Chapter Text
Ten rejections in a single week.
And that was the ten that emailed or voice-mailed back.
The train rocked and Elias tightened his grip on the massive case between his knees. The commuter line was already growing packed as after school bled into early rush hour. Across from him a group of teenagers were cutting up and definitely side eyeing the awkward bulk of the wheeled bass case he shepherded.
Shifting, he straightened and tightened his grip on the handles, only for one of his gloves to pop a seam, leaving a run that exposed his little finger. This brought smirks and snickers. Rolling his eyes, he tipped his chin up and did his best to ignore them.
What was he even doing? A Hail Mary of an audition? A cattle call? How many others would be there in the hopes that it wasn’t bullshit?
One of the teenagers shot a hair tie across the car, bouncing it off the emergency exit sign. “You got a body in that or what?”
“It’s a contra bass.” He gritted.
“A contra-what?”
He sniffed and rolled his eyes. “An upright bass.”
The boy splayed his knees, slouching low in his seat and playfully head butting the shoulder of one of his cohorts. “Yo. You and your uptight bass know Lincoln Center’s the other way?” His two companions struggled not to crack up.
Just then, Elias’s stomach growled so loud the eyes of the little boy sitting next to him went wide and Elias felt his ears and cheeks start to burn. This was the end of it for his audience, and all the teens fell out laughing. With effort, he kept his eyes on the subway ceiling. He was used to this. You couldn’t cart around something the size of refrigerator on public transit and not get fucked with periodically.
A touring show. Pop? Jazz? He assumed pop. The flier had been simultaneously baroque and vague…
None of this was his fault – the lack of work. Every arts program was feeling the lean stingy pain of the current cuts to everything. Every musician and singer was hat in hand… …But he wanted to stay in New York. With his education and experience he should have been able to stay in New York…
Something bumped his elbow and he looked down. The woman with the little boy next to him had pulled a blueberry snack bar out of the kid’s Minecraft backpack and was holding it out to him.
Anger and shame flared before he swallowed hard and schooled his face to neutral. “No thank you.”
The woman raised her eyebrows and gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Uh huh,” She agreed doubtfully before reaching over and sliding it in his jacket’s breast pocket. He couldn’t even stop her without letting go of his instrument.
***
Gaining the street at Jamaica Station, he paused, panting from wrestling his case up the stairs, and pressed himself to a building wall to scrub his face on his sleeve before bolting down the child’s snack.
Ten rejections in one week.
Now he was answering ads on ratty fliers he couldn’t even remember how they’d come his way.
***
By the time he’d located his audition, he was missing the warmth of the subway and hunching up against the cold evening wind. The address on his flier brought him to a red brick Masonic hall where on the front stoop, a sandwich board and open doors announced and welcomed all to a 6:15 pm AA meeting. Elias frowned, hugging the neck of his case with one arm while he fished the bent paper out of his back pocket again, fighting down panic that his GPS had sent him the wrong way.
But at the bottom of the sandwich board he matched the same fucked up G symbol with the gig listing, here hand-drawn and with a little map and arrow pointing around the building. Relieved, he tilted and shoved his case ahead of him and rounded the corner to the side basement doors --
-- which were being hefted opened and propped in place by a severe looking woman with a long pony tail of salt and pepper blonde hair. She wore a skirted gray office dress suit, but the eyes that flashed over Elias and his double bass were heavily circled with smoked black liner. “You’re here for the audition, of course.”
He quickly grabbed the heavy door from her with one arm and kicked the stopper down to lock it in place. “Yes.”
“You’re early.” She studied him some more, nodding to herself. “Early is good. Come in.”
Doors propped, the woman vanished back inside with a click clack of her red stiletto heels, leaving Elias to heft the bass down the threshold steps and hurry to follow.
Below, there was only a short, damp smelling foyer with a restroom and utility closet before the basement opened into one large, spartan multi-purpose room, all worn yellowed linoleum and slightly humming fluorescents. On the far end, in front of the institutional looking kitchen, was a small group assembled at a folding buffet table which was set up with laptops, papers, water bottles and several deli clam shells of various snacks.
But more importantly, in the center of the room, between two modest speakers and an amp, was a stool and a waiting Fender Standard Precision Bass guitar.
Elias stopped behind the stool, eyes going from the workhorse guitar, to his case, then finally to the small audience.
One of them, a man with slicked back black hair, had risen when he entered, and now this man nodded and gave him a quick maestro's bow of greeting.
On reflex, Elias returned it, while inside he ground his teeth and tried to stop the litany of fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckityfuck in his head. How could he have misinterpreted the ad so much?
“Hello. Welcome.” The man waved an open palm at the stool and amp. “We are ready when you are. And please feel free to use your own instrument.”
“I—” Elias pulled himself up short before he could begin to stammer. Instead he faced them and tried to size them up.
The black-haired man was still standing and smiled in greeting when his gaze was met.
A weird cold jolt stabbed Elias in the chest. The guy was older than him, significantly, but Elias was at a loss to estimate an age. And short of the bottle-black hair, his appearance, features and build were not remarkable. But the (amused?) gaze that met him was made up of one dark blue-grey eye and one whiter than a pearl. The iris of this one was a constricted black pin prick, a lost soul in a haunted house. Elias shivered and frowned.
Also at the table was a tall slender black woman, dreamy-eyed but attentive, wearing a trashed Slits t-shirt and an armful of mala beads in a rainbow of stones. Beyond her was the blonde woman, making notes on a clipboard. And on the maestro’s other side, off from the table by a few feet, was a broad shouldered guy, probably close to Elias’s age but filled out like a free weights addict. This one was wearing nothing but a pair of black skater shorts, and despite the cold, was head tipped back, arms crossed, fast asleep.
Rock? Fuck. Rock. How could he have been so stupid.
He located his voice. “The music selection?”
“Is open.” The older woman informed him without taking her eyes off her clipboard.
“Gentleman’s choice.” The man added and took his seat.
Elias nodded back before laying his case down to set up while trying desperately to think.
It wasn’t a question of whether he wanted this.
He needed this.
Think. Think. What ages was he dealing with? Thirties? Forties and fifties? Older? He thought frantically as he connected the amp. There was a lot of black going on… His brain wanted to look up, to stare and try to pick them apart like reading stage dressing for any clue where he should go musically to impress this small collective.
But if he did, he might get pierced by that creepy white eye again.
His stomach growled once more and he felt his head fuzz on the edge of whiting out as he stood, so he steadied himself with his grip on the neck of his bass.
Fuck me, he thought. And fuck it.
His hands automatically made their adjustments and found their place, and, closing his eyes he let his fingers pluck out the fat bouncy line to The Cure’s Love Cats.
He continued by shifting gears to funk and offering up Sly and the Family Stone’s If You Want me to Stay, then reverently lay down the double bass before taking up the Fender to open the foundation line for Seven Nation Army – which was too repetitive to drone out unaccompanied, so he quickly segued into the familiar riff of Come Together for flourish before moving to some of Iron Maiden’s The Trooper. Rounding that off, he stomped to count himself back in and plucked out some of the Violent Femmes’ Blister in the Sun then finished with an angry bit of Kiss Off.
As he played, the blonde woman was still all business with her note jotting and the sleeper guy only shifted, snorfled and recrossed his arms without waking.
But the other two were perfectly alert – the woman with a beatific smile while patting out the beat on the tabletop and the maestro nodding along with a pleased expression. When Elias finished, the man clapped.
“That is quite the medley. Please. Tell us a little about yourself?”
Carefully replacing the Fender, Elias took a breath before steeling himself to face them fully and feel himself be further scrutinized. Pulling a folded sheet from his jacket’s interior pocket, he smoothed it and quickly stepped forward to offer it to the woman with her clipboard. She took it and lay it face down on her papers, without breaking her impassive stare at him. He hurried back to stand before the stool.
“I trained at the Juilliard School’s Evening Division and studied jazz performance at The New School for Jazz and Contemporary Music. Here, I was fortunate to learn from masters including Ron Carter, Linda May Han Oh, and Orin O’Brien of the New York Philharmonic. I was also accepted into and able to attend the San Francisco Conservatory of Music’s summer orchestral training program, giving me some exposure with West Coast mentors and ensembles. My orchestral work has included performances with the American Symphony Orchestra and the Manhattan School of Music Philharmonia. I’ve recorded for a few independent jazz and chamber ensembles, and contributed to 2 film and 3 theater scores. Ah, all independent and student works.”
“Impressive…” The man tilted his head, tapping a knuckle to his chin thoughtfully. “But you? You are from New York?”
Every fiber of Elias wanted to say yes. To lie. But on some gut level he knew it would be seen right through.
“No. Not originally.”
“And where originally?”
The last bit of pride left him and puddled into his shoes. “Wisconsin. Baraboo.”
“Well, then, I thank you, Mr. Cheesehead, for this unique recital. We’ll be in touch.” The man’s tone held no malice or sarcasm, only a little playful amusement.
“Thank you for the opportunity.” Elias recited stiffly and began packing up. As he was kneeling to fasten his case, he heard the rattle of mala beads. Looking back up, the black woman was beaming over him and holding out a small black envelope. “That was… Just. The clarity? The energy...It felt, you know…” She shook her head, eyes closed in ecstasy. “Felt.” She concluded.
“Ah. Thank you?” He accepted the envelope.
“No, love. Thank you.”
***
Wheeling his case out, he passed an accumulated half-dozen others now waiting in the small foyer. Some hunched over their phones, while others stared into a middle distance with their ear pods in. All of them held guitar cases and most – at least those not distracted – gave him odd looks. Judging by the long hair, the black shirts, black boots and heavy silver jewelry, Elias began to suspect he’d shit the bed with his song choices. Maybe except for the Maiden? Fuck him but they all looked more at home here than he felt...
Outside it was after dark and he hiked well away from the hall before he paused in the light of a bodega window to open the envelope.
Inside were three twenty dollar bills and a hastily written note:
“Eat something. --P”
.