The Whistler

 

A syncopated whistle floats through the foggy morning as I turn the corner at 31^st from Roosevelt. Marching up the block, I marvel at its rhythm. This is no tuneless whistle. The kind I usually hear on my neighborhood walks. Usually men, often at work, whistling away. No melody at all.

            Nope, this whistle is musical and joyous.

            The tune unmistakable: Scott Joplin’s “Entertainer”.

            Oh, I know this song well. One year in high school, I drove my family mad practicing this song over and over again on the piano for a recital. I had to memorize it. So, repetition was key to this. But also, I was obsessed with the song. Its melody. Its rhythm. Its charming repetitions.

            Today, when I hear the whistler’s version of it, I can’t help but grin. Someone else is charmed by Joplin’s tune too!

            Halfway up the block, I spy a man, short, stocky, a dark mop of hair, thick eyeglasses, walking down his driveway. Whistling. Ah-ha! Here’s the whistler.

            “Hello!” I hail him before he disappears behind the back gate.

            He stops. Turns toward me, smiling broadly. “Hello,” he answers, walking back toward me.

            “You were whistling Scott Joplin’s Entertainer,” I observe.

            He beams. “Yes, it is a very famous song.”

            “Yeah, I know it well. I used to play it on the piano.”

            He nods, starts making hand motions for an air guitar. “I try on the guitar. And the flute…”

            He’s in the street now, opening a bright red car’s door (I’m assuming it’s his!), and pulling out a tin whistle.

            He starts to play. But Joplin is hard. The tin whistle is limited. He laughs, “It is too hard for the flute.”

            “Yeah, I bet,” I agree, marveling at his willingness to just start performing for me out on the street in the foggy windy morning.

            He puts his lips to the whistle again and starts to play. A beautiful and lyrical piece of music floats up and out of the instrument. His eyes are closed. He is in the rapture of the music in moments. Then stops.

            “You know this song?”

            I don’t. It’s not Joplin. Or Bach. Or Chopin. But I don’t mention these non-possibilities. Instead, I lie: “It sounds familiar.”

            He grins again. “It is called ‘Always Love to You.’”

            “Ah….” I nod, “it’s beautiful.” And I think it is. Even though I suspect it’s movie music. But movie music has its place, doesn’t it? On the tin whistle. On a foggy Monday morning.

            “Thank you for the performance!” I exclaim, truly grateful for the interlude. I’ve been so worried about everything lately. The pandemic, of course. My work. My finances. Politics. Roe v Wade being overturned is thick in my brain. Heavy and sad. I don’t know what to do with this.

            Joplin helps.

            How couldn’t he? His music is full of life and joy and complexity.

            The Whistler stops his playing for a moment, “You are welcome,” he says.

            Then goes back to his instrument, playing again the “Always” tune. I march on up the street, whistling to myself.

            You know the melody. It’s a very famous one! I can’t get it out of my head for blocks as the clouds start to burn off, the sun filters down. A woman comes out of her house, tall and elegant, dressed in forest green slacks and a golden vest.

            I smile at her. She smiles back.

            I head down the street, whistling to myself, a very famous tune.

 

            The Entertanier, Joplin, Alexander Lioubimenko