The Performer

White rectangular fingers extend dully out toward my chest. They beckon, each wanting to be touched, felt, enjoyed. I press one and hear its wholesome texture. Its depth of tone and presence. I notice the vigor in which I press these fingers is proportionate to the volume of sound. A rough stab induces a similarly violent yet musical induced response. I close my eyes. As I sit, vulnerable, exposed, dabbing senselessly at these white, dusty fingers, all becomes clear and vivid. Colors flutter in and out of sight, filling the dark spaces in my mind. Spaces that had long been void of music.

The enticing freedom captures my mind and transfers into my reckless hands. Sparks of notes and sounds fill the noiseless room. Silence whipped into nonsensical music. Light, fluffy notes are created by simple pecking. Large, dynamic notes blazoned by impulsive fingers. Fingers, white and black alike, working in unison.

Cloth spread across the ancient seat. Dirty legs embracing the form fitting plush of its host down below. Out of place, I think. This piano is more ancient than I—more conservative. It does not approve of my apparel, or my impulsive fingers. It will judge and ridicule and tattle to a player more senior and experienced.  It is now a being, a voice to be heard amongst million others in this world. Each note, each combination of intonation and tone changing mood and tone, now reverberating through the theater hall.

I am Bach, mind and soul soaked with passion and excitement poured heavily onto each piano key. No, I am Mozart, graceful yet poised; dancing and frolicking through stanzas and stanzas of syncopated rhythm and tone.  White and brown fingers fuse and become one. The voice is now mine, its power now placed upon my larynx. Strength and absolute authority I have painstakingly acquired. Limitation is unheard of. Obstacles do not exist. My mind is nothing but music.

An eerie silence marks the blatant vacancy in the hall. Each seat will represent a single person and each person will settle around what is treasured in this very hall—music. One by one they’ll stagger in, lured by the program bill’s hasty description. Each person has an opinion, and each as distinct as their appearance. Old, rusty men with stomachs full of doubt and indigestion. Women squawking on about their philistine counterparts.   Absorbent, young musicians hoping to leech off experience and finesse.  Children that have not yet realized this is what they will live for. What I live for.

            The stage is expansive, yet the piano seems to cover a fraction of the space. This is wrong. The piano covers everything, every corner, every crevice of this vast hall. This evening it will penetrate and seep into every mind of the audience. It will dictate every thought and emotion and feeling. The powerful waves will shatter all doubt and ignorance.

            A shower of clapping is especially satiating. One clap is choppy and immature. A multitude of clapping soothes the sensitive ears of the musician, while cleansing all apprehension of quality. Smiles and grins are a cheerful reminder of success. Tears, however, invoke a bigger emotion, one greater than happiness. Fulfillment. As if serving a greater purpose.

7:30, the clock reads. Showtime. A pudgy man with a red face marches indignantly down the velvet aisles of the hall, eyes fixed on me. I stare at his round, bulging eyes until I can make out the violent veins that branch out towards the end of his pupils. He reaches the side of the stage and cuts the air with his arm, pointed deliberately to the door. I got the message clearly without hearing a word, but I didn’t want to. My fingers slowly reach for those white fingers, as if it were to be lost forever. As I touch them I feel the pudgy hand of the man, and everything is lost. I race out the door, with a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other.