Robert redirects us. “So you know the production, then.”
Calvin pales. “Of course I do.”
“And, if you’ve seen it seven times,” Robert continues, “I’m inclined to think you’ve heard that Luis Genova is leaving, soon to be replaced by Ramón Martín.”
“I have.” Calvin scratches his jaw. “And I’ve also heard that Seth Astorio hasn’t played in four days. How’s the search goin’?”
Robert pulls back, studying him. “It sounds like you’re skeptical I can replace him.”
“Of course I think you can replace him.” He laughs. “Seth doesn’t.”
“You know Seth?” Robert asks slowly.
“We studied together.”
My uncle pauses, and I watch as his eyes narrow. “Seth attended Juilliard.”
Calvin lifts his chin with a cocky smile. “Aye. He did, in fact.”
I move past Calvin and sit heavily down on his stool.
Juilliard.
Holy shit. Calvin attended Juilliard.
Robert doesn’t beat around the bush any longer. “Would you like to come down to play for us tomorrow?”
A hysterical urge inside wants me to pipe up that Calvin is busy on Tuesdays. At least, he must be, because he doesn’t ever do his regular gig of Juilliard-man-playing-for-change at the Fiftieth Street station then. I press my palm against my mouth to hold the words in.
“To play for you?” Calvin repeats, awestruck. “Ah, go on.”
“I’m serious,” Robert says with a tiny grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow at noon.”
I’m still awake at four in the morning, sitting on my couch, leg jiggling.
Nothing helped me sleep.
Not chamomile, not whiskey, not my favorite pink vibrator, not PBS.
I stand, absently shoving the vibrator beneath a couch cushion, turning off the television, and taking my array of glassware one-handed to the kitchen sink.
If I’m nervous like this, then Calvin must be losing his mind. Unless he thinks he’s only playing for the orchestra, which would be no big deal for someone from Juilliard. Of course Calvin would have no idea who else is coming today: At noon, he will play not only for Robert Okai—former conductor of the Des Moines Symphony and current musical director at the Levin-Gladstone Theater—but for two renowned Broadway producer brothers, Don and Richard Law, and the production director, Michael Asteroff, all of whom had planned to come meet with Robert anyway.
Because Calvin will play in the pit, Robert won’t be able to keep his audition a secret. Brian and whoever has come early from the orchestra will also be there, in the shadows, listening.
At dinner last night, Robert and I strategized: I wanted Robert to simply offer Calvin the role if he performs as well as we expect him to. Robert is the composer, he’s the musical director. Can’t he pull rank?
But Robert disagreed. “Theater politics are delicate.”
He would bring in Calvin without giving the others much information about him. A young guitarist, he would say. Someone Holland had heard play, and who transfixed him as well.
He would tell Michael that he wanted to brainstorm ways to incorporate the juxtaposition of Calvin’s polish and scrape. He would see how Calvin performed in front of such an intimidating audience. And then he would wait for it to be someone else’s idea that Calvin take over Seth’s solos.
“Not mine,” he said, and looked at me, “not yours. Trust me on this, Buttercup. It has to be Michael’s idea.”
But no matter what we say to anyone else, Robert, Jeff, and I know that the idea was mine.
I’m nearly desperate for it; the craving is so powerful I’m buzzy. If Michael agrees we can bring a guitarist in to take over the part Seth once played, I will have contributed something irreplaceable to this production. I’ll no longer be on the sidelines, useless.
I will have silently earned my place.
Robert meets me outside the theater at 11:45. Calvin is coming at noon.
My uncle catches my eye and grins before we turn, heading in the side door. It isn’t crowded backstage, but it’s not dead, either. Most of the cast start showing up around three for makeup and lighting, but the principals in the orchestra often come in earlier on Tuesdays, after a day off, to have lunch together, tune their instruments at a leisurely pace, meet with Robert.
At first, everyone is joking with one another; no one else feels the weight of this. It’s not uncommon for Robert to bring in musicians to audition when one or another of our orchestra leaves. However, there aren’t currently any guitarists in the ensemble. When word circulates that a guitarist is coming in to play, interest spikes: Seth is gone. Luis is leaving. And now we’re auditioning a guitarist? I see people bending over their phones, texting. Soon the theater is full of cast, crew, and orchestra.
Brian is in a quiet tizzy, asking everyone within earshot who invited this new musician, what’s happening, why didn’t anyone update him sooner?
Robert doesn’t get nervous—at least, not about things outside his control, like this. He was smart not to overpromise. And now he stands near the head of the pit, talking to Michael, both men feigning obliviousness while energy buzzes around them. The doors to the lobby open at twelve sharp, and Calvin walks in, his guitar case in his left hand, right hand tucked easily in the pocket of his jeans. A hush falls over the group, and it seems an eternity passes while we all watch him walk from the top of the aisle down to the pit.
Robert doesn’t bother introducing him to everyone; Calvin is here for him, Michael, Don, and Richard. Anyone else is a bystander and it’s up to them to listen in if they choose. From where I sit at the edge of the curtain, I can only barely make out Calvin’s face. Even so, I can tell he feels the weight of eyes on him. He’s a little hunched, smiling and nodding a lot. He pulls out his ChapStick twice.
I want to know how he got here, to this moment. How does one go from Ireland, to Juilliard, to busking and cover bands? People camp out in front of the theater for single tickets to Possessed; they pay insane prices on resale sites. How connected is he that he managed it seven times?
He shakes hands with Michael and Robert before turning to greet the quieter, more observant Don and Richard, and then is invited to sit down in a folding chair that has been placed right up front.
Calvin sits and then pulls his guitar out, quietly tuning the instrument. His smile is easy and infectious. Inside my chest, my heart jackhammers.
Looking up at Robert, he asks, “What would you like to hear?”
Robert pretends to think. I don’t know what he’s going to say right now, but I know him well enough to bet my life that he has an entire playlist already strategized.
“ ‘Malagueña.’ ”
Smart. It’s bright, and catchy—reminiscent of the energetic opening number of Possessed without being too on-the-nose. It also perfectly showcases Calvin’s training, because it’s a piece that requires precision, speed, and several changes in tempo.
With a little nod, Calvin bends, eyes closed, and strums the first, brilliant note.
I feel the collective intake of breath, the way bodies behind me in the shadows shift forward now to see, not only hear. I see the way Michael’s eyebrows seem pinned high on his forehead, the way sullen Richard has released his arms from their omnipresent cross and tucked his hands more easily in his pockets, rocking back on his heels.
Calvin pales. “Of course I do.”
“And, if you’ve seen it seven times,” Robert continues, “I’m inclined to think you’ve heard that Luis Genova is leaving, soon to be replaced by Ramón Martín.”
“I have.” Calvin scratches his jaw. “And I’ve also heard that Seth Astorio hasn’t played in four days. How’s the search goin’?”
Robert pulls back, studying him. “It sounds like you’re skeptical I can replace him.”
“Of course I think you can replace him.” He laughs. “Seth doesn’t.”
“You know Seth?” Robert asks slowly.
“We studied together.”
My uncle pauses, and I watch as his eyes narrow. “Seth attended Juilliard.”
Calvin lifts his chin with a cocky smile. “Aye. He did, in fact.”
I move past Calvin and sit heavily down on his stool.
Juilliard.
Holy shit. Calvin attended Juilliard.
Robert doesn’t beat around the bush any longer. “Would you like to come down to play for us tomorrow?”
A hysterical urge inside wants me to pipe up that Calvin is busy on Tuesdays. At least, he must be, because he doesn’t ever do his regular gig of Juilliard-man-playing-for-change at the Fiftieth Street station then. I press my palm against my mouth to hold the words in.
“To play for you?” Calvin repeats, awestruck. “Ah, go on.”
“I’m serious,” Robert says with a tiny grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow at noon.”
I’m still awake at four in the morning, sitting on my couch, leg jiggling.
Nothing helped me sleep.
Not chamomile, not whiskey, not my favorite pink vibrator, not PBS.
I stand, absently shoving the vibrator beneath a couch cushion, turning off the television, and taking my array of glassware one-handed to the kitchen sink.
If I’m nervous like this, then Calvin must be losing his mind. Unless he thinks he’s only playing for the orchestra, which would be no big deal for someone from Juilliard. Of course Calvin would have no idea who else is coming today: At noon, he will play not only for Robert Okai—former conductor of the Des Moines Symphony and current musical director at the Levin-Gladstone Theater—but for two renowned Broadway producer brothers, Don and Richard Law, and the production director, Michael Asteroff, all of whom had planned to come meet with Robert anyway.
Because Calvin will play in the pit, Robert won’t be able to keep his audition a secret. Brian and whoever has come early from the orchestra will also be there, in the shadows, listening.
At dinner last night, Robert and I strategized: I wanted Robert to simply offer Calvin the role if he performs as well as we expect him to. Robert is the composer, he’s the musical director. Can’t he pull rank?
But Robert disagreed. “Theater politics are delicate.”
He would bring in Calvin without giving the others much information about him. A young guitarist, he would say. Someone Holland had heard play, and who transfixed him as well.
He would tell Michael that he wanted to brainstorm ways to incorporate the juxtaposition of Calvin’s polish and scrape. He would see how Calvin performed in front of such an intimidating audience. And then he would wait for it to be someone else’s idea that Calvin take over Seth’s solos.
“Not mine,” he said, and looked at me, “not yours. Trust me on this, Buttercup. It has to be Michael’s idea.”
But no matter what we say to anyone else, Robert, Jeff, and I know that the idea was mine.
I’m nearly desperate for it; the craving is so powerful I’m buzzy. If Michael agrees we can bring a guitarist in to take over the part Seth once played, I will have contributed something irreplaceable to this production. I’ll no longer be on the sidelines, useless.
I will have silently earned my place.
Robert meets me outside the theater at 11:45. Calvin is coming at noon.
My uncle catches my eye and grins before we turn, heading in the side door. It isn’t crowded backstage, but it’s not dead, either. Most of the cast start showing up around three for makeup and lighting, but the principals in the orchestra often come in earlier on Tuesdays, after a day off, to have lunch together, tune their instruments at a leisurely pace, meet with Robert.
At first, everyone is joking with one another; no one else feels the weight of this. It’s not uncommon for Robert to bring in musicians to audition when one or another of our orchestra leaves. However, there aren’t currently any guitarists in the ensemble. When word circulates that a guitarist is coming in to play, interest spikes: Seth is gone. Luis is leaving. And now we’re auditioning a guitarist? I see people bending over their phones, texting. Soon the theater is full of cast, crew, and orchestra.
Brian is in a quiet tizzy, asking everyone within earshot who invited this new musician, what’s happening, why didn’t anyone update him sooner?
Robert doesn’t get nervous—at least, not about things outside his control, like this. He was smart not to overpromise. And now he stands near the head of the pit, talking to Michael, both men feigning obliviousness while energy buzzes around them. The doors to the lobby open at twelve sharp, and Calvin walks in, his guitar case in his left hand, right hand tucked easily in the pocket of his jeans. A hush falls over the group, and it seems an eternity passes while we all watch him walk from the top of the aisle down to the pit.
Robert doesn’t bother introducing him to everyone; Calvin is here for him, Michael, Don, and Richard. Anyone else is a bystander and it’s up to them to listen in if they choose. From where I sit at the edge of the curtain, I can only barely make out Calvin’s face. Even so, I can tell he feels the weight of eyes on him. He’s a little hunched, smiling and nodding a lot. He pulls out his ChapStick twice.
I want to know how he got here, to this moment. How does one go from Ireland, to Juilliard, to busking and cover bands? People camp out in front of the theater for single tickets to Possessed; they pay insane prices on resale sites. How connected is he that he managed it seven times?
He shakes hands with Michael and Robert before turning to greet the quieter, more observant Don and Richard, and then is invited to sit down in a folding chair that has been placed right up front.
Calvin sits and then pulls his guitar out, quietly tuning the instrument. His smile is easy and infectious. Inside my chest, my heart jackhammers.
Looking up at Robert, he asks, “What would you like to hear?”
Robert pretends to think. I don’t know what he’s going to say right now, but I know him well enough to bet my life that he has an entire playlist already strategized.
“ ‘Malagueña.’ ”
Smart. It’s bright, and catchy—reminiscent of the energetic opening number of Possessed without being too on-the-nose. It also perfectly showcases Calvin’s training, because it’s a piece that requires precision, speed, and several changes in tempo.
With a little nod, Calvin bends, eyes closed, and strums the first, brilliant note.
I feel the collective intake of breath, the way bodies behind me in the shadows shift forward now to see, not only hear. I see the way Michael’s eyebrows seem pinned high on his forehead, the way sullen Richard has released his arms from their omnipresent cross and tucked his hands more easily in his pockets, rocking back on his heels.
