Maurice and Milo are thrilled to perform at a club in Paris. They dream of becoming a global act. Alas…
What I’m Writing
In February 2020 I posted a story titled “Sawdust” about my quirky characters, Maurice and Milo, a ventriloquist and his dummy. A second story followed in August 2021. Today’s story is about them again, this time a prequel to Maurice’s sudden death onstage one night. POV is once again Milo’s. Here they are, excited to be performing at a club in Paris.
Milo in Paris
Bob Gillen
The club’s green room sat in the basement, under the stage. Dark, poorly lit. A tiny closet to the side. A locked door that led somewhere unknown. Maurice sat at the dressing table in front of the mirror.
I watched him work through his makeup routine. He darkened his eyebrows, combed his moustache. Pulled on his fedora, positioning it carefully. He liked to frame himself as a film noir character.
Maurice turned to me. The dummy in the next chair. “You look good tonight, Milo.”
“Thank you. And I must say, you are looking quite well yourself, Maurice.”
Maurice smiled. “Thank you, my friend.”
Maurice smoothed my shirt, white with blue stripes. Pinched the crease in my dark slacks. He reached for a navy blue beret, positioned it carefully on my head.
“I think we’re ready.”
A knock on the door. “Five minutes.”
“Thank you, five minutes.” Maurice stood. Smoothed his own outfit.
“Our first gig in Paris, Milo. This is a big night. We’ll be here for a week, if tonight works. The first step in becoming a global act.”
“One show at a time,” I said.
“You’re right. You’ve heard me say that many times.”
Maurice picked me up and opened the door. As we mounted the stairs, I heard the applause from the act preceding us. Two dancers, their shoes tapping on the floor, dashed past us as we reached the wings.
“You’re on,” the club manager said.
Maurice took a deep breath, adjusted my beret, and stepped out on stage.
Credit: The Guardian
In the green room after our performance, Maurice said, “I hope you don’t feel badly when they call you sawdust, Milo.”
I shook my wooden head.
“The drunk in the Hawaiian print shirt was obnoxious. Obviously an American tourist speaking bad French.”
“We’ve seen worse,” I said, softly. “But it sounded classy in French. Sciure. Sawdust.”
“Funny…the word sawdust,” Maurice said. “Tonight it reminds me of my first job as a kid, right out of eighth grade. A summer job as a delivery boy for the local butcher shop. There was always sawdust on the floor of the shop. It was my job to sweep it up every night at closing time, and spread new sawdust on the floor. I did that while the butcher used a wire brush to scrub the blood and scraps off his carving block.”
I had never heard him talk of that before.
“That was a lot of years ago, Milo. A lot of years.”
Maurice folded my outfit carefully, placed it in the suitcase with his own jacket and fedora.
“We’ve come a long way,” Maurice said. “A long way from doing sock puppets in my bedroom. Trying to drown out my mom and dad screaming at each other.”
It was always me.
He looked at the me. Me, Milo. It was always me, even as a sock puppet. Always French. Always there at his side. Somewhere at home he still had the sock. Rolled up in a drawer somewhere. Or in a box in the closet. If his ex-wife Darla hasn’t thrown it out. She hated me. Not at first. But it didn’t take long for her to realize I came first. I was more real than anyone else to Maurice.
I understood him like no one else did. An odd thing to say. A wooden dummy understands you better than any person. Odd, maybe, but real. Real for us.
“Tomorrow night will be even better,” Maurice said. “We open for a jazz trio. It will be an audience that appreciates the finer things in life.”
“Oui,” I said.
Maurice smiled. “There’s always a tomorrow night.”
Haillie’s dreams of becoming a fearless firefighter take an early turn when she discovers the secret behind a hidden trap door.
What I’m Writing
This week I followed a writing exercise from Ray Bradbury. He calls it Nouns and Titles. He suggests making a list of words, then using those words to trigger a story idea. I started with “trap door” and here’s the story that resulted. I hope you enjoy it.
The Trap Door
Bob Gillen
The trap door lay flush with the wide-plank floor boards, hidden under an enormous oriental rug. Furniture anchored the rug around the perimeter of the room. The trap door would be almost impossible to find. Almost.
Haillie ran her toy firetruck back and forth in the center of the room. “Vroom, vroom.” She dreamed of the day she would be a firefighter, driving a powerful truck to an emergency, roaring down the streets with siren screaming and horn blaring. “Vroom, vroom.” I’m a brave firefighter, she imagined, climbing a ladder to save a child from a burning building.
“Haillie, can you keep the noise down? Please?” her mother pleaded from the kitchen. “I’m on an important call.”
Haillie cut the volume on her voice, continued pushing the firetruck across the rug. The toy truck hiccuped over a slight depression, a tiny blip under the plastic tires. She rolled the truck back and forth over the indentation. Weird, she thought. Never felt this before. She probed the tiny ridge with her finger, pressing hard to feel it. A few feet along the ridge, the indentation made a right angle. Haillie followed it, meeting two more right angles till she came back to the original spot.
She peered into the kitchen. Her mother was blabbing away on her phone.
Haillie lifted the front two legs of an easy chair from one edge of the rug, pulled the rug away, and peeled it back to where she had felt the indentation. She came upon a brass ring, set flush into what looked like a door or lid of some sort. It was the same wood as the floor, with two edges lined up along the floorboard seams. Only the other two sides intersected the floor seams.
Again, Haillie peered toward the kitchen. Her mom had retreated to the back porch to continue her conversation.
Haillie lifted the ring on the trap door. It came up easily, without a squeak. She tugged at the ring. The trap door rose a few inches above the floor. A chill rush of air puffed out from the opening. A dark smell, musty, old. Haillie pried the door up further. She spied a ladder leading down into a dark void.
I am a firefighter, she told herself. I go where I need to go, to rescue people in danger. Setting her feet on the ladder, Haillie lowered the trap door a few inches above her head, and shoved at the rug to push it away from the opening, enough to hide the door. She let the door close.
Credit: Pixy.org
Total darkness. Oh no. I need a flashlight. She peered down into the void. There was a sliver of light far down into the void. She thought to go back for a flashlight, but she heard footsteps above her.
“Haillie? Where are you?” Her mother’s voice. “I almost tripped on your toy truck…Oh dear, you moved the rug. Why do you always make it harder for me?”
Haillie heard the rug dragged, the chair lifted and set down again. Only one way to go now. Down.
Haillie descended into the dark, one rung at a time. Dust coated her hands as she grabbed each rung. She rubbed them on her jeans, one hand at a time. She looked up and could see nothing. The trap door was invisible in the dark.
“Someone is in trouble,” she said in a whisper. “I need to reach them.” She moved down and down.
Her left foot hit bottom. Hard bottom. Cement? Dirt? There was a faint glow of light here at the bottom. Coming from somewhere away from the ladder.
She wiped the last of the dust from her hands. Her nose wrinkled at the musty odor. She turned towards the light. The fire! They need me.
Haillie walked slowly, feeling her way with her feet, touching her fingertips to walls on either side of her. Must be a tunnel, she thought.
A tiny voice. You found me.
Haillie froze. Listened.
You found me.
She peered into the darkness. No one visible. No shape, no silhouette. Only a voice. She moved ahead a few steps.
Her right hand felt a break in the wall. An alcove of some sort.
Here I am.
Haillie jumped back. She could make out a dark shape in the alcove, lying prone. Not moving. She took a step toward it.
I’m here. Don’t be afraid.
Did I find someone in need? Now what?
Haillie extended her hand toward the shape. She touched something round, hard, dry.
That’s my head.
Haillie jumped back again.
Don’t be afraid. You came.
Haillie shook her head. What?
I’ve been waiting a long time. I kept count. More than twenty years.
Wait, what? A voice is talking to me but there’s no one there.
I’m here. Reach out your hand. Move it around.
Haillie hesitated, groped with her fingers. Two holes on top of the round object. Teeth lower down. Teeth?
Keep going, the voice said.
Haillie took a step forward, ran her hand further along, felt ribs, arm bones.
Are you a skeleton?
“Are you a skeleton?” she asked aloud.
I am now. I didn’t start out that way.
“You’ve been here twenty years? How did you get here?” Her voice echoed in the dark tunnel.
I was eight years old. I died from a fall. Off the old oak tree in the yard.
“But why are you in here?”
My father was afraid everyone would blame him. He always left me alone while he went to work.
“That’s crazy.”
He was scared. He put me in here, and told everyone I ran away. I don’t know if they believed him.
“Where is he now?”
No idea…He never came back.
“My mom bought the house a year ago. It’s just me and her. I don’t know who she bought it from.”
What’s your name?
“Haillie.”
I’m Molly. Hi.
“Hi, Molly.” Haillie looked up and down the tunnel. “What do we do now?”
I think you can go now. Tell people I’m here. Then I can move on.
“How do I get out of here?”
Follow the tunnel to the end. It opens into the woods behind a big rock, at the edge of the property.
“My mother is going to be so pissed at me for coming in here…She won’t like what I tell her.”
It’s the only way, Haillie. I can’t move on till they find me.
Haillie detected a quiver to Molly’s faint voice.
“I found you. Isn’t that enough?”
No. People need to know my story. The truth. I didn’t run away. My dad didn’t hurt me.
Haillie reached out, probing for Molly’s hand. She gripped the bones. Shuddered. “I’m afraid.”
If a skeleton could cry, Molly was weeping. Haillie felt it. Felt the sadness, the desperation.
Take my ring. On my right hand.
Haillie probed in the near darkness till she felt a plain band. She tugged at it.
“It’s stuck.”
Pull harder.
The ring came loose, along with a finger bone. Haillie shivered.
Take the bone, too. People will believe you.
“Molly, this is so weird.” Haillie rubbed the ring, slipped it on her own finger.
Keep the ring. It will be our secret. Show everyone the bone.
“I’ll try, Molly.” She touched Molly’s skull, stroked it for a moment.
I hear you when you run your firetruck on the floor above.
“You do?”
Sure. I hear you pretend you’re a brave firefighter. You’re saving me now.
Haillie stood tall. “Okay, Molly. I’ll do it for you.” She squeezed the bone tightly in her fist.
Thanks. When you come back, I won’t be here… I won’t forget you.
In today’s micro story Diane Somers feels relief after returning her berserk cat Zero to the animal shelter. Relief…and emptiness.
More short fiction in the Jack and Diane series. Enjoy.
What I’m Writing Today
Today I’m exploring a lonely moment as Diane sits at home after returning her cat to the shelter. This is #4 in the Jack and Diane series of stories. As I have said before, I did not expect to continue the story line, and I have no plan as to where it is going. The characters interest me. I’ll see where it goes as we proceed.
Catch up on previous stories with Jack and Diane on this blog: A Third Date, The Second Date, Death by Millstone.
A New Morning
Bob Gillen
Diane Somers woke at 7:30 without an alarm. She stretched, slid out from under her covers. The east-facing window filled the room with light.
Diane smiled. I slept through the night, she told herself. First time in a month. She stepped into her fuzzy slippers, pulled on a well-worn blue chennile robe, and padded to the kitchen. In under ten minutes she had her French-press coffee in hand. She settled in her chair and gazed out at the trees moving in the brisk Santa Ana winds.
She sighed as she sipped her coffee.
Sleep was good. After a month of near-sleepless nights she had finally surrendered and returned her cat Zero to the rescue shelter. As a retiree, she had the option of afternoon naps. But nothing replaced a good night’s sleep. Zero had been with her for close to two years. In that time the cat had never once purred or meowed. Never snuggled with Diane in her chair or in bed. The cat did nothing but eat, pee and sleep. Hence the cat’s name. Diane gave zero fucks about him.
But Zero had taken to roaming the house every night for the last month. Running from room to room. Hissing. Knocking books off tables. The last straw, two nights ago he swept her favorite mug off the kitchen table and shattered it.
The guy at the shelter had accepted Zero back. “Didn’t work for you, huh?” he asked.
“Not your normal cuddly cat.”
The clerk had nodded. “Thanks for trying. Not always a match.”
“Thanks for understanding,” Diane had called out as she left.
She sipped her coffee. A couple of dry leaves scratched across the concrete patio in the wind. For some weird reason, the moving leaves reminded her of the black and white movie with Peter Lorre, where a severed hand crawled around the house causing mayhem and murder. That’s what Zero had been, a hand detached from anything that would give it life, creeping about in the darkness. Diane shuddered. He’s gone now.
After a second cup of coffee, she continued to stare out the window at the wind-blown trees. All the movement was outside. Inside, only stillness. Diane felt alone, empty. Her mind drifted back over the three years since her second husband had died. She lost him quite suddenly of a massive heart attack. And she had lost her only daughter in a maelstrom of anger and bitterness. Margaret had not spoken to Diane since Mark’s death. Diane had still to reason why, exactly.
Her thoughts were interrupted by sirens from the nearby fire station, as a crew went out on call. Her neighbor’s German shepherd howled. Howled mightily. It always brought a smile to her face. The dog was normally rather stoic, but the sirens gave him voice every time.
The feeling of emptiness fell over her again. She was utterly alone in the house once again. No husband, no connection to her daughter, no cat. Only her.
She returned to the kitchen for more coffee. Zero’s food and water dishes were still on the floor under the counter. She picked them up and tossed them in the trash. That was the last trace of him. Gone.
Diane settled in the chair with a third cup of coffee. She opened her iPad to read emails. On top was the monthly newsletter from one of her favorite mystery authors. As she read the newsletter, she teared up. The author talked about losing her spouse in the previous year. She spoke of herself recovering from a mild bout of Omicron, spoke of the almost two years of pandemic lockdown and restrictions. The author described her current life as a scaled-back life. A scaled-back life, yet nurtured by gratitude and appreciation for what she does have.
A scaled-back life
Diane thought, that’s it exactly. That’s my life. Scaled back. Not the same. Maybe never to be the same again. But clearly scaled back. Full of limitations and restrictions. Filled with absence and emptiness. Tears flowed.
Her phone chirped. She glanced at the screen. Jack. The guy she met on an online dating app for the over-fifty crowd. She let the call go to voicemail. Later, dude. I need some me time right now.
She wiped away her tears, smiled, recalling the day she and Jack had spent in Santa Barbara a few days ago. Appreciation. Gratitude.
Outside a single dry leaf continued to scratch across the patio in the wind. Diane got up, opened the slider, and stepped on the leaf. Crushed it to small pieces. She closed the slider, settled back in her chair.
She reached for the phone. Took a deep breath, hit Jack’s number.
A micro story about a woman facing yet another reminder of her husband’s death.
What I’m Writing This Week
Single Again
Bob Gillen
Marie Reston returned home from her Starbucks run with a slice of lemon loaf and a grande Americano. Early afternoon on an October Sunday. Hours to kill till it was time to make dinner. She flipped on her TV. Two weeks ago she had recorded a movie she had been promising herself she would watch soon. An action thriller set in the Colorado mountains. Not her usual TV fare, but she needed a distraction.
Marie set her snack next to her easy chair, hit Play to begin the movie. She strained to make out the dialogue. Two men in winter gear sat around a fire. Why was character audio so hard to hear on movies? Several words popped up clearly. Frio. Cuidado.
What the hell? She had recorded the Spanish-language version of the film. Shit.
Marie turned off the recording. She scrolled through the current TV fare. Might as well be doom scrolling. Nothing worth watching. She settled on a cooking show for a few minutes. Pasta shells with pancetta and broccoli rabe. Her stomach rumbled. Enough of this.
She turned off the TV, picked up her iPad to find Spotify. The music site suggested an album of piano solos called December, by George Winston. She connected her bluetooth to the soundbar under the TV and hit Play on the album. She finished the lemon loaf, sipped the Americano.
Maria picked up her laptop, opened to her bank website to check her account status. Yesterday she had met with the local branch manager to close out her deceased husband’s accounts and remove his name from her accounts and their joint credit card. Kenny was gone just over a year, a short bout with a deadly disease. Marie had waited this long to adjust the accounts, figuring there would be no further direct deposits or other activity. The bank manager accomplished the adjusting in half an hour. Marie gave no thought to it afterwards.
Now, seeing only her name on the bank accounts, she felt a loneliness creeping over her. On the December album Winston played “Carol of the Bells”. She stared out the patio window at the October skies, the Southern California foliage fringed with a touch of color. The vision grew blurred as tears welled up in her eyes. Kenny’s name was gone from their accounts. After so many years, she was again a single account holder. Maria shuddered. Tears flowed freely.
Diane agrees to a third date with Jack, even after he messed up the second one so miserably. Will this 50+ dating app relationship go anywhere? Read on.
To catch up on the first two stories about Jack and Diane, check out the first, Death by Millstone, and the second, The Second Date. I am writing these stories one at a time, with no idea or plan where it will go. The two characters interest me more than I expected them to. Who knows? We’ll find out together.
And now, enjoy their third date, a day trip to Santa Barbara.
A Third Date
Bob Gillen
Jack Marin backed his white Ford F-150 effortlessly into the parking spot half a block from Stearns Wharf in Santa Barbara.
“We’re here,” he whispered to Diane Somers sleeping in the passenger seat. Diane opened her eyes. She took in Jack’s face, turned to see the beach across from the sidewalk.
“That was fast,” she croaked. “Oh, I was really out, huh?”
“Since we got on the 101.”
“Wow. Hardly sleeping for two nights makes a girl sleepy.”
“Take your time waking up,” Jack said. He pressed the slider to open Diane’s window. The cool ocean breeze drifted in.
“Oh that smells good.”
“Never disappoints.”
Diane straightened up, pulled down the visor mirror. “I need a bit of makeup.”
“If you say so. Looks good from where I sit.”
She freshened her lipstick, ran hands through her hair.
“How’d you score a spot so close to the wharf?”
“I lived in New York City for five years. Finding a parking spot is a learned skill.”
“I didn’t know you lived there.”
“Long time ago, after graduation. Before I came back out to LA.”
Jack closed the window. “Let’s head out on the wharf.”
The two walked along the wharf as cars passed back and forth next to them.
“I have to say, Jack, I really hesitated when you called and asked me to come here.”
“Yeah, I really messed up our last date… I’m a shitty listener.”
Credit: CheshireCat.com
“More than that.”
“Yeah?”
“I was flattered you called. But after our second date didn’t go well, I did not want to be miles from home, depending on you to drive me back if it went south again.”
Jack stopped, stepped aside to the railing. “I know I really messed up both dates, but I wanted to see you again so badly. I thought some ocean air and a good dinner would help.”
Diane smiled. “I missed you too. I am still concerned that this won’t work out, but I’m game to try again.”
The passing cars caused the wooden beams of the wharf to clatter as they drove over them. Jack smiled. “Have I told you I’ve done and said some incredibly stupid things in my lifetime. Almost always around a girl.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
Jack pointed to the passing cars. “All the clattering of the wharf reminds me…when I was in the eighth grade, I had a girlfriend.”
“Wow, this is ancient history.”
“Cute.” Jack smiled. “Her name was Patti. One chilly spring day we rode our bikes to the park at the end of our town. A wooden car bridge crossed a large creek near the park. Patti and I, and another couple we were tight with, we climbed up under the bridge, right under where the cars drove across. We heard all of that clattering of the wooden beams. Anyway, we were kissing. It was a nice moment. Secluded under there. The other couple kept on kissing. I kissed Patti for a bit, then said, “Okay, I’m done. We can go now.”
“You didn’t?”
Jack extended his palms in surrender. “I was an idiot. Alone with my girlfriend. And I cut it short. So stupid!”
“Yeah, Jack. That was stupid.”
Seagulls screeched alongside the wharf. Jack shrugged. “Let’s get some ice cream.”
They walked to the end of the wharf. Jack got a vanilla cone, Diane Rocky Road in a cup.
“My friends tease me. Call me plain vanilla. I love the flavor, and I hate bits of stuff in my ice cream.”
Diane waved her index finger. “I won’t offer you a taste of mine.”
They found an empty bench facing out at the harbor.
“Do you feel rested after sleeping in the car?”
“I do. Thanks. I hope it wasn’t rude of me, but I was so tired.”
“Trouble sleeping?”
“I think aliens have invaded my cat’s brain. He now paces around the house all night.”
“That’s weird.”
“I adopted him two years ago. Hoping for company around the house. They told me his name was Pepper. After a week I started calling him Zero. Still do.”
“Odd name.”
“He sleeps all day. Wakes up to eat and pee. Does not meow or purr. Will not snuggle or let me pet him. So I call him Zero…as in, I give zero fucks about this cat.”
Jack almost dropped his cone. “That’s harsh.”
“After the last two nights, I mean it even more. He’s insane.”
“So, not only is he not good company, he now keeps you awake at night.”
Diane nodded, finished her Rocky Road. She stood to find a trash can. “Let’s walk a bit. I need to stretch my legs.”
They walked back along the wharf to the street, turned towards the harbor where hundreds of boats were docked. Both enjoyed the sea air. Neither felt the need to talk.
When they reached the end of the sidewalk, Diane said, “I’m hungry. Got any ideas for restaurants?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. There’s a great Italian place up State Street. We can walk there, or get the truck and drive up.”
“I don’t mind walking.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
They walked back along the beach, headed up State Street. The street was still closed to auto traffic, since the beginning of the COVID lockdowns. Bicycles whizzed past, tourists and residents wandered the street. Jack moved to hold Diane’s hand, but a surge of tourists forced them to walk single file. When they reached the restaurant. Jack and Diane got seated in a quiet outdoor section.
Santa Barbara City freshly painted bike lane on State St. and Figueroa St.
RAFAEL MALDONADO/NEWS-PRESS
“So, I promised myself I would not dominate the conversation. Tell me something about your last job, Diane. The one you retired from.”
The server brought a plate with a baguette and olive oil with pepper. Diane wolfed down a piece.
“God, I was hungry.”
Jack placed his napkin on his lap. “This is nice. I can’t remember when I last ate someplace that had cloth napkins.”
Diane laughed. “I hear you.”
“So, tell me about your job…”
Diane said, “I had no plans to retire then, but I couldn’t take the company anymore.”
“They forced you out?”
“In a way. I was in tech sales support, covering retail clients on the west coast. We had some management changes, they reorganized the company structure. Some bright light decided that all sales and sales support people should be based out of Indianapolis. They wanted all of us to relocate.”
“Relocate from LA to Indianapolis?”
“Right?”
The server stepped up. “Any questions about our menu?”
“I think we’re ready to order. Diane?”
“I’ll have the salmon piccata.”
“Excellent choice. And you, sir?”
“Chicken parmesan.”
The server took their menus and walked away.
“I see why your friends tease you.”
“What do you mean?” Jack asked.
“Chicken parm. Doesn’t get any more vanilla than that.”
Jack raised his palms in protest. “I go for what I like.”
Diane smiled. “Whatever.”
“So, back to you. Relo to Indianapolis.”
“Most of our customers were based in the east. The company figured they might as well put all of us nearer to them.”
“With more travel for you, for the west coast.”
“Yeah, plus summer humidity, winter snow and ice, and further away from my daughter.”
“Last time you mentioned you and she were estranged.”
“A topic for another time,” she said.
“Okay. Do you have grandkids?”
“None yet.”
“Yeah, me too…okay, so you quit and took early retirement.”
“Not exactly. I stalled. Finally, they offered me a severance package, and I jumped at it.”
Jack dipped a piece of bread into the olive oil and pepper. “Do you miss the work?”
“I miss the travel. Discovering new cities. Every trip staying in a good hotel. Great restaurants. Spa at night. Most of it on the company dime…and I miss fixing issues for my customers. The best feeling…”
“Yeah, I get that.”
Diane laughed. “One of the best fixes…I would show up at a retail location. Their point of sale equipment was acting erratically. I’d spot right away that they had tied the electrical cables alongside the data cables. Electrical interfered with the data transmission. I would fuss over it for a while, simply separate the cables, and voila, problem fixed. The customers loved me.”
“And here you are, cruising, no worries.”
“Eating a lovely Italian dinner with a man I hardly know yet. Who knew?”
After dinner and coffee, Jack and Diane walked back down State Street to Jack’s truck.
“Would you be interested in adopting a cat?” Diane asked.
“No way. Animals are okay, but I am not a pet person.”
“I may have to give him up. I can’t live like this. I need my sleep.”
Jack nodded.
“And please, Jack. No suggestions about me spending a night at your place.”
“It never entered my mind.”
Diane turned to him. “Am I not attractive enough?”
Jack laughed. “Between a rock and a hard place… yes, you are attractive. And yes, I am a slow mover. Very slow.”
“Sounds fair,” Diane said. “Just kidding you. I will give up Zero, and then we can take it as it comes.”
“Deal.”
Jack reached over, took Diane’s hand, and kissed it gently. She blinked, smiled.
Jack drove his truck onto the 101 South. He turned on one of his playlists. Art Tatum on the Pablo Group Masterpieces albums. He chose the session with Ben Webster on sax. “Chill. If you need to, take another nap. I’m cool with that.”
“I had coffee, but I may just do that. Walking and ocean air did me in.”
‘Call you when we get to your place.”
Jack smiled, steered south. Said to himself, Look at me, spending a day with Diane and not fucking it up. Go, me.
Harry played in the orchestra pit for 15 years till a stroke numbed his left hand.
This Week’s Story: A Stroke Disables a Theater Musician
Harry played keyboards in the orchestra pit for dozens of Broadway shows over the years. Now his left hand lay numb on the keyboard after a debilitating stroke.
Half a Keyboard
Bob Gillen
Harry spread his fingers over the keyboard. A deep breath filled his lungs. His right hand began playing a high, delicate melody. Harry closed his eyes. Let the music flare up inside him, burn out his fingers. His left arm lay at his side as melodies danced in the air.
For Harry, the piano was life. That life was cut down with the stroke that disabled his left hand. A life cut in half. There was no bass for his melodies. No bottom. No foundation. Playing melody with his right hand felt like riding a bike with only one leg. Not just difficult. Near impossible.
Harry continued playing. His left arm instinctively raised to the keyboard, but there was no movement, no feeling, in his hand.
Tears seeped from his eyes. Ran unchecked down his cheeks and splattered on his shirt front. He continued to play. He felt lopsided. Off balance. He closed his eyes again, this time to offset the dizziness he felt.
Today marked a month since his stroke. They caught it early. Limited damage, the doctors said. Limited, yeah. Maybe for them. For Harry, the joy of his life cut in half. His friends told him he could still play melody. That was better than losing his right hand. He could live without the bass, they said.
Harry knew better. Bass was the bottom. The support for melody. Without the bass he felt like he was dancing without shoes. Without feet.
His career was over. He would never play in the pit again. Eight shows a week. Eight times a week for the last fifteen years. Pure joy. He had his favorite shows, but he would play even for the bombs. Live performance was his life.
And the beauty of it. He played unseen in the pit. His joy bloomed nightly in the cocoon of the theater pit, shared with his fellow musicians. For the audience, the music was background to the stage action. They did not feel any need to see the orchestra. They knew it was there. That was enough.
After each show a few theater goers gathered at the edge of the pit, pointing out the instruments to their kids, their nieces and nephews, their grandkids.
Harry would make their night by waving from his piano bench. Then he’d stand and head for home.
Home. Where he sat now. Nowhere else to go. Disability insurance would cover some of his previous income. The rest? Who knows?
Harry reached deep into his memory. The muscle memory of playing for a lifetime. He began playing “Try to Remember” from the Fantasticks. “Deep in December.” This was his December, he thought. Reaching back like some old guy to recall the good times, the Septembers of his life. The times when the embers burned brightly. When life was good.
His left arm twitched. Harry moved the arm up to position his numb hand over the keyboard. The melody continued to flow from his right hand.
The pinkie finger on Harry’s left hand ticked. Twitched. Hit a deep C note.
Once.
Harry took his left hand in his right. Massaged it gently. Another tic. Slight.
He let his left arm fall to his side and resumed playing with his right.
His pinkie finger twitched again. Twice. Harry smiled. Played on with his right hand. Played on and on…
***
An Interview with a Film Composer
Here’s a link to an interview I did a few years back with film composer Thomas VanOosting. You may enjoy reading it. And thanks for stopping by.
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