your trash pickup.
Remember how Grandpa used to say, “Knock me over with a feather?” Well, that’s how I feel now. It’s obvious that your “accident” was no accident. You had a plan, and you carried it out. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. Can’t say it doesn’t nag at me, though. On one hand, you were concerned about Stu Thomas or neighbors spotting newspapers and full trash bins, thinking God-knows-what about you. On the other hand, you barely gave a thought to the rest of us who would have to sort through your mess and pick up the pieces.
This afternoon I bought a six-pack of Pacifico, and I’m already on my fourth. I can’t even begin to tell you how strange it is to be in your world without you. What the hell, Jimmy? Why didn’t we see each other more these past years? It’s not all on you—I didn’t need to hold a grudge. If I hadn’t, could things have changed? Maybe you’d have confided in me. Teaching gives me summers off. I could have driven here sooner, and we could have talked.
Okay, I’ll give it a rest. I meant to compliment your book collection. Looks like you picked up some paperbacks at garage sales or used bookstores. What an array of authors—McCarthy, Pynchon, Wolfe...all the heavy hitters. One, a hardcover, appears to be from the library up here: Piano Man. It’s overdue, so it looks like you forgot to tie up at least one loose end.
Seeing the title took me back to our high school days and the talent shows we put on for family and friends. You could have performed solo, given your talent. I couldn’t hold a note or play a lick of piano, but you wanted to share the spotlight with your little bro. That’s why you bought me the Hohner. You showed me sheet music and loaned me CDs, which helped me appreciate and learn music. I had trouble with Dylan and Bruce, but “Piano Man” by our former Long Island neighbor was manageable.
One of the highlights of my life was the time we took the “stage” in the living room after your high school graduation. You sat at Mom’s baby grand, and I stood beside you, knees trembling. It was your encouraging nod after my opening solo that gave me the confidence to finish the song.
I even joined you for the harmonies… “Laah daah day dee daaahhh.”
Here’s a wrinkle for you: I’ve run afoul of the law. It all ties back to the trash situation. See, I never reinstated your service with the waste management company. Don’t worry, it’s not like I’m letting it pile up. If it’s tissue paper or Kleenex, I flush it down the toilet. I burn paper and cardboard in the fireplace. And food is crammed into the garbage disposal—unless there are bones or shells. In that case, I wrap them up in aluminum foil and stash them in the freezer.
But trash is trash, and it accumulates. Eventually, I had to make a run into town to dispose of it. This is where things took a turn.
I loaded the bulging, twist-tied Hefty bag into my car. The plan was to dispose of it at Manny’s Snacks and Spirits, a place I’ve come to know well. I went to the rear parking lot and lifted the lid on the big trash bin—Clank. Padlocked.
I looked around and noticed a hand-painted sign posted on a tree behind the dumpster: “No dumping! We will prosecute!” You could be prosecuted for getting rid of trash—who knew? What would happen if I left the bag at the base of the dumpster? Was littering different from dumping?
Either way, it was game on. There was no chance I would head “home” without completing my quest. I peered down the street to my left…a pizza shop and a hardware store. Between them was a dumpster the size of an army jeep. Bingo.
I didn’t bother driving, just hiked over with the bag slung over my shoulder. As I approached, I noticed a large, official-looking sticker on the front of the dumpster: “NO RESIDENT DUMPING.” And, no surprise, this one was locked, too. When did garbage bins become as fortified as safes? I huffed in disgust and retreated to my Volvo, the bag now an albatross.
A half-hour later, fate smiled on me. The town recreation center had a cylindrical-shaped bin near the entrance. A bin, mind you—not a dumpster—but it was large enough to do the trick.
Although several residents milled about the entrance, I wasn’t deterred. I made my move, and with each step, recited the following affirmations: Walk with purpose. Act as if you’re supposed to be here.
Cram, jam, thank you, ma’am. Operation trash drop was a success!
“Hey! You can’t do that!” a husky man wearing a headband shouted, cheeks puffed out and red. I hustled back to the car without a reply and peeled away.
I wish I could tell you that my adventurous day was a one-off, but brother, I cannot tell a lie. I may not have been the athlete you were, but I still liked a challenge. A few days later, I had collected more indoor trash and yard debris. Who wants a cluttered yard, right?
With a bulging Hefty bag in tow, I once again drove through town, searching for a new dump spot. A few impatient drivers had to pass me, but I would not be rushed. At last, I spotted a bright yellow dumpster in the parking lot of “Tiny Tots.”
That’s right, a daycare. Nothing was beneath me.
Leaving the Volvo running, I approached with the bag dangling beside my leg. I lifted the lid about six inches and BAM! It stopped.
“Not again,” I muttered.
I inspected the area and noticed a chain had been looped from the cover to the dumpster’s side handles. Tied, but not locked. I hastily unraveled the chain.
“Hey!” a custodian bellowed from his perch on a ladder at the back of the building. “No dumping!”
“Not dumping…depositing!” I hollered back, emboldened.
“Same thing!”
I ignored him and shoved my refuse into the crevice. Fortunately, most of the trash was pliable. With one last thrust, the bag dropped inside, all the way to the metal bottom. Plunk!
“I got your license number!” the custodian hollered.
As I jumped back in my car, adrenaline surged through my limbs. It had been a while since I was good at something. Sure, teaching is a noble profession, but it’s not exactly…exhilarating.
The funny thing? Residents are talking about my exploits all over town. In fact, Sheila McGinley, editor for the Express, called out the “mystery dumper” for wreaking havoc on local businesses. Naturally, after reading this, I dressed all in black and paid the newspaper back with my first-ever night drop. Plunk.
Rest assured, brother, even if the authorities were inclined to sort through the contents of my debris, they wouldn’t find anything incriminating. I may deal in trash, but I am not sloppy.
Here’s the kicker: when I was having breakfast at The Good Yolk yesterday morning, a group of over-caffeinated construction workers approached Mayor Chaffey, who was dining alone at the counter. The conversation turned intense, with the workers demanding that Chaffey speak out on the situation.
“Better yet,” Big Scott Armstrong suggested. “How ’bout forming a posse to corral this Bin Bandit?”
The mayor heaved a sigh and told the crowd that he would take their proposal to the city council for a vote. Several diners patted him on the back as he paid his tab and hurriedly headed for the exit.
The applause was deafening, and I raised a fist in celebration, rejoicing along with everyone else.
It’s two in the morning. I’m up because I thought I heard footsteps coming from the hallway. I grabbed a flashlight—more for protection than visibility—and opened your bedroom door.
“I’ve got a gun,” I said into the darkness. I really, but it was the best I could think of, being half-asleep and all.
I flicked the light on and saw the hallway was clear. Next, I checked out the spare bedroom across the way. When I turned on the overhead light, something caught my eye. There was an inscription on the bed’s headboard written in blue pen: Josh was here.
Touching the dried ink, I wondered who Josh was and how old he was now. Maybe he was Mr. Thomas’s son? Or grandsons? Had he furnished this house with all his old belongings?
I leaned my head back on the pillow and dozed off within minutes. I slept soundly until a ray of morning sunlight pierced the gap in the curtains. It not only illuminated my face, but also the bigger picture: my time here was coming to an end. With a new school year around the corner, my mind and body needed to reset.
I threw on some sweats, devoured a soft-boiled egg and toast for breakfast, and then went outside. Instead of a trash run, I’d be embarking on a cross-country trek. Time to turn over a new leaf.
As I stretched my calf muscles and contemplated my route, a mid-sized SUV rolled up the driveway. For a second, I feared it might be undercover cops or a member of the newly appointed posse, but the driver hardly looked menacing. She was an attractive brunette, in her late 40s if I had to guess.
When the woman stepped out from behind the wheel, I realized I’d seen her before. She was a volunteer at the county library, if I wasn’t mistaken.
“Hi there,” I said.
“Oh, hello,” she said, recognition flickering across her face. “Sorry for the intrusion, but we knew the previous occupant, and well, I thought there might be a book here—”
“Piano Man,” I said.
“Yes,” she said, eyes brightening. “Oh, good, this wasn’t a wasted trip. My name is Rosemary, by the way.”
“I’m Rick. You said we?”
Rosemary nodded and opened the Honda’s back door. “Come on, buddy.”
A freckle-faced boy, maybe seven years old, hopped out excitedly. He looked up at me with furrowed eyebrows.
“You kind of look like Jimmy.”
“Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Wait…are you his—” Rosemary began, eyes widening.
“Brother,” I said, completing her sentence.
“Oh, wow,” she said, her tone and posture suddenly turning uncomfortable. “Your last name is somewhat common. My apologies...I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection.”
“It’s fine,” I said, holding up a hand.
“Would you two like to come in?”
“What do you think, Joshua?” Rosemary said. “Maybe just for a minute?”
“Do you have snacks? Jimmy always had the best snacks.”
I grinned. “I’m sure I can find something.”
As we made our way inside, I thought of the name carved on the guest bed. Josh. The picture was beginning to come into focus.
Rosemary and I drank iced tea in the living room, while Josh ate chocolate raisins on the deck and talked to the birds. In rather hushed tones, she came right out with it—revealing that you two had been in love. Of course, there was a lot I didn’t know. She explained how you’d met two years ago on a local tourist boat, the kind that puttered around the lake with the captain pointing out homes where famous movie stars and industrialists had once lived.
You had a lot in common: pickleball, jazz music, and an appreciation for all things Italian (food, art, cinema). I was captivated. She asked me questions, but I kept my answers short and steered the conversation back to you. There were random things: you’d had gall bladder surgery, battled COVID twice, and adopted a dog that you had to return to the shelter because it was a little too aggressive around Josh.
And then she dropped the bombshell: you had proposed marriage on New Year’s Day, and she had refused. I may have been quiet, but my face probably spoke volumes.
Rosemary looked away, tears forming in her eyes. I felt bad that my expression made her uneasy, but I was thinking what a gut punch it must have been for you. Things started to make sense. I imagined the guilt that she, too, must have been carrying around.
“I’m sorry about all this, Rick,” she said, setting her tea on the end table. “If you’d like us to go…”
“No, please stay,” I replied. “It helps…knowing.”
Rosemary continued, speaking softly. She said she wasn’t sure if she was ready for that kind of commitment again. Maybe if she hadn’t lost her first husband to cancer just a few years earlier, or if she hadn’t been worried about Joshua and the impact living with a new man might have on him.
She made a point to share how proud you were of me. She said that people had expected me to follow in your footsteps as an athlete, but you admired me for charting my own course. As tears formed in my eyes, I excused myself to go to the restroom. I splashed my face with cold water, needing to pull myself together.
When I returned to the sofa, Joshua was hugging Rosemary and asking if she was alright.
“Yes, honey,” she said, wiping hair out of his eyes.
“Okay. Can I go play in the fort?”
Rosemary shook her head and answered, “Not now. We need to get going soon.”
“Fort?” I asked, intrigued.
Rosemary said it was a storage space beneath the basement stairs where you would occasionally let Josh play. I told her I didn’t mind, but she said they really did have to “push on.”
“I understand,” I said, retrieving Piano Man. “Better not forget this.”
“Thanks,” she said, accepting the book and then embracing me.
A moment later, we were outside, and my senses began playing tricks on me again. As Rosemary helped buckle Josh in the back of her car, I thought I caught a glimpse of you behind the wheel. It was a silhouette, but I could tell by the profile that it was you.
She closed the back door and smiled again before opening the driver’s door. I gave a last wave as she slid in behind the wheel. Your image evaporated like mist, but somehow, I felt better about things.
“He’s gone, isn’t he?” a voice said.
I turned to find your neighbor with the white hair peering over the fence. He appeared more lucid than the last time I’d seen him.
“Yes, he is.”
The man nodded and turned away.
I’m packed and planning my departure, but there’s one last item on the to-do list: the fort.
Despite passing by it countless times, I’d never noticed the well-concealed storage space. The doors were knotty pine, blending right in with the rest of the wood in the house. I had just presumed the knobs and hinges were decorative.
Is this what growing older does—make us clueless? If I were a kid like Josh, I would’ve noticed the spot on my first day. It would’ve been my fort, too.
I tugged open the door and peered inside. As expected, the space was dark, musty, and cramped. One whiff and I was reminded of every basement in every house we’d lived in. I thought about retrieving your flashlight again until I noticed a light bulb on the slanted ceiling. I wiped away a few spiderwebs and tugged the string attached to the fixture. The 60-watt bulb illuminated the contents within. It wasn’t much— a stack of cardboard file boxes, a bicycle pump, and a framed one-sheet for “Field of Dreams.”
I dusted off the top of the first box and read your handwritten label— “SPORTS HEROES.” I lifted the lid to find stacks of frayed newspaper clippings on the Yankees, Islanders, and Giants. There were photos with you and some of your childhood heroes: Mike Bossy, Derek Jeter, and Lawrence Taylor. The way you looked at them is the way I felt I always looked at you.
I moved to the next box, which was labeled “SCHOOL.” The process was the same. I was digging, touching, reading, and imagining. The third box was “COLLEGE.” The fourth was “FRIENDS.” The fifth was “CREATIVE.” I was so immersed that I lost track of time. I was exhausted, but my need to know eclipsed my need for food or rest.
At some point, I went upstairs to use the restroom, and then I made a cup of coffee. I had explored the contents of every box except one—but I was determined to get through them all before calling it a night. I gazed at the analog clock on the kitchen wall. The lighting was so dim, and my eyes so blurry, that I couldn’t tell by the hands whether it was 3:20 or 4:15. Either way, I’d been at it for a while.
Rejuvenated by the coffee, I descended the steps and returned to the space. Settling into position, I lifted the lid on the sixth and final box… “FAMILY.”
Immediately, I was stunned.
Staring up at me was an envelope with my name scrawled on the front. I picked it up and pulled out a photograph from within. The photo was of you and me holding trout we’d caught in the Waitsfield River when we were visiting Dad after your high school graduation. I don’t remember posing for that photo. But that’s what photographs are for, to help us remember.
What happened after that was a blur. All I know is that I woke up at dawn, clutching that photo with my legs inside the space, and my torso extended into the hallway.
Departure day.
I left the key under the mat for Stu and have loaded our possessions, including your boxes, into my car. Yes, I have one last bag of trash that I’ll deposit somewhere—once I’m beyond county lines.
It will be a long drive back to my place, but there’s no urgency. I’ll have time to think about the envelope with my name on it and the treasured photo inside. I’ll wonder why things are the way they are and acknowledge that sometimes there are no reasons for the way things happen. But I also believe I was meant to be at your cabin—and that you were expecting me at some point.
Just as your descent off the cliff was no accident, neither was anything that happened after I arrived.
About Guest Author J.C. Wesslen
J.C. Wesslen has released two novels. His debut novel, Ace on the Hill, a coming-of-age story set in the 1970s, previously won the Best Indie Book Award and the Book Fest (2023). Mr. Wesslen has written for A&E’s Biography series, The History Channel, the USA Network, and VH-1. He’s also worked as an independent script consultant for film and TV writers. Check out the CHOW Interview with him from 2024.
About The Piano Man Chronicles
Piano Man, written by the fictional author Thomas Eberle, is a creative spark that connects a wide variety of stories, like a quiet ripple. I am writing three‑part arcs that introduce new people, new places, and new turning points, but the shared thread is how this one book nudges something in each of them.
Some characters read it.
Some argue with it.
Some only know it because someone they love won’t stop talking about it.
But for all of them, The Piano Man becomes a spark — a moment of reflection, change, or connection.
Guest authors, such as Sandolore Sykes and JC Wesslen are contributing their own takes on the story, creating a wide world of literary interconnection. This project is meant to feel like wandering through a neighborhood at dusk, catching glimpses of lives in motion. You’re not following one plot; you’re following the echo of a story inside a story, watching how art lands differently in every life it touches.
The Birthday Party Underground
When washed-up rocker Cole takes a pity gig at his nephew’s birthday party, he expects juice boxes, tantrums, and the slow death of his dignity. What he doesn’t expect is applause, cash, and a new career path—one paved with glitter, chaos, and the occasional piñata-related injury.
Welcome to the children’s party circuit, where the princesses aren’t Disney-approved, the clowns have criminal records, and the magicians might be dabbling in more than sleight of hand. As Cole dives deeper into this surreal subculture, he finds himself entangled in illicit rendezvous with moms (divorced, married, and morally flexible), navigating the drug-laced underbelly of suburban affluence, and dodging emotional landmines disguised as balloon animals.
But beneath the costumes and confetti lies a question Sam can’t escape: Is this his second act or just another detour on the road to self-destruction?
Eberle’s Piano Man is a tragicomic romp through the absurdity of reinvention, where the music never stops, but the consequences keep piling up. Sharp, irreverent, and unexpectedly tender, it’s a backstage pass to the party you never knew you wanted to crash.
“A rock ballad wrapped in confetti and regret. Eberle’s prose is as sharp as a broken guitar string.”
— Javier Stone, author of The Last Encore
“Thomas Eberle has written the most unwholesome children’s party novel imaginable—and I mean that as high praise.”
— Mira Caldwell, author of Suburban Gothic
“A hilarious, heartbreaking descent into the party circuit’s glittery underworld. Think Almost Famous meets Bad Moms with a dash of Hunter S. Thompson.”
— The Sacramento Tribune