Ernest Hemingway was sitting at a bar in Havana when in tottered an old, wizened man who hobbled up to the piano, sat down, and began playing.
He played wonderfully until he came to one certain note in the middle of the keyboard, which he could never get right. Always the same note. Always played badly.
“What’s his problem?” Hemingway asked.
The bartender shrugged. “We tried running him off, but he keeps coming back. So, we got him a music teacher. He ran her off. We then tried a psychologist. He didn’t last long, but he did suggest we not treat this problem as a big issue and maybe, eventually the man will go away. So he comes in to play and we ignore him and if anybody asks, we shrug our shoulders and say, ‘It’s just the old man and the C.’”
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