The Fountain
Just Like That
Just like that.
Silence.
A red upholstered seat creaks eerily in the back row of the theater. The conductor lays his baton down in the lip of his music stand, running his fingers through his thinning hair. Suddenly, the hall is alive with snaps, crashes, clicks. The musicians stow their glossy instruments away in black cases, pulling sweaters over their heads, running rosin across their bows. The soprano soloist winds an expensive-looking beaded scarf around her neck and swishes out the door. The rest of the musicians make small talk: the pending rainstorm, ideal brands of trombone polish, the burrito joint down the street.
They see each other’s faces for days, weeks on end perhaps. Rehearsals, applause, red velvet curtains, then nothing. Back to long days of café sitting, a latte and newspaper in hand, sifting through pages and pages of advertisements, pausing every now and again to circle something promising.
A smile on the street, if they remember. A quick nod to a familiar face. But most of the time the faces of the other musicians fade into obscurity, lost in a sea of sheet music, of mellismatic violin lines, of delicate flute riffs.
The third-chair cellist thinks on this, this cycle of performances, of homeless instrumentalists wandering about, of new faces, of old faces, of music. She catches the eye of the concertmaster from where he sits across the stage, remembering him. She has seen his face before. Many times. He smiles warmly, his young visage tainted with strings of worry, strings of memory. He runs a hand over the bridge of his violin before closing the case.
She casts her eyes downwards, waiting until he is gone to clumsily zip her cello into its case. The left zipper is stuck. She is alone in the theater by the time she has gathered her music and strapped the instrument to her back. A tuning fork falls from the pocket of her jeans, hitting the dark stage with a quiet “ping.” She bends over to retrieve it, the straps of the cello case pulling at her back.
The cold air blisters her lungs as she steps out of the stage door and into the open plaza. Fresh-formed ice lines the edges of the giant fountain that gushes from the center of the square; garish angels spit recycled water at innocent passerby as a little girl stops to throw pennies. The little coins fall short, stinging the ground.
I wish… I wish…
The cellist searches her pockets, finding only a quarter and an empty pack of gum. She decides twenty-five cents is too much to spend on wishes. Instead, she walks along the edge of the fountain, her hand scraping away chunks of ice. The ice pieces fall and shatter on the cool brick below. The water steams, continuously, deafeningly over the backs of the chubby angels, drowning out the voices around her.
She thinks home, to her empty apartment, to the shade-less windows and cans of Campbell’s Soup. The landlord had cut the heat last week. It was getting harder and harder to find gigs. As the weeks press on, she was finding herself spending more and more time sitting alone at the linoleum kitchen table, gazing into the waning afternoon, and less, much less time with a bow in her hand, running graceful notes over the strings.
Once upon a time, she had had dreams, ambitions. “A prodigy,” her cello teacher, an over-enthusiastic ex-jazz musician, had said, “a prodigy with a future.” At one time, she had seen it too, seen her name in lights, in magazines, on ticket stubs. Now, she only was third-chair. Nothing more, nothing less. Just another starving musician.
A jolt of cold wind brings her back. Sighing, she clears a large block of ice from the fountain brim, sitting down and perching her cello case on her knees. Her hands are pink and raw. She wishes she had remembered her gloves, the ones her mother had given her for Christmas the year before. Her fingers move involuntarily, quivering on invisible strings. There is a big concert tonight. An oratorio. Something big with fire and brimstone, sopranos and baritones. She makes a mental note to practice the movement with the rapid triplets when she gets home. Home.That cold, empty apartment…
A gloved hand scrapes away a chunk of ice beside her. Here eyes wander upwards: a green sweater, an orange scarf, a pale neck. The concertmaster, the one with the kind face. The one who had smiled. “Hey,” his voice is soft, low. His breath makes little white circles in the air. Something flutters inside of her. “Mmmm,” she manages.
“Cold today,” he speaks again, shyly. She looks into his eyes, deep, gray, and wise. He steals her gaze and smiles again. Her eyes dart away, staring straight ahead, concentrated on a little boy kicking pigeons with his furry boots. Suddenly, the man, the violinist, turns towards her, cupping her face in his hands. She gazes up at him, stunned, frozen, icy water soaking through her clothes.
“You are so beautiful.”
His words come softly, slowly. Like quiet humming, like a violin. Without warning, he bends down, pressing his lips against hers. Like fire, like lightning, like music. He release gently, brushing a thick strand of hair away from her face, smiling once again, that warm knowing smile.
Reflexively, she shoots upwards, her cello clattering to the brick. Her heart races, the words pounding against her skull: “Too fast, too good, too perfect.” She staggers backwards, slipping, her eyes never leaving his, her lips perfectly parted. “I–I’m sorry,” is all she says, turning away towards the bus station.
Third chair. That’s all I ever was, all I’ll ever be.
I’ll never be good enough.
The concertmaster sits there on the brim of the fountain, his scarf billowing around his face, his hand extended, half-heartedly. He sits alone in the December afternoon, dirty fountain spray stinging his eyes.
Silence.
A red upholstered seat creaks eerily in the back row of the theater. The conductor lays his baton down in the lip of his music stand, running his fingers through his thinning hair. Suddenly, the hall is alive with snaps, crashes, clicks. The musicians stow their glossy instruments away in black cases, pulling sweaters over their heads, running rosin across their bows. The soprano soloist winds an expensive-looking beaded scarf around her neck and swishes out the door. The rest of the musicians make small talk: the pending rainstorm, ideal brands of trombone polish, the burrito joint down the street.
They see each other’s faces for days, weeks on end perhaps. Rehearsals, applause, red velvet curtains, then nothing. Back to long days of café sitting, a latte and newspaper in hand, sifting through pages and pages of advertisements, pausing every now and again to circle something promising.
A smile on the street, if they remember. A quick nod to a familiar face. But most of the time the faces of the other musicians fade into obscurity, lost in a sea of sheet music, of mellismatic violin lines, of delicate flute riffs.
The third-chair cellist thinks on this, this cycle of performances, of homeless instrumentalists wandering about, of new faces, of old faces, of music. She catches the eye of the concertmaster from where he sits across the stage, remembering him. She has seen his face before. Many times. He smiles warmly, his young visage tainted with strings of worry, strings of memory. He runs a hand over the bridge of his violin before closing the case.
She casts her eyes downwards, waiting until he is gone to clumsily zip her cello into its case. The left zipper is stuck. She is alone in the theater by the time she has gathered her music and strapped the instrument to her back. A tuning fork falls from the pocket of her jeans, hitting the dark stage with a quiet “ping.” She bends over to retrieve it, the straps of the cello case pulling at her back.
The cold air blisters her lungs as she steps out of the stage door and into the open plaza. Fresh-formed ice lines the edges of the giant fountain that gushes from the center of the square; garish angels spit recycled water at innocent passerby as a little girl stops to throw pennies. The little coins fall short, stinging the ground.
I wish… I wish…
The cellist searches her pockets, finding only a quarter and an empty pack of gum. She decides twenty-five cents is too much to spend on wishes. Instead, she walks along the edge of the fountain, her hand scraping away chunks of ice. The ice pieces fall and shatter on the cool brick below. The water steams, continuously, deafeningly over the backs of the chubby angels, drowning out the voices around her.
She thinks home, to her empty apartment, to the shade-less windows and cans of Campbell’s Soup. The landlord had cut the heat last week. It was getting harder and harder to find gigs. As the weeks press on, she was finding herself spending more and more time sitting alone at the linoleum kitchen table, gazing into the waning afternoon, and less, much less time with a bow in her hand, running graceful notes over the strings.
Once upon a time, she had had dreams, ambitions. “A prodigy,” her cello teacher, an over-enthusiastic ex-jazz musician, had said, “a prodigy with a future.” At one time, she had seen it too, seen her name in lights, in magazines, on ticket stubs. Now, she only was third-chair. Nothing more, nothing less. Just another starving musician.
A jolt of cold wind brings her back. Sighing, she clears a large block of ice from the fountain brim, sitting down and perching her cello case on her knees. Her hands are pink and raw. She wishes she had remembered her gloves, the ones her mother had given her for Christmas the year before. Her fingers move involuntarily, quivering on invisible strings. There is a big concert tonight. An oratorio. Something big with fire and brimstone, sopranos and baritones. She makes a mental note to practice the movement with the rapid triplets when she gets home. Home.That cold, empty apartment…
A gloved hand scrapes away a chunk of ice beside her. Here eyes wander upwards: a green sweater, an orange scarf, a pale neck. The concertmaster, the one with the kind face. The one who had smiled. “Hey,” his voice is soft, low. His breath makes little white circles in the air. Something flutters inside of her. “Mmmm,” she manages.
“Cold today,” he speaks again, shyly. She looks into his eyes, deep, gray, and wise. He steals her gaze and smiles again. Her eyes dart away, staring straight ahead, concentrated on a little boy kicking pigeons with his furry boots. Suddenly, the man, the violinist, turns towards her, cupping her face in his hands. She gazes up at him, stunned, frozen, icy water soaking through her clothes.
“You are so beautiful.”
His words come softly, slowly. Like quiet humming, like a violin. Without warning, he bends down, pressing his lips against hers. Like fire, like lightning, like music. He release gently, brushing a thick strand of hair away from her face, smiling once again, that warm knowing smile.
Reflexively, she shoots upwards, her cello clattering to the brick. Her heart races, the words pounding against her skull: “Too fast, too good, too perfect.” She staggers backwards, slipping, her eyes never leaving his, her lips perfectly parted. “I–I’m sorry,” is all she says, turning away towards the bus station.
Third chair. That’s all I ever was, all I’ll ever be.
I’ll never be good enough.
The concertmaster sits there on the brim of the fountain, his scarf billowing around his face, his hand extended, half-heartedly. He sits alone in the December afternoon, dirty fountain spray stinging his eyes.