Marie put down her fingers and a discordant noise came from the felt speakers of her cheap, plastic keyboard. Regina the calico ran into the bathroom at this. Marie stopped and got up from the piano bench, pinching the bridge of her nose and sitting down on the futon with Jones. She took a hit off of her vaporizer and stared out the window longingly. Upon closer inspection, she saw that there were more trucks bearing the logo of the much more successful company delivering more packages. This was the third time today. Each time a delivery happened, Marie and Jones would hear a practical stampede of tenants rushing down the stairs, followed by the same stampede going up the stairs just a few minutes later. This stampede in particular was nothing to write home about. Before Jones had shown up, when Regina still had maggots about her feet, the stampede was likely to shake the whole building. These days, it was just a gathering of people on the stairwell.

“Marie, I gotta ask you something.” Jones said, in the middle of the upward stampede.

“What is it, Jones?” Marie asked.

“Have you ever played on a physical keyboard before I showed up?” Jones got up, striking a match and lighting another cigarette. Before Marie could respond, they were blowing smoke out of their nose and talking in the most mundane manner. “I don’t mean to judge or anything,” they started. “But I’ve heard beginners before and what you’re playing right now sounds more like a beginner than anything else. So I figured I’d ask, have you ever played outside of the system before?”

“No.” Marie said. “No, I haven’t.”

“I see.” Jones said, exhaling mundanely. “Well, if you’re going to start from the beginning again, let’s start from the beginning again. What was the first song you learned how to play in the system?”

“How could that help?”

“Just humor me, okay?” Jones took a knee and placed a hand on Marie’s shoulder. “Now think back, what was the first song you learned how to play?” And Marie did think back to every single song that she learned how to play on the piano, trying to find that first one. The brain, often working in mysterious ways, gave her the memory of the song, but not how to play it. She remembered that it was in the key of C, but nothing more.

“It’s a Neil Young song. I think it’s called ‘Mellow My Mind’.” Marie said.

“There you go, Neil Young, ‘Mellow My Mind’. That’s perfect. Do you remember what key it’s in?” Jones got up and led Marie to her cheap plastic keyboard.

“C. I think it’s in C.” Marie said, utterly confused as to what was happening.

“Awesome. Now, just start with a C.” And Marie started with a C, on the middle of the keyboard, eventually moving down an octave once Jones suggested doing so. She placed the fifth over it, letting the chord ring out. “Now, add some rhythm to it.” And she did, playing the chord as close to the tempo as she could. The progression of the chords slowly came back to her and she started playing as if she had never had a day without practice. Marie got through the whole song, smiling and adding little embellishments onto the chords at the end there. On the last note, she let it ring out and then hit another C chord abruptly, just as it appeared on the recording of the original song.

Jones gave an enthusiastic applause, rocking back and forth on the futon. “Marie, that was amazing. The keyboard itself still leaves something to be desired, but this is the best I’ve heard you since the blackout.”

“Practice makes perfect, I guess.” Marie said.

“No, no. Perfect practice makes perfect. That, my good friend, was perfect practice.” So, they continued into the night, trying to go through each of the songs in Marie’s catalog, eventually always coming back to ‘Mellow My Mind’ by Neil Young. It got to the point where Jones would sing a warm melody over Marie’s instrumental. Jones had a soft, raspy voice, something that carried like a cobweb covered phonograph playing an old soul single. Marie stopped before her second instrumental solo.

“I never knew you could sing, Jones.” Marie said.

“Really?” Jones asked. “I’m sure it must have come up before.”

“It truly never has.” Marie said. “I like your voice. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“You know, that’s funny. My mother said the exact opposite thing before I went to college.” Jones said. “She said I was a bad singer, but should use my voice in another fashion. I guess that’s why I chose journalism in the end.”

“Well, your mother is a liar.” Marie turned around to face Jones.

Jones chuckled. “Tell me something I don’t know.” Jones lit another one of their cigarettes and looked out onto Greater Columbia. This is the least energetic that Jones had been since coming into the city. The only sound between the pair was the ticking of the analog on the wall. Marie got up from her chair and picked up the Debussy concertos book off of the coffee table. She set it up on the cheap plastic stand of her cheap plastic keyboard and began playing Passepeid. In the middle of the first refrain, Jones put a hand on Marie’s and she in turn stopped playing and looked up at them.

They looked down with pitying eyes and asked. “Is it alright if we go somewhere?”

Marie nodded and they took the trek down the eight flights of stairs that led into her lobby. It was pitch black when they got outside. The smell of trash never seemed to dissipate from the air, but simply turned cold and wet in the nighttime.

They went to the same bus stop and made their way through the same neighborhoods until the bus was heading out into what used to be the suburbs. A gated community was fenced off from the rest of the world, and it looked as though this had had some effect on the real estate value of the homes inside. The neighborhood was completely empty, say for the scurrying of a few pests through the overgrown bushes.

Before Marie could ask for context as to where they were, Jones started to climb the fence. Not being one to spoil a party, Marie began to climb the fence as well. Jones lit up a cigarette, walking in as if they owned the place.

“This is where it started.” Jones said, pointing to the end of a cul de sac. They came across a rotted out mailbox with the name Jones painted ever so thoughtfully on the side. Next to this mailbox was the remains of a two-story shack not too dissimilar from the other two-story shacks in this neighborhood. The pieces of this two-story jigsaw puzzle were strewn about the place, some embedded within the house marked Jones. Our Jones took a step into the intact house, the screen door still hanging by a single screw at a ridiculous angle. Marie carefully followed suit, pulling a flashlight from her purse.

She entered the shack to hear Jones rifling through the kitchen. Taking a few steps closer, Marie could see their legs kicking wildly into the air.

“What are you doing?” Marie asked.

“I always knew my old man had these in here.” Jones said, pulling half a carton of cigarettes from a compartment below the sink.

“Is that why we came here?”

“No, the smokes are just icing on the cake.”

“And what would be the cake itself?”

“The cake itself would be found within my bedroom.”

Marie looked down the hallway and then back to Jones. “I don’t like what you're implying.” She said with a smile.

“Get your mind out of the gutter and follow me, please.” Jones started down the hallway and made their way into the last door on the right. They went into the room and found a good amount of garbage thrown around. Many people had been in here before Jones and Marie and many more would be afterwards, by Jones’ estimation. They opened up their closet, praying that something still be in there, and indeed it was. The thing was a plastic tub, full of sheet music of all kinds.