Isn’t it about time for the reappearance of the Art Piano in front of St. Pauls?
“As soon as the City Council approves it on May 16, another art piano will make its debut —this time a baby grand,” said Helaine Bowles, Chair of the Benicia Arts and Culture Commission. “What about last year’s jazzy green upright piano?” I asked. “It will be installed at the State Capitol just down the street,” she added. I wouldn’t even attempt to play it, even Chopsticks or Heart and Soul as the memory of blowing a major performance still haunts me.
Yes, I remember it well.
It was the mid-1980’s in Sacramento.
My dear friend, Cristina Rose and my boss George Steffes, both owners of eponymous top ten lobbying firms, were co-chairs of Governor Deukmejian’s Roast Committee — a major yearly fundraiser.
“I’ve got all the acts filled except the piano player to back up Senator Art Torres,” Cristina told me two weeks before the Roast.
“I’ll do it,” I answered too quickly. After all, I had played Fur Elise at a piano recital in sixth grade and wasn’t half bad. I had taken 10 years of piano as a kid; Mom made me; I hated to practice and hadn’t touched a keyboard in decades. But what an opportunity!
For the next two weeks I practiced “Thanks for the Memories,” the old Bob Hope theme song to which Senator Torres would sing “Thanks for the Penitentiary” protesting the Governor’s plan to build a maximum security prison in his district as payback for some grievance. “Thanks a lot for the penitentiary you dirty rat, thank you so much,” was the idea. A friend offered me her piano for practice where I found it harder each day to master three flats, and complex chords. I was actually getting worse.
As the night of the Roast approached, I was sleep deprived and convinced that I would not only humiliate myself but Senator Torres, as well, who did not suffer fools or incompetents gladly. Feeling like dead woman walking, I searched the ballroom of the Grand Hyatt for him. Both dressed in matching tuxedos which Torres had insisted upon, we swanned around, arm in arm, working the crowd of some 500 legislators, lobbyists and staff. I was on my third margarita to calm my nerves, and I don’t even drink. They weren’t kicking in.
Cristina and George were seated at the head table flanking the Governor. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the MC said halfway into the program, “help me welcome Senator Art Torres accompanied on the piano by lobbyist Sarah Beserra.
Showtime. My hands were shaking so badly that I missed major chords. Art kept signaling me to go faster to keep up with his singing, twirling his hand in my direction like a traffic cop. My rented shirt was now stuck to my back, my face ablaze and the color of eggplant. By now I was missing every key as Art kept picking up the pace filling the room with his lively tenor.
Grasping at any idea to end my misery, I thought, “I’ll play a fancy arpeggio at the end with the hope of redeeming myself,”
Redemption wasn’t in the cards as I obliterated the final flourish by striking all the wrong keys. With purple face and shaky body, I dashed from the piano, tripping on an electrical cable in front of the dais. The show biz line “break a leg” flashed through my mind.
“That was horrible, Beserra,” Cristina shouted out from the dais above.
Hobbled back to my table and was tempted to crawl under it. One of my seat mates, a mild-mannered Senator from Santa Barbara, said, “Um, that was really good, Sarah,” clearly not believing it himself and trying to be kind. I wanted to die.
After the last act, it was the Governor’s turn to speak.
“Next time, Art, I’ll back you up on piano,” said the Governor as he began his comments.
Went into hiding for three days, cowering in my office and avoiding my boss George who witnessed my denouement first hand. Gradually, word got back to me that some people thought we were the funniest act of all — on purpose. Whew! Quel relief!! Thinking about it later, I wish I’d taken a deep, exaggerated bow when I rose from the piano bench, like Leonard Bernstein would, bending at the waist with my arms at my sides, and snapping my head back in a dramatic upward motion. Nobody would have been the wiser.
Later when I told my mom about it, she was aghast but not so much because of my humiliation before Sacramento’s elite, but because I had drunk three margaritas! Salud!
Sarah Beserra is a collector, artist, Dharma practitioner and retired lobbyist.
Letters From Benicia 