A Lucky Musician

A Lucky Musician

6:00

The strings humming beneath my deft fingers, my violin sang a song as familiar to me as an identical twin. It breathed music into the air, music that I loved, and hated. Music that blessed me, and cursed me. It killed me to play that music, but I did it. I did it for the man who sat across from me, who had today donned a bright orange turtleneck sweater, which made a ghastly contrast to his bright red, sunburned face. He was laid back in my recliner, a comfortable piece of furniture with pale green and white stripes branded on the surface.

Finally, my instrument squealed the last note of the song, and it was over. The silence left behind in the air was as sharp as a knife, sharp as the last note of my performance. My audience stood up and applauded. His gaunt hands made a thin slapping sound as they clapped together. "Bravo!" he shouted, grinning. "Excellent, as always! Truly, sir, you are a wonder!" From looking at him, you'd expect his voice to be reedy and thin, the voice of an asthmatic, but it sounded scratchy and unpleasant, like nails on a chalkboard, or sandpaper being dragged across glass. Though he spoke with a decidedly American accent, his intonation was strange, as if he were a foreigner who had just learned the language. He didn't speak like an American either, his vocabulary seeming very English.

I felt the now familiar sensation of power being drained from me. It was a dreadful feeling of loss. I smiled weakly at him, and said "Oh, it was a pleasure playing for you again, sir."

"Don't lie to me, Blake," he said, still grinning. An angry glint appeared in his dark eyes. His svelte voice carried a definite air of malice. "You know I despise being lied to. But that's alright, you don't have to enjoy my company. Just don't try to lie to me."

"Alright, okay," I said. My smile widened. "You can count on me, sir."

"Excellent." He clapped me on the shoulder. His black eyes , so vivid among the scarlet skin of his face, lit on mine. He was at least a good foot taller than me, and his presence commanded the room. His aura was like a thundercloud brimming with electricity and rain. His long, sharp nose stuck out arrogantly at me. It reminded me of the carrot noses that I would put on snowmen as a child. "Well," he said toothily, still beaming in a decidedly sharklike manner. "I suppose I'd better be off. Places to go, you know."

"Oh, yes, alright," I said.

"Same time next week?" he said, already knowing what my answer would be. Knowing that I had no choice.

"Absolutely," I responded, trying to sound unperturbed.

"Splendid. My love to Ariel." His obsidian eyes sparkled with mischief. Or was it evil that I saw reflected in those pitch black pools of horror? I suddenly knew without doubt that he saw through my false bravery. For some reason, I felt like blushing, almost as if he were a parent who'd caught me looking at the most recent issue of Playboy.

And with that, my visitor strode out of the living room, towards the door. He grabbed his umbrella (which he always carried, even if it was sunny outside), and neatly plucked his brown fedora from the hat rack I had nailed up near the entrance at just above chest level. I couldn't see the door from the living room, as my view was blocked by a section of wall. Before he turned to leave, my patron rotated his head to look straight at me. He seemed to be staring right into my soul.

He tipped me a slow, ironic, heavy-lidded wink, accompanied by a thin smile, then, hat perched jauntily on his head, he stepped towards the door, and out of my view. I sank back into my former seat, a sturdy, comfortable armchair, and listened. I heard the click of the handle turning, the whoosh of air as the door opened, and footsteps as he stepped over the threshold. The door closed with a smaller whoosh of air, then a simultaneous thud and click. More footsteps as he walked down the hallway.

I held my breath all the way through this, and continued while he pressed the little button halfway down the hall, and waited for his elevator to arrive. I heard the faint ping as it showed up, and only after the elevator doors closed did I release all my pent up air. There was the faint clunk of distant machinery, as my associate departed downwards through the building. I sighed in relief. Another week of a perfect life, before our next meeting.

I remained seated in my chair for a few minutes, then got up. I walked briskly across my apartment, sock feet slipping slightly on the hardwood floor. I reached the bathroom, went inside, stripped, and turned on the shower, adjusting the water to its maximum temperature, as I normally did after each of my special friend's visits. I entered this chamber of scalding water, disregarding the heat. I just stood under the streaming water as it beat down on my chest, where it left an angry red mark the size of a bowling ball. I could almost hear the sizzling as I stood under liquid fire. But as always, this fire did not burn me. Instead, it filled me with a sort of vivid ecstasy.

I left the shower, towelled off, and looked at myself in the steamy, fogged-up mirror. Even with the surface blockaded by blurriness, I could see my reflection somewhat clearly, if hazily, under the bright white lights of my bathroom. There were dark circles under my eyes, and despite the hot shower I'd just taken, my face was pale and gaunt. I decided that some breakfast wouldn't hurt. But first...

Dressing myself again, this time in new clothes, a grey suit with a bow tie and a white shirt underneath, I exited the bathroom. I looked at the clock. 6:50. Perfect. I predicted that I would arrive at work early, as I sometimes did. But before eating, or doing anything else, I went into the kitchen, where I grabbed a clean dishtowel from the neat, folded pile I keep next to the sink. Tying it around my lower face, covering my nose and mouth, I walked back to the bathroom, where the steam from my shower still lingered humidly in the air. I cracked open the cupboard under the sink and grabbed the antibacterial spray.

Wielding my canister of GermBeGone, I once again left the bathroom, this time headed towards the living room. I turned briefly at one place, and opened the large closet just next to the entrance of the kitchen. I turned back towards my original destination. I could see the big, bulky recliner where my guest always sat during his evening appearances. It was an ugly thing, reminding me of a big, striped, pregnant cow. Perhaps it was only it's usual occupant who made me think such thoughts, but either way, they would not leave my head. I hated that chair.

I stood in front of it, looking to see whether I could still make out the impression of his body. Yes, it was there. WIth a grimace that was masked by my dish towel, I shook the can of GermBeGone and sprayed it where he'd been sitting. I lingered at each spot long enough for it to soak in, and when I was finished squirting the recliner, I went around to the back side, and lifted it. With a grunt of effort, tendons and muscles straining, sweated away as I carried the chair from the living room, halfway down the hallway, all the way to the closet. There, I groaned as turned around, and set the chair down in the place where it stayed for six days of every week. Straightening up again, I turned, and left the closet. I swivelled back at lightning speed, and suddenly slammed the closet door shut. There was a lock on the door, and I rotated it in a panicky manner, all coolness lost. It clicked shut, and I breathed a heavy sigh.

I heard my heart protesting in my ears to such overuse, and panted exhaustedly. I became aware that I was grinning like a skull, as I looked at that shut door, and considered for the millionth time if I might be crazy. The answer was the same as always. No, I'm not crazy. But oh baby, am I close.

I sat down against the wall, and ran a sweaty hand through my slightly thinning brown hair. The flesh on my face felt dead, stale. I crossed the living room to open a window. The sun was rising very nicely over the city, turning the clouds pink and purple, painting an amazing work of abstract art in the sky. Cool, morning air blew into my face, and I smiled. A whole week until my next visit. Golden beams of sunlight cast their bright glances over the rooftops of buildings. I smiled, admiring the beauty of the sunrise, and preparing myself for the day ahead.

7:40

"Hey, Blake! You're early!"

"Well, I think it's at least better than being late," I replied. I enjoyed my work, I wanted to do well. And if that meant showing up early to impress the boss, so be it.

"True, true. But this is the third time this week! Just make sure that you don't push yourself too hard."

I smiled. "Oh, no worries about that. I like my work, but that doesn't mean I'll kill myself doing it," said I. Of course, I would work very hard. I could always use a bit of extra cash, just in case. Besides, working hard invigorates me, helps me forget my occasional visits from my old friend. Work keeps me sane.

"Ah, of course you won't." Brian clapped me on the shoulder, in much the same way that my visitor had earlier. But Brian was about my height, and instead of a commanding, dictator-like presence, his was a relaxed and vital one, despite his somewhat advanced age. "You know, Blake? I think you're going to have a great future here."

"I'm flattered." In truth, I was unsurprised. Things such as this usually happened after I gave a violin performance to my guest.

"You know, Blake? Here, let me tell you a little secret."

Brian and I were standing in the foyer of my workplace, a skyscraper in downtown Clayton, Michigan. There was an indoor garden in the centre of the huge lobby. The sidings that formed the perimeter of the garden were stuffed with some soft material and covered in black imitation leather. You could sit anywhere around the garden. The room was an elliptical shape. A single set of revolving doors stood as a transparent gateway to the nearly deserted street outside.

On the half of the floor nearest to the entrance, there was a speckled grey carpet, and halfway across the room, the carpet gave way to beige tiling. Brian and I were just at the end of the garden nearest to the door, with the carpet under our feet. There was nobody in the lobby but us. Work wouldn't officially start for another forty five minutes or so.

"A secret? Oh, sure. What is it?"

He put his arm around my shoulders, and bent forward a bit. I did the same. Of course, this motion of privacy was only for show. As I said, we were alone here, nobody to hear us.

"At the end of this year, maybe next, I'm going to retire. I'm recommending you as my replacement," he whispered to me.

"Wow... Really?" Again, I put on a show of surprise and gratitude, but it was as if I'd been expecting this all along, even though I knew I hadn't thought of it. I suppose it was just the aftermath of my visit.

"Yes, really. You're a hard worker, you're polite, and best of all, you know how to take charge."

"Gee, I really can't thank you enough. You know, this line of work is what I've always dreamed of."

"Really?"

"Yes. Ever since I was a little kid."

"Then why did you get into it so late? What happened?"

I grimaced. "I'd prefer not to talk about it," I said. I knew it was probably unwise to withhold information from my boss, the man who'd just offered to promote me, but I truly didn't want or need to discuss my past.

Brian put a hand on my shoulder again. "Understood." Of course, I understood that he was a bit irked by my response. "So, anyways, pleasure talking to you, but I really have to run." He removed his hand from my shoulder, and stuck it out in a handshaking gesture. I reached out and flogged it merrily. After all, it paid to show enthusiasm in front of the boss man.

"So long. Thanks for the offer too, Brian."

"Aw, Blake, don't mention it. But just keep this between the two of us, alright?"

"Alright."

He walked away towards the elevators, hands in his pockets. And much like another person I'd met on that particular day,  he was was soon sped away in a steel box, up through the floors like a bullet through the muzzle of a gun.

I sat on the perimeter of the garden for a minute, then left the building for the Tim Hortons across the street. I bought a Boston Cream, and a small coffee, which I drank black with lots of sugar. For me, that had always been the perfect formula for beginning work in the morning. I thought for a moment, then bought another doughnut, this time a vanilla dip. What the hell. You only live once.

I crossed back across the street, and went back into the silent and cavernous lobby. I had no doubt that soon the day's workers would file in, depressed from it being the morning, but more cheerful than usual, it being a Friday; they would have the weekend off. That was one of the fringe benefits of working at this particular real estate agency. You didn't just have the Sunday off; you got the whole deal at this place. Sweet.

In the lobby, I waited for my elevator to arrive. I looked across the street, watching for any sign of other workers coming in early. There were none. A small ding signalled the elevator's appearance, and soon enough, I was inside, and riding up to the fourteenth floor (which was actually the thirteenth- but you know builders and their superstitions). I was not interrupted by anybody seeking to hitch a ride on the same elevator. The building, after all, was deserted, save for me, Brian, and maybe a couple of janitors. Things didn't really get lively in the Gardener building until around 8:20, and the official punch-in time was 8:30. Still, about an eighth of the employees would get here late. Usually the younger ones.

Another minute pinging sound announced that I had safely reached my floor. Stepping out of the elevator and onto the square white tiling of the hallway's floor, I looked down the corridor as I always did, as if to make sure that the door to my office was still there. It was. I strode confidently down to my office, looking into the darkened spaces on the other sides of the doors' glass. An earlybird I was indeed.

I stopped in front of the seventh door on the left. Chronologically, from the entrance to the hallway, it was the thirteenth door. Having the thirteenth office on the thirteenth floor didn't bother me very much at all. In fact, I'd been introduced to an evil much worse than any series of numbers, and come out no worse for the wear (significantly better, if truth be told).

I fished around in my spacious pockets for the key to the room. I locked hold of them in my right hand, and removed them effortlessly from my pants. My hands were, by then, so accustomed to this ritual, I could have done it with my eyes closed. I slid the key into its waiting lock, like a ship arriving at port after a successful whaling trip. I turned the key clockwise, and imagined the boat capsizing.

As the door swung inward (no creaking- the hinges were kept well-maintained), I peered into my office. As it usually was, the room was pitch black, save for the thin, ghostly streams of light emitting from the hallway. No windows in my office, but I didn't mind. With a deft, knowing flick of my wrist, I snapped on the lights before stepping in. Fluorescent beams overhead woke up, spraying the entire room with what seemed like almost chillingly white light. Ah, my office. I'd grown to love this room, and I suppose I'll always feel something for it. I even named it Trisk, in honour of its notorious numeracy.

A smile played around the corners of my mouth, as I regarded the room fondly. My desk was a dark brown slab of wood, a contrast to the nicely coloured yellow wall behind it. My desk was positioned so that, were I sitting in it, I would be facing the door. There was a single lamp resting on it, the kind with the neck that bends. A Pixar lamp, I'd thought when I bought it at a yard sale fourteen years ago. Of course, back then, I hadn't had much money, so that lamp had been somewhat of an extravagance. It IS a very good lamp, though.

"Well hello there, Trisk!" I said to the room, as I stepped inside, and sat at my desk. I looked up at the clock above my door, which told the time as being 7:58. I reached over to the CD player on the corner of my desk, and opened it. I slid open one of the desk's drawers, and browsed through a collection that included albums by Mozart, Schubert, Beethoven, and Vivaldi, not to mention our good friends Wagner and Bach. At our workplaces, we were allowed to listen to whichever music we pleased, so long as it wasn't loud enough to carry into the other rooms. Us employees soon learned that it meant either quiet, classical, or both. As a result, my music drawer was full of music that I'd rather have listened to anyways. I prefer classical.

After a moment's consideration, I picked out a Schubert CD, and unclasped it from its case. I pushed it into the CD player with a click, then with my forefinger, prodded the PLAY button. The first resounding note from Death and the Maiden greeted my ears. Normally, I couldn't stand violin music (for obvious reasons), but Schubert was okay on some days. On others, though, it sent me into a mild panic before I managed to turn it off.

As this was a good day on all counts, I stretched out my fingers, opened my laptop (a Macbook Air), and began the day's work.

At the Gladstone Real Estate Agency, I was at a desk job. It wasn't a particularly high position in the agency, but it was certainly far from low. At least I didn't have to tour newlywed couples around to find a new nest, or be dragged along by bickering marrieds to help them find a place where there was a school nearby, and no busy road, and a nice playroom for the kids, and three bathrooms...

No, what I did was much simpler. On our database, are all the houses and apartments standing in both The City of Clayton, and the surrounding townships. The field people (I say happily that I'm not QUITE that kind of real estate worker) tell me the wants and needs of their particular clients, and I search through the database for houses that suit those people. I search the criteria that I need, and the houses show up alright. I hear back often that families are at least satisfied with their new homes, if not joyful. And let me tell you, it sure beats being an agent.

There are about fifteen people who do this for the company, including me, and we all have our offices here on floor fourteen. Brian was the one who supervised us. Brian...

It was the thought of Brian that got me working again. The thought of Brian and his promotion offer. Of course I was grateful for that, but not grateful to him. Oh, no.

I gave a cursory glance at the stack of papers on my desk, and then cracked my knuckles, and started my day's work.

12:30

My lunch hour began at this time every day, and as always, I left the building to go down to the Italian restaurant down the street. I knew the staff by name, and the food was good. But that wasn't why I was so excited to go that day. No, I had a date at that restaurant. Yes, that's right. Blake Salter, the eternal bachelor, dating. I hadn't even had my first kiss until the dying months of high school. But here I was, walking down the city street on my way to my first date in... Oh, let's just say it was an eternity.

The lucky lady (if you could call her that), was quite a wonderful girl named Ariel Baker. She worked in the building next door to the Gardener building (so named for Sophie Gardener, the famous female architect who'd built it). She was a psychologist, which I thought meant that she talked to troubled kids and stuff. She and I had run into each other several times in the Tim Hortons, and struck up conversations rather often. We never discussed work, but one day the previous week, I hadn't been able to stop myself from asking her out. After I'd stammered out an invitation, we agreed on this Italian restaurant (we both liked it).

In front of the restaurant, there was a sign announcing that the special today was a cream of tomato soup. A homeless man was sitting in front of the doors, holding a cap out. Smiling, I walked over to the entrance of the restaurant, then turned towards the homeless man, and tucked a fifty dollar bill into the cap. I smiled, as he stared agape at me, and then went into the restaurant. It felt great.

After being outside, in the strong sunlight of the day, the inside of the restaurant seemed dark and blurry. I immediately spotted Ariel, and strode confidently towards our table, determined to do well. She was wearing the sort of thing that she normally did during work hours; jeans, with a light blouse on her top half. Today, the blouse was bright blue, perfectly imitating the colour of her stunning eyes, which were dropped towards the menu right now. I reached our table, slightly flustered, and greeted her. "Hi Ariel," I said.

She looked up at me, and smiled, her pink lips drawing back to show teeth that were straight, and almost white. "Hi!" she replied, seeming to be enthusiastic. Her enthusiasm helped my nervousness a touch.

I sat down in my chair. I looked around at the red-painted walls, each of which seemed to have a famous Italian artist's artwork framed and hung up. Over there was the Last Supper, by da Vinci. Near our own table, was Bellini's Madonna and Child. It added a great feel of nostalgia to the eatery, and I found myself faintly able to believe that I was in Italy, rather than the downtown part of Clayton, Michigan.

"So," I said, preparing to ask a question I had not yet thought of. "Uh... What exactly does a psychologist do?"

She looked at me for a second, and our eyes met. Then she started laughing.

She thinks I'm kidding, I realised. I suddenly felt very small.

"You know, everybody asks that question," she said, still laughing. "And no, we don't counsel people, although some do decide to. We aren't psychiatrists. Normally, what we do is study how the mind really works. Not counselling, no."

A tide of relief swept over me. Alright, it's okay Blake, everybody asks that question. Perfect.

"So Blake, what do you do as a real estate agent?"

This was the first time we'd ever brought up work. "Well, I help people find houses, but from a desk. It's much more convenient for me that way."

"From a desk? How does that work?" She looked honestly puzzled. I grinned.

"Well, you see, our company has a database..."

And so I explained the job to her, and she nodded in understanding throughout. Talking about myself, I was able to find a natural rhythm, and clung to it. When the waitress arrived, we both ordered at the same time, and discovered that we preferred the same type of food when we said it in unison. Even the waitress laughed.

So then I asked her questions about her own life, and she answered. When the food came, the questions turned the other way, and she asked about my life. I gulped.

"Oh, you know, my life isn't all that interesting."

"Oh, I'm sure it is. Come on!" she said, smiling.

Now, by this time I was head over heels for Ariel, but... I never talked to anybody about my life before Gladstone Real Estate. Even my boss I'd turned away. But, I figured, it would do no harm to tell Ariel about myself. At least, none to her.

"Well, I was born in New York. The state, not the city. I don't know the city where I was born, I think it might have been Albany or Tashmore Lake. Anyways, I moved to Hartford, Connecticut when I was three. At five, I moved to Detroit. I stayed there through high school, then went to McGill University in Canada, on a scholarship. I was going there to study real estate law, to be a lawyer. I'd originally wanted to be a real estate agent myself, like I am now, but my parents insisted on law school. I dropped out in my second year. I moved here to Clayton. When my parents were killed in a car accident ten years ago, I inherited everything. I sold most of it, and used what money they'd had left, along with their small life insurance policies, to buy a nice condo. I went back to school, and then got this desk job. And thus, the man you see before you now was made."

As I said the middle of the last sentence, I flexed my arms in a somewhat silly gesture that made her giggle a bit. It filled me with a helium-like pleasure to hear her giggle.

But I'd deliberately left out what might have sent her out of the restaurant, screaming.

We finished lunch, and I paid. We left the restaurant together, and split apart when we had to go to our different buildings. We gave each other a little wave, and went our separate ways, I through my rotating doors, she through her push-doors.

As I tread the familiar path to my office, I remembered exactly how my life had turned around, and the terrible, terrible cost.