Parting Gift

Parting Gift By: Carie Johnson

Dusk deems the cityscape elusive, mottled and unknowable. I walk through tunnels of foreign conversations and streetlights boasting marble and steel. The lights fold into greys smitten with speckles of gold and jasper. My shoes fleeting beneath me astute and alight. I drag a comb through the city until the thoughts of men before me fall at my wonderment. Architecture, rusting archaic tells the tale of industrial pining. And I a cellist meet a fate so strung out. It’s my twenty eighth birthday and blown is the candle of my youth. I breathe in deeply the pixelated reeking of my conundrum. A stray cat stares at me as I turn the corner. Wearily, I blink until the city is gone.

My thoughts dead and punching. I come home jittery and exhausted, winning and losing, penning the pillow with intricate drool strings.

My clandestine aversion towards being seen with something so swank as a cello on humble streets is growing less bearable. I carry it anyway; it’s my armor ever shielding me from being seen the way I want to be seen. Nonetheless, I walk onward with nothing in my capture, feeling half real and demure.

I’m at the wood chipped door, pretending I have time to tidy my umber suit, dark bunched socks and my vest, azure. My suit dozes off beneath me, looking sleepy and unkempt. I hyperfixate on a direction, needing to be early, a timeless construct. My performance at today’s rehearsal can decide my fate, but I am unremarkable, fickle and doubting. Still, the sun shines here in this forsaken city of lucrative dreams and unbridled slums.

My face partially insulted as it catches wind of suave women passing me by in suits and the bustle of business men holding invisible conversations, index finger pressed to their ear. Crossing the street for the fourth time, I find the building laden with posters parading treble clefs. My cello nearly slips from my sweaty grasp. I open the ebony door.

“I’m here,” I half yell expecting some grand exertion, but still, no one looks and even the eye of a trombone cannot face me. The stage is pale yellow; the sound of sheets creasing surrounds me. Eyes everywhere but on me. Ordinarily, I would avoid intimacies, still it would’ve felt nice to have been greeted.

As rehearsal ensues, I play a meaningless song in a myriad of strivers, feeling less than competitive. In the privacy of eyes, do I redden and I furrow my brow. The cellists beside me appear proud and statured, yet still I find myself yearning.

When rehearsal subsides I hardly bother gabbing. Curious if it is my heart of quills that’s disallowed me to bobble my head in conformity or pride. Feeling defeated, I surrender to the whims of my stomach-somehow tempted by the barbarity of combustible junk and street cafes.

I pass by Rosemary Gardens, a quaint flower shop beside a burger joint. And on eighth street, I find a lovely coffee shop smelling of nutmeg and good company. Inside I see merely three customers sitting at resin-clad tables, sounding pleasant and adhering.

“I’ll have a black coffee.” I request, not even minding to look at the lady I’m speaking to. Preoccupied, I fixate on other noises and thoughts with an ample avoidance of fate.

Her voice melodic and soothing she remarks, “Do you always carry a coffee with that cello?”

I nervously scratch the back of my head as I notice her delicate hands and hair that is bouncy, but not overly so. My lips part subtly, “Ha, well I’ll be drinking it here. You know, inside.”

The apples of her cheeks blush and her eyes glimmer beneath the soft amber lamp of the shop. “Well, there’s a desk in the corner next to the window. You’re welcome to sit there. Your total will be nine fifty two.”

Hoping to appear confident, I hand her the money without looking down, but it only makes me fumble. Soon, our hands are nearly grazing one another’s. Overridden with fascination and allure, I inquire, “I’m sorry if I’m being too forward, but what’s your name?” Her hair is blonde and eyes blue, still she’s managed a uniqueness. I like the way her silver bracelet emphasizes the fragility of her wrist and the beauty mark just above her lip and-

“Not at all, my name’s Lenora. You?”

This is going swimmingly! I’m feeling delighted at the progression of this exchange and-

“Sir?”

“Sebastian! Sorry my name is Sebastian, Sebastian Pate.”

Lenora hands me my coffee, “Well, it’s nice to meet you Sebastian.”

“Same here.” I grin.

Once home, I rummage around with old yellowed notebooks filled with unimpressive songs I’ve written. Ever since I was a child I dreamed of composing and assembling my own orchestra, but I’m too young to be taken seriously and far too old to feel spontaneous. The red rug and wooden floors covered in heaps of papers expose my discombobulation. I sulk in a pile of my own disjointedness. What am I really searching for? The Marvelton Orchestra is an elite performance group, but when I moved here six years ago the idea whistled and chimed in a manner that’s gone unreplicated. My dreams have grown bigger and my pursuit of them smaller. Isn’t that a happy coincidence?

It’s nearly ten o’clock and my apartment window creaks as the wind of night pursues it. In this chamber of reds and yellows, I recognize my fear of city blues. I stand up and mope to the window beside my kitchen. The view below is daunting and spectacular. Speckled lights colorfully mosaic the town. Dismayed with my cowardice, I sigh. How have I spent six years maundering idly through the city inane and unbecoming? My inhibition senescent, bewildering, and soon-to-be deposed.

Perhaps, those years have been nugatory and fateless, but tonight: I live. Long coat, dress pants, slicked hair, and a dash of cologne. Bravely I step into the cold. I pass the park, it’s monuments; statuesque and unshaking. Every color compromised and ridden with nightness; however, not the street lamps nor the take out restaurant signs. Rather, their lights reflect a special moonlight in the darkness.

I’m a madman crossing the street with no other instrument than my fingers fiddling with a dream, deeming me weightless. I feel giddy and irresolute. Here I am at the destined coffee shop, hands in pocket. Biting my lip, I enter and find two young men sweeping.

Since this idea was foolish to begin with, I don’t bother to ask for Lenora. Met with brisk air outside of the cafe, I stare mindlessly feeling unresolved like a song ending in a minor key. I shrug, preparing to forsake my plan.

“Sebastian?”

“Lenora? Hi, I- I wasn’t expecting you.” I clear my throat feeling slightly vulnerable and embarrassed. Red in the cheeks and nose as my heart thumps.

“What are you doing here?” I feel intimidated at her reasonable question.

I pause brooding the perfect explanation, but before I can salvage a lie I blurt: “I- I’m unhappy with the past six years of my life. I moved here hoping to achieve something great, but no one here knows me beyond small talk. And today you looked so beautiful and approachable. I just really wanted to get to know you.”

“Most people wait a year before revealing all their baggage.” She chuckles, her expression imparting empathy.

“I’m sorry… I’m not normally like this and I’d understand if you’re not interested. I just thought we could walk through the park or something and talk.”

Cheekily Lenora remarks, “Why not? Honestly, Sebastian I’d like to learn more about you.”

“Same here,” I smirk.

Footprints and wrappers dispersed arbitrarily across the ground of the park inspire a misty intrigue and goulash aroma. Following my needless rant I say, “Lenora I’d like to learn more about you.” She looks down at her bronze boots kissing her delicate ankles and beige wool socks.

“Well, I’ve lived here my whole life with my father…”

Her face tenses as she exhales, “he died two months ago, so I’ve been picking up extra shifts at work to avoid feeling lonely.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” I interrupt.

“Don’t be. He’s been sick for years with Alzheimer’s. By the time he passed it felt like I hardly knew him.”

Outwardly, I lovingly console Lenora, but inside, I dwell of the concept of rusting and the impermanence of everything. I feel relieved to be in a moment so ripe as this, but when feelings are out of tune and reflections show different faces, the time to depart is near.

“Lenora, I’d like to see you again. ”

“Me too.” Her eyes doll-like and sapphire, her jaw soft and trembling-we kiss on the brink of scatter.

As I saunter to my apartment, I wipe messages of the weather streaked on my thick glasses away with hot breath. Everyone around me silhouettes at this hour indistinguishable from one another; however, I can recall every detail of Lenora’s face and demeanor.

At the door, I wrestle with my key change and hope, by morning to develop music or luck.

Six months pass and I’ve been grossly unremarkable in my attempts to compose a piece compelling enough to perform, but Lenora has called me in the depths of night.

“I was looking through books on my bookshelf and I found this small black journal. It’s filled with compositions and -“ Lenora excitedly exclaimed and I, baffled intercede, “Really? Can you bring me the book?” Nearly salivating at the divine intervention, I wait for Lenora to arrive.

Three knocks on the door. I ruffle my hair and clear my throat.

“Well, hello beautiful-“ Lenora barges past me and points incessantly at a page in the book, “Can you play this? I don’t know how to read music.”

“Well, I’ll certainly try.” The title is Eighth Street. I march to my cello, brace my posture and begin. It slowly builds into a feverish forte, painting a kaleidoscope of tonnage and soundscape. The piece features a swift key change and melody levied with depth. I stop, jaw unable to conceal its gasp.

“My dad used to write in that book, but I never knew what he was writing. And look, he has a song for every street in the city!” She flips through the pages eagerly.

And I, caving to the dreams of yesteryear heed to a vision once profound. My feelings percussive and pervasive, lift me from my slum. Thus, I, my city’s keeper, balance the tightrope of absurdity and gamble. Hands intertwined in my nest of hair tawny and plump see to it that I do something decidedly mad. I tell Lenora, sweet-toothed and hastily that I must perform her father’s songs. She expresses gratitude that her father’s work will resound in the city.

Two months pass and I spot an envelope royal blue stamped in gold at my doorstep. It reads, “Dear Sebastian, I’ll be boarding the train by the time this reaches you. I’m leaving for Coney Island,” It’s Lenora.

“I’m so sorry Sebastian. I love you, but my mother needs me she has no one left and is ill.”

I stand starving and unnerved. I ought to shred the printed tribute with a heavy heart. Still, my fingers press into my skull, rabid, troubled, seething.

“Take this gift, it’s twenty thousand dollars to afford your own orchestra. I received a large inheritance from my father and if time allows my return then we will celebrate your success. Until then, I hope to find you in a melody.”

I recall her fluid movement and charisma and I could always find her in the ease. I weep pleased and despairing.

I, like brass rust and stone, corrode under the weight of my grief. Thus, I know once I perform my concerto and watch it vanish into cosmic dust my eyes will twinkle in the wake of my departure. Alas, my city is gone.