by Janette Rallison, Heather B. Moore, Luisa Perkins, Sarah M. Eden, Annette Lyon, Lisa Mangum
He probably knew her type all too well. Over the years, he’d surely seen a parade of wannabe actors and singers and dancers.
She didn’t trust herself to speak at first. Then she cleared her throat and managed, “Of course the fire doesn’t go out this fast. Making it has been a dream since I was five.”
“And you’re going to let six measly months and how many auditions— what, twelve or so?— change all that? No way.”
Nine, she thought, mentally correcting him. He’d think she was a bigger loser if he knew that number, or that she’d been called back twice. This was an awfully big pond, and no one here cared that back home, she’d been an awfully big fish in a tiny pond. Out here, she might as well forget thinking of it as a pond; this was an ocean, and she was drowning. Small or big doesn’t matter; I’m not even a real fish.
She couldn’t answer his question, because yes, she was going home. Yes, she was giving up on a dream she’d held for most of her life. When he didn’t say anything either, a thick silence slowly descended between them. But something was held suspended in that silence, something she couldn’t identify or name. A connection.
Suddenly, she didn’t feel so lonely in this vast city of millions. She was going home in a matter of days— she could count it in hours, if she wanted to— and she didn’t want to leave Mark behind.
How? I just met him. Why should I care about him? He surely doesn’t care about me.
Her stomach went heavy and flat; she had no more appetite, even though this was, as Mark had promised, the best hot dog she’d ever tasted. She searched for something to say to end the silence; it was growing uncomfortable, and she couldn’t bear to think that what she felt as a connection with Mark was nothing more than a strand of pity, even if he had hinted at attraction with his list of clichés.
After forcing a smile onto her face, Dani tucked her hair behind one ear and leaned her head against her hand, with one elbow propped onto the back of the bench. “Okay, so if six months isn’t enough, enlighten me. How long did it take you to make it?”
“Touché,” Mark said. He studiously looked for a trashcan for his wrapper and napkin.
Dani scooted toward him— not entirely closing the distance, but shrinking it considerably. I could get used to this, she thought. But I can’t.
“Seriously,” she said. “How long did it take you?”
He stood and tossed his trash into a nearby can as if it were a basketball hoop. “Three points,” he muttered under his breath. He didn’t say anything else for a moment, but he stood there with his back to Dani, as if deep in thought.
That’s when she noticed a rectangular bulge in his backpack and instinctively knew what it was— his oboe. Suddenly, everything clicked into place: Why a guy like Mark was free on a random weekday instead of working. Why he encouraged her dreams as if he understood them. How he knew about lost jobs and auditions.
“You’re still trying to make it… aren’t you?” she said quietly.
“Yeah.” He nodded without turning around and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I make ends meet by doing a lot of freelance gigs.” He turned around and shrugged. “Helps that I can play pretty much any woodwind. But my heart isn’t with the clarinet.”
“Isn’t the clarinet the wimpy man’s oboe?” It was her attempt at a joke, but she knew there was a kernel of truth to it. The reed and breath control required of an oboe far surpassed that of a clarinet.
The softening of his mouth hinted that she’d landed on something. Yet she recognized weariness in his voice; she’d felt the same thing every minute of every day over the last six months. Looking back at her time in the city, she had to wonder how much better off she’d have been if she’d thought to work weddings and other events like Mark had. Maybe she could have saved enough to buy herself another month.
But that was all in the past— what might have been. Right now, she wanted to see and hear the enthusiasm she’d first seen in Mark— to have the spark in his eyes return, which her words had extinguished as if she’d blown out a candle with a single breath. What could she say to fix it? Sorry wouldn’t do it. Of course he knew she was sorry that they were both failures.
No. We’re not both failures. He’s not one. I know he’s not. He just waiting to find his big break.
“Play for me?” she asked quietly. She stood and reached out to touch his arm. To her relief, he didn’t flinch or pull back.
He just turned his head slightly and tilted it, eyebrows raised. “Why?”
“Because I want to hear your music the way only you can play it.” She hadn’t planned on saying any of that, but as the words tumbled out, she meant every word. “Please?”
Mark seemed to think about it for a few seconds, but then he nodded. He sat on the bench again and unzipped his backpack, revealing the black instrument case she’d known was inside. He pulled it out it oh-so-gently, as if the instrument inside were a priceless antique. He placed the backpack on the ground near his feet, and the case on his lap. He unlatched it and opened the lid, revealing the gorgeous black-and-silver instrument that lay inside, nestled in red velvet.
One by one, he pulled out the pieces and assembled his oboe, then set the case on top of the backpack. It fell open, unheeded, as Mark put the oboe to his lips. He placed his fingers just so on the keys, moistened the reed, breathed in, and began to play.
From the first note, it was as if he’d entered a new dimension where only he and his music existed; both his body and face took on a different look— focused concentration combined with peace and a sense of increasing joy. His shoulders and face relaxed as he swayed side to side. She knew that look; she’d felt it on the dance floor more times than she could count.
The haunting notes of Ennio Mariconne’s “Gabriel’s Oboe” from The Mission floated around her— the very piece that had first made her love the oboe. Chills broke over Dani’s arms and raced down her back. What were the chances that she would meet a man who played her favorite instrument so masterfully? Every note was infused with intense emotion: melancholy and loss, with a thread of hope and joy tying it all together. More than anything else, an overarching beauty encompassed him as he moved back and forth, music flowing from his fingertips.
The moment felt holy, as if he was baring his emotions in a vulnerable, sacred way. And hers, too.
Still standing, Dani found herself moving side to side as the rhythm and notes moved through her. She closed her eyes, unable to not move. She was a dancer; she couldn’t feel such powerful music moving through her bones and expect to stand still.
Her sway turned to a broad, sweeping arm movement, then her core contracting and releasing. Her feet soon followed, and before she knew it, she was improvising full-out with legs, footwork, arms, her torso, even quadruple pirouettes. Her movements built from small at first to grander as the music swelled. She leapt past him, vaguely aware that Mark’s focus remained entirely on his instrument; she could have been beamed to Mars, and he mightn’t have noticed. She grinned, knowing exactly what that felt like: the rush of creativity and performance, even if it was for an audience of one. She danced bigger, with turns and leaps and extensions, letting her emotions from the past six months come out in a rush, the same melancholy, loss, and hope that flowed from his oboe— the sounds that connected Dani and Mark in a way she would never be able to put to words.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed people passing by on their way to the pond as they stopped, perhaps to watch, but she paid them no mind. Let them think what they would. She’d stopped caring what people who weren’t casting directors— or her mother, at least— thought of her.
Mark’s fingers stopped moving as he held a long note, then released the reed. The music stopped, and even the air seemed suddenly still. Dani’s movements stopped too. She was breathing hard, wiping beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist, when a rousing applause and cheers erupted from the small gathering around them.
The noise broke the re
maining spell, and she looked about. Some twenty people had stopped to watch. Many smiled as they continued on their way. Several walked over and tossed coins— and, in some cases, bills— into the instrument case as they passed. She bowed as she would on stage, and Mark nodded deeply to acknowledge them.
After the crowd had dispersed, her heart still pounding from her sudden exertion, Dani sat close to Mark. “That was fun.” She pointed at his oboe. “And that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. Thanks for playing for me.”
Mark wore a half-smile and pointed at the instrument case. “Look. There’s got to be ten or fifteen dollars in there. Not too shabby for about five minutes of work.”
Dani reached down and pulled out the bills to count them— a five and four ones. “Nine bucks. And that’s not counting the coins.” She peered into the case with its red velvet interior, where quite a few quarters and some other change lay. “Probably a few more dollars there. Good guess.”
Mark shrugged, as if his guess was no big deal. And perhaps it wasn’t. But his face had suddenly darkened, and his shoulders had fallen. Dani had no idea why, but the overall effect was such a drastic change from the way he’d looked moments before while playing, that the shift made her sad— and worried.
“Did I… say something wrong?” she asked, scooting a couple of inches away in case she’d gotten too close.
He shook his head and licked his lips. Then he pointed at his case and shrugged. “Truth is, I’ve done a lot more busking than I’d care to admit. It’s how I’ve made ends meet when I didn’t have a regular job and no freelance work came my way.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, and began rubbing his right thumb against the back of his left hand— a nervous action if ever there was one.
“I’m so sorry,” Dani said. “You’re so talented— and I mean that. It’s crazy to think that you aren’t first chair in some world-renowned symphony.”
He cracked a smile at that then shook his head and laughed sardonically. “You’re too kind.”
“I’m dead serious,” Dani insisted. “I—”
“Here.” Mark picked up his case and held it toward her. Dani put her hands together, palms up, and he dumped the coins into them. He took his oboe apart and went on as he put the pieces back into the case. “My father would have a field day if he ever found out that I busk pretty regularly. It’s not exactly how I pictured myself making a living with my music, either, but sometimes you have to do what you have to do, and I’m not ready to give up.”
He’d placed each instrument piece carefully into its spot, treating it with care. He closed the lid and latched it carefully. That oboe was his most prized possession; Dani knew it without asking.
“If you enjoy what you do, who cares?” she said. “Your dad doesn’t need to ever know.”
“He’ll find out eventually. Somehow.” Mark said it without looking at her. He slipped his oboe back into the backpack and zipped it shut.
A strained silence tried to come between them, but Dani pushed it away. “Can you live on what you make by busking?”
His pained expression softened as his mouth rounded in a smile. “Not like a king, but I can survive. Barely. Assuming I get freelance gigs too. And have several roommates to split rent and utilities with.”
She could almost hear the words he wasn’t saying: that his father expected him to have a “real” job, whether that meant in a restaurant cleaning tables or a place in that world-class symphony.
“Then do more of it,” she said. “I can tell you love busking. You make your own hours, and it would give you the flexibility to go to more and more auditions, and eventually, you will make it big, whether you’re in the pit playing for Wicked or playing for the Metropolitan Opera or the New York Symphony Orchestra or whatever. Someday, you’ll have your own concerts with an entire symphony accompanying you, like Yoyo Ma, except on the oboe. And—”
Mark laughed and held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll do more busking and freelance work. Happy?”
“I suppose.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Come on. I’m thirsty. Let’s get something to drink. My turn to show you something— my favorite smoothie place.”
“Game on,” Mark said, standing. His previously somber mood seemed to have fallen from his shoulders.
“This way,” she said, walking down a path that led out of the park. “I’ve got a handful of quarters burning a hole in my purse.”
Dani treated Mark to the best smoothie he’d ever had— a raspberry something or other, with several additional flavors he couldn’t pin down except perhaps lime. As they sipped on their straws, talking and meandering through the hot city streets, he wished they were back at the much cooler park.
Aside from escaping the heat, he would also have been quite glad to settle down to busking again with Dani dancing to his music. Maybe she could sing along at times instead of dancing. They could come up with quite a gig, the two of them, especially if he brought a piccolo and flute to change things up.
He knew all the best spots for busking— not so much the playgrounds, where young kids scrambled about under the watchful eyes of their caregivers— but where adults and, preferably, tourists, tended to congregate.
With their final slurps, the smoothies were gone, so they found a trashcan then headed for the nearest corner, where traffic had picked up considerably with the later hour. Rush hour would be upon them soon.
As they waited to cross, Mark pulled out his cell phone and checked the time. “It’s already five?” How had the day gone so fast?
“No way,” Dani said, checking the time on her pale pink wristwatch. “Time flies.”
“Speaking of clichés,” Mark said, and laughed. “I promised we’d get back to the museum, but I have to clock in at my latest temp job in half an hour.” He tried to hide his disappointment by adding, “I’m a glamorous dishwasher.”
“Don’t worry about it. I totally understand,” Dani said.
After spending so much of their day together, he knew that she really did understand, and from firsthand experience. She turned and, walking backward, faced him as she talked. “How about you walk me to my place? It’s not far.” Her eyes narrowed with worry. “Unless that would make you late.” She didn’t have to add that doing so could cost him another not-so-glamorous job.
“I think I can manage a few blocks and still get there on time.”
“Great.” She jerked her head to the left, indicating which way to go, and he followed.
He mentally did the math, wondering if he really did have time to walk her back to her apartment. Probably not. His boss, Andre, had promised a quick kick to Mark’s butt if he arrived more than five minutes late again.
Worth the risk. This way I can see where she lives and get her number. And like she said, I can always do more busking and freelance work.
Besides, he had every intention of making good on his promise to experience the rest of the museum with her… and of getting to know her well beyond that. They’d spent most of the day together, and while they still didn’t know each other particularly well, his gut told him without question that this was a woman worth getting to know. It was as if he and Dani were supposed to meet today, because what were the chances of two random strangers, with so many common interests, running into each other the way they had— and in a city of some eight million people? It was almost enough to make him believe in fate.
Which meant he had to take action, because the chances of him happening to see her again if he didn’t get her number were so slim he refused to consider the idea.
“Here I am.” Dani stopped at a gray, nondescript apartment building. It had the typical fire escapes and locked front door. He could have passed this very building a thousand times and never noticed it, but now he paid close attention to the cross streets and made a mental note of every detail, including the coffee shop on the corner. She held out a hand as if to shake his, the way he’d done when he’d first introduced himself. �
��It was great meeting you today.”
He just looked at her hand. “A handshake? After Rembrandt, hot dogs, busking, and the world’s best smoothies?” He smiled so she’d know he was kidding. Mostly.
“A hug?” she suggested.
He opened his arms, and she stepped into them. The embrace wasn’t long, but for the few seconds it lasted, Mark had never felt more content and peaceful. He didn’t want to let her go. That would mean seeing her walk away. It would mean going to work and dealing with Andre. Facing the rest of his life, which was as drab and colorless as this building. The only thing that gave life color was his music.
And now, Dani.
She gave his cheek a quick peck and pulled back. “Thanks for a great day. It’s been a rough spell, and I needed it.”
“Likewise.” He could still feel the heat of her lips on his cheek; he wanted to reach out and take her hand to draw her back into his arms. She began digging in her purse for her key— Mark’s cue to speak up or miss out on ever seeing her again. “So, could I— have your number?”
Dani’s head popped up from her search, and a sadness around her eyes belied her smile. She clutched a keychain in her palm and seemed to struggle for words. Mark held his breath, not wanting to be rejected. Please just give me your number.
“Sure,” she finally said. “Except that it might not be of much use to you.”
Mark tried not to let his disappointment register on his face. “Even though you’re leaving, I’ll still like to have it.” He held his breath, hoping she wouldn’t just dump him right there on the street, but somehow a pit began to grow in his stomach anyway.
She shrugged and played with her keys, avoiding his eyes. “Ten days…”
“Don’t go,” he said. “Or at least, let’s spend your last days seeing cool stuff in the city.”
She raised her eyes to his and nodded. “I’d like that. Truth is, I’ll be spending the next week or so finishing off my list of firsts and lasts— all the things I’ve missed out on seeing here. All of the stuff I want to be sure to experience before…” She looked down and again fingered her keys.
