Operaland, p.8
OPERALAND, page 8
I remember Doc, gesture to him, and he gets up from the piano and bows too, and the clapping continues, louder now. Doc joins me and grabs my hand, and we take another bow, and as we’re bowing, he whispers, “See, they really like you”, and now there’s a new sound, like wild elephants trampling around backstage. I look over and see some musicians in the wings giving me the thumbs up and stomping on the floor and I’m thinking, holy shit, they’re professionals. Then I face front again and the public starts getting up, first one, then three, then ten, till most everyone’s on their feet, and it’s like I’m suddenly back in sixth grade, the pint-sized Curly soaking up the applause, getting high on Vitamin A and I suddenly realize I really could get used to this.
I bow and bow like a wind-up doll, till Doc leans over and says, “Let’s not overdo it,” so I shake his hand like crazy, because I’m not leaving till I show the world how grateful I am to him for getting me through this. He’s a complete and absolute champ. Once I’m offstage, I’m zapped, totally depleted. I drag my dazed ass over to a rickety little chair and collapse on it and spend the rest of the concert in a state of suspended animation, like did this actually happen? did I actually do that?
When the concert’s over, I stumble into the entry hall to greet the public and accept their congratulations, wondering all the time how come so many people, friends and strangers alike, are coming up to me and saying how great my singing is, and looking like they really mean it.
After the crowd thins out, the family finally appears, Carol first, who gives me a chaste little hug and a peck on the cheek, as if she doesn’t really know how to deal with it, then Billy, who doesn’t say a word and stares at the floor. Kit arrives in a cloud of rosy perfume. She croons in my ear, “Darling, that was just beautiful,” and I say, “You’re beautiful,” and we lock on a big one, and out of the corner of my eye I see Billy and Carol cringing, like god forbid anyone should know they’re actually related to those two sex perverts.
After a good long drink at Kit’s magic well, I go to get my coat and Timmy comes out of the shadows. We’ve pretty much been avoiding each other since we had our little bout. When we do meet around the house, he keeps flashing me these arrogant stares, like I whipped your sorry ass, and when I ask him what’s up, he goes, “Want a banana split?”
“Well, son, what did you think?” Silence, long pause.
“It was okay.”
“Okay? Your father was fantastic.” God bless Kit, she’s always on my side, always.
“I guess.”
“Timothy, the entire town stood up and cheered your father. How can you possibly talk that way?”
“Okay, okay, get off my case.”
“It’s all right, hon. I’ll handle it.” I give her a gentle shove and she steps aside, giving us a little space. “You know, I’m pretty sad we’re not talking any more. I really miss those chats we used to have... Son, did you hear me?”
“What’s there to chat about?”
“I don’t know, school, life, girls...” I flash him my here comes a joke look. “Banana splits.”
He gives me a little smile. “I thought you didn’t like them.”
“Man, anything you dish out I can take, because it’s from my kid, my son, my big guy, central to my life, a giant part of it...” I’m suddenly all emotional, which is embarrassing as hell, but I feel what I feel, I can’t lie. “In that first song, the slow one, the one I didn’t do so well, I actually was thinking of you.”
“You were? Why?”
“It’s about a father whose kid was just killed.”
“You saying you want to kill me?” I can’t tell if he means it as a joke or not.
“Timmy, get a grip, of course not.”
“Then, what?”
I won’t give up on this, I can’t. “When I was rehearsing with Doc last night, I had this image of something awful happening to you and, well, you got your license now, your own car. Take care of yourself, don’t do anything stupid.”
He gets this impish grin on his face. “Like getting trapped in a banana split?”
“You sure as hell won’t be trapping me. I’m retiring from the local wrestling scene.”
“Yeah, just as well, you’re a better singer than wrestler, way better.”
“You’re saying you liked it tonight? You liked your dad’s singing?”
Finally, after what seems like two or three centuries, he goes, “Dad, why are you even asking? You know you sounded fantastic.”
I hug him so close, so tight I nearly crack his young ribs. After a few seconds, I feel his back muscles tense up, like who is this crazy guy? But I don’t let go, I can’t, not for a good long while.
I barely sleep that night, my eyes keep popping open while I rehash all that success, all that whooping and hollering, but it gets me overexcited and tomorrow’s a regular workday. I keep telling myself to let go of the concert and sleep, but it’s hard to do. Once or twice I manage to get the right rhythm going, but just as I’m rounding the bend, I bounce wide awake and relive all over again that amazing ovation. And so it goes, hour after hour, till the first rays of the rising sun slap me in the face and make it official: No sleep for you, bud, get up and face the day. Time to go out and sell some cars and make more money for Frank, so he can build himself a second swimming pool.
As I pull into the lot, two of the guys start applauding, meaning it as a joke, of course. I park the car, get out and give them a comedy bow, to show I don’t take this stuff seriously. But, it’s applause, man. Everybody loves applause.
I’m walking towards the office, when who do I bump into but Willie Margashack, the boss’s new pet poodle. Usually he’s sneering at me or pretending I don’t exist, but this time he’s all smiles, like he’s just swooning at my magnificent presence. Naturally, I’m wondering what drug he’s on. “Hey, Richie, my wife’s in love with you.”
“She’s got real good taste.”
“No, seriously, she totally flipped last night. I mean, I’m not into that sort of stuff, but she thinks you’re the greatest ever.”
“Well, whaddya know, I’ll deliver my thanks to her in person, but only when you’re not around.”
“That’ll be the day.” He gives me this bright smile, like nothing bad ever happened between us. “By the way, no hard feelings, eh?”
“About what?”
“The Corvette, remember? Truth is, I’d gladly split the difference on that commission, except Marilou’s expecting and we’re tight on cash.” I guess I must look stunned, because I really am. “No bullshit, man, it’s the truth.”
Without thinking, I shoot out my hand to him just like that. “No hard feelings here, either.” And we shake. At that very moment, Frank comes out, sees us shaking hands and goes ballistic. “Cut the smooching, girls. There’s customers on the lot. Go out and make me some money.” We give him the hairy eyeball, like we’re on the same side now, staff against management-- another important first-- and take our time getting back to the grind.
For the next few days I’m the man of the hour, everyone’s hero. The climax comes Sunday after services when I’m surrounded by, like, twenty people who heard me at that little concert. They’re all completely amazed by how wonderfully I sang. And I totally suck it up. How can I not? Worship me all you like.
Whatever goes up must come down, splat, all over the pavement. That’s what happens the next day, Monday, when reality kicks in and everyone, even me, even the kids, even my darling Kit, goes back to their normal routine. It’s a giant letdown. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I hurt so much from this crazy feeling of being suddenly forgotten that I begin to wish the whole thing never happened. It’s like my singing counted for nothing, less than nothing, so why the hell bother in the first place?
Fortunately, good old Doc Williams notices. He takes me aside after Wednesday rehearsal and asks me over to his house for a pick-me-up.
I’m sitting on one of the broken-down chairs in his mishmash living room as he pours me some whisky. The Scotch is totally amazing, liquid smoke. It slides down sharp and clean.
“Richard,” he goes, “I’ve got a proposition for you.”
“Sorry, man, I don’t swing that way.” He shoots me this scowl, like when the hell will you grow up?
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Anyway, here’s my proposition. We do a full concert this spring, just you and me, an hour or so of music. You sing some new arias along with a few songs and maybe I’ll challenge myself and play a Mozart or Haydn sonata, so you won’t have to perform every single second. We’d rehearse once or twice a week and schedule it around Easter, which gives us almost six months to put the whole thing together. Does that appeal? Could you do it?”
Crazy. I was so down at that point, so low, it never once occurred to me that Doc would ever want to work with me again. “You really mean it? You’re actually willing to mix it up with me again?”
“Of course, why else would I suggest it?”
“Because you’re a masochist?” As soon as I say it, he winces.
“Richard, the only thing I really have problems with is your humor.”
“Oops, sorry. I’ll try to control myself.”
“Please, I’d be most appreciative... So, it’s agreed then, Verdun and Williams, back by popular demand?”
“You bet.”
“One other thing. I think you should get paid this time.”
“Paid. Really?” This is an evening of big surprises.
I think about his tiny house, how simply he and Marcia live compared to us. “But what about you, Doc? Couldn’t we at least share fifty-fifty?”
“Frankly, we’re talking about very little money, a few hundred dollars at most. I think it’s best you have it.”
I really don’t know how to handle his generosity. “Doc, that’s real nice, and I very much appreciate it, but why are you doing this?”
He shakes his head slowly from side to side like he can’t believe I don’t know and gives me the typical Doc look, very intense, very serious.
“Richard, can I ask something personal?”
“As long as it’s not about my advanced sex techniques. That’s between me and Kit.” As soon as I say this, I remember what he just said. “Sorry, it’s the whiskey.”
“I certainly hope so. You know, Marcia’s a big fan of yours. She’s always loved your voice.”
“Really?” I’m startled. I never felt Doc’s wife took any interest in me at all.
“After our little concert she asked me the same thing I’ve often asked myself. What’s holding Richard back? Why doesn’t he just do it?”
“Do what?”
“Turn professional. You could. You sing at a very high level.” Another shocker. Sure, people always said nice things, but this is totally different. “Why is it so hard for you to accept that you sing well? Because you do, Richard, you absolutely do.”
“That’s nice, I’m flattered, but you’re talking about something young guys do. I’m getting up there, Doc. I’m no kid.”
“Age has very little to do with it. Your voice is strong and fresh. You really have a chance for a career.”
“What kind of career?”
“Well, I’m no astrologer, I’m just telling you the material’s there. Shortly before Miss Fanning left Graystone, do you know what she told me?”
“I’m the hottest guy on earth?”
He snaps at me, barks like a rabid dog. “This is serious, Richard.”
“Sorry.”
“Elizabeth said, and she never, ever said this sort of thing unless she really and truly meant it, ‘This man could be an important Wagnerian tenor. Why is he wasting his life in a place like this?’ You’ve got a special gift. Go out and give it a try.”
“Doc, how can I possibly go off to some awful place like New York and mix it up with people I don’t know in a scene I don’t understand, spending thousands of dollars on food and housing and coaches and teachers, when I’ll probably wind up broke?”
“Luciano Pavarotti isn’t broke. He makes a fortune, especially when he sings those outdoor concerts.”
“He’s one in a billion. Nothing to do with me.”
“That’s what you think.”
“Doc, please, I’m nuts but not that nuts. An occasional recital, a few solos here and there, fine, no problem. I love to sing. I’ll do it. But dragging my sorry ass all over hell and gone hoping people might actually want to hear a pudgy middle-aged car salesman play operatic tenor? Forget it. Never gonna happen.”
After that, all we can basically do is shake hands and say goodbye. My head still ringing with whiskey, I lurch my way back home.
You know how it is when something’s up, but you’re not quite sure what. There’s a plot brewing and it’s all about you, but nobody’s talking. That’s exactly what I stumble into over the next few months. For example, I’m over at Doc’s working on our spring recital. We’re running through Vesti la giubba, which I really love, it fits me like a glove and isn’t long or real high, which is always a plus, when the phone rings. Doc answers but moves away so I can’t overhear. The cord’s pretty short and my hearing’s pretty sharp, so even though he’s hunched over the receiver, I distinctly hear him say Kit’s name.
Once he hangs up, I ask if he was talking to Kit. His big moon face gets blotched with red. “Lord, no, Richard. Why would I be speaking with her?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“It was Marcia, actually. She was talking about your wife. She bumped into her at the mall.”
“Kit never goes to the mall. It’s one of her pet peeves.”
More blushing. “Well, maybe Marcia got it wrong. Maybe I misunderstood.”
And that’s it. He buttons up tight and I take the hint. There’s just no point in pursuing it.
This also is the year our dear boss Frank gets the genius idea of hiring two new salesmen, who happen to be his new wife’s kid brothers. Not that nepotism has anything to do with it. Obviously, if you put more salesmen on the floor of a small car dealership, everyone winds up with fewer sales. Seeing as how this brilliant innovation comes just around Christmas, when all of us are counting on earning some extra cash, the slick new move isn’t popular. A bunch of the guys choose me and Willie–yeah, like we’re a team now–to go to management and complain. We march into the front office and lay it out for Ed and Frank and they basically say, don’t worry, everything will be fine, there’s plenty of sales to go around.
Completely outraged by their bullshit, I go home and tell Kit what creeps they are, what assholes. She listens like a trouper, but it’s not long before her eyes glaze over. Finally, after going on and on for what must have been six complete Ring cycles, I give the poor lady a chance. “Well, you know what they say, don’t get angry, get even.”
“How about I strangle Frank with Ed’s necktie? That way, Ed gets stuck with the rap and I kill two birds with one stone.”
“Very funny. Richie, trust me, you’ll get past this. Be bold, be assertive. That’s all you need to do.”
“Assertive about what?”
She smiles at me, just smiles, no comments, no hints, no help, nothing. I try to get something more out of her, I charm and coax and press, but nothing works.
It’s a real busy period for me--end of the year, everything’s hectic. There’s Thanksgiving, of course, with all the madness that whips up. There’s also Carol’s birthday, with mine right after. Wrestling season starts, I gotta watch Timmy’s matches. Then, there’s this giant clearance sale out at the lot, which usually creates lots of extra business, though this year, it’s pretty much a bust. As an extra added attraction, it turns out Billy needs lots of expensive dental work he could have avoided if he listened to his Dad and brushed his teeth once in a while, but what the hell does Dad know?
I somehow or other manage to keep it together until we arrive at the big event, my birthday-- December fifteenth, in case you’d like to send a present. A week or so before, I tell Kit I’m calling Papa Giovanni’s to make reservations same as always. That’s how we celebrate, go over to this great pizza joint in Irvington, order two or three giant ones and three Greek salads, wash it down with lots of coke and beer, a delightful night out and not all that expensive. But Kit wants to do it herself this year, which is odd because she’s been so busy. But then, I get it, the coin finally drops. She’s planning a surprise party for me. Doc’s in on it too. That’s why she’s been calling him so often. It also pretty much explains the weird looks the kids have been giving me. Fine, no problem, I’m always ready to party.
The night arrives, the family gathers, but there’s no sudden knocks on the door, no shouts of “Surprise, surprise!” It’s just us chickens. The meal’s fantastic, of course, Kit at her very best, a big slab of roast beef cooked medium, exactly how I like it, with roast potatoes, creamed spinach and this amazing tomato stew with eggplant and zucchini she found in some fancy French cookbook. But all the time I’m thinking, it doesn’t feel right, there’s gotta be something more.
Kit goes off to the kitchen and the kids are joking around, going, “Gosh, I wonder what she’s doing in there” and nonsense like that, until Kit shouts, “Okay, kids, ready,” and Timmy turns off the lights and she returns with the cake. You have to understand Kit’s really dressed up for the occasion with this long sleeve grey number she picked up in Detroit so she could look professional when she’s meeting with foundations. Anyway, she comes towards me looking like my own personal movie star, holding the cake with lots of candles, not the full forty-two, that would melt the icing, and even though the boys are singing happy birthday totally out of tune, like it’s some kinda joke, I’m still feeling great as my sweet beauty drifts towards me, glowing in the candlelight, holding this beautiful cake she made all by herself, my favorite, chocolate with mocha butter cream. I bend down to blow out the candles and see Opera Star written in big chocolate letters. I don’t really think about it, I just blow out the candles and cut up the cake, which is utterly delicious and disappears in no time.
