Top Gun, Bottom Zipped
A gray-haired gentleman shuffled into a quiet downtown bar, head high and hands a little shaky. He pulled a dusty “Piano Player Wanted” sign from the window and handed it to the bartender.
“I’d like to apply,” he said. “I flew F-4 Phantoms off the USS Coral Sea. Learned to play at the Officers’ Club during port stops.”
The bartender raised an eyebrow. The man looked more retirement home than Showtime—but business had been slow. Why not give the guy a shot?
The old pilot made his way to the piano. A few patrons chuckled quietly behind their drinks. But when he started to play, the bar fell silent. By the third bar of music, every head had turned. His fingers danced over the keys, delivering a melody that soared like a fighter jet and landed like a dream.
When the last note faded, the crowd erupted into applause—some with misty eyes.
The bartender brought him a beer and asked, “That was beautiful. What’s the name of that song?”
The pilot grinned and said, “Wings of a Memory. Wrote it myself.”
Before anyone could comment, he jumped into a peppy ragtime tune that had the place clapping and tapping along.
“That one’s called Fuel for the Soul,” he announced with a wink.
Then came a gentle ballad, soft and nostalgic. He nodded to the crowd. “This one’s Clear Skies and Home Lights.”
After a quick trip to the restroom, the bartender met him halfway. “Sir,” he said, “the job’s yours. But, uh... your zipper’s down.”
The pilot glanced down, smiled, and said, “Don’t worry—just letting the music out.”
