Once, a long time ago, my wife, Georgann, and her lifelong friend, Lois Battleson, left on a jet plane to New York City to visit Georgann's brother, Dick Johnson and his wife, Maureen, who lived on Long Island. Just a couple of country girls on a mission to find out what was moving in the Big Apple. Brother Dick would take the girls with him into the city each morning, riding in a private railroad car Dick shared with a number of other commuters who enjoyed the special accommodations. Dick was a partner with the Price Waterhouse accounting firm.
Georgann and Lois spent the days learning how to be New Yorkers, adapting to the rhythms of the city. One thing they found difficult was knowing which railcar to enter at the appointed hour for returning home. Dick would spot them moving down the platform, eyes cupped, looking into the windows of all the cars and with brotherly patience herd the laughing strays into his car.
On a Sunday before their return to Oregon, Dick drove them on a tour of the Hamptons at the east end of Long Island. At noon they spotted a quaint small cafe and decided to stop for lunch. They were alone in the small dining room except for two other couples who were sharing a table across from them. One of men from the other table was sitting at a piano in the corner of the room playing beautiful melodies with effortless grace. The three new arrivals looked at each other with instant recognition:
Billy Joel.
He played all through their lunch. They made no moves to intrude on the Joel party letting Billy be Billy. Imagine that. Flying coast to coast to have the Piano Man deliver an intimate concert for the price of a tuna sandwich and a glass of decent wine.
Editorial note: Billy Joel goes into the city once a month to perform sold-out concerts. He returns to the Hamptons with one million more dollars than he had earlier that day.
