Musical Chair
a short story about love and fulfillment
Music awakened me. It was my calling to life. It unveiled mysteries like love and longing and transported me to exotic landscapes. In my career I’ve played a part in wonderful performances of some of the greatest symphonies ever composed. I was first chair of the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra. Granted, I didn’t possess the necessary skill or dexterity to play an instrument, and neither was I blessed to be made an instrument myself. I was, however, the chair and that’s all I would ever be.
I took great pride in the role I played every day and night during the performances. My mark was always left center stage, nearest to the conductor and within full view of the audience. I had few partners in those days and only one is worth recalling.
Her name was Ada. There was a storm of commotion leading up to her arrival. It was the most I’d ever heard the musicians speak on a rehearsal day. She walked on stage and the anxious whispers fell silent, as the entire orchestra stood still and watched her approach me. I could only imagine how she felt in that moment, and I desperately wanted to make a strong first impression. She acknowledged the conductor before gracefully taking her place with me. The rest of the orchestra followed her lead, taking their positions, as Ada began getting them in tune.
Her violin released that first note, and I knew that there had never been a more elegant or refined body to take residence upon me. She made the hall and every soul within it lighter before even finishing a single measure. Her technical abilities were only surpassed by an emotional intelligence that shone through her performances. Audiences responded immediately.
One night, as Ada was performing Vivaldi’s “La Primavera” Concerto for Violin in E Major, our tenured maestro lost his concentration and dropped rhythm with the rest of the orchestra. His aging eyes and ears kept him from rejoining the strings. All anyone could do was focus their attention on Ada, and me. She continued playing as if nothing had happened. The notes flew effortlessly from her violin.
Her Violin.
How I envied her violin. How I longed to be delicately caressed in her hand and pressed beneath her soft, porcelain cheek. How I yearned to be the instrument with which she produced beautiful music.
Her eyes were closed most of the time. Her head and shoulders gently swayed, completely surrendered to the practice and pleasure of the craft. She lifted that sacred music hall, elevated all of us within reach to a state of warm contentment that felt like it would last forever, but ended too soon. She made me perfect, if only between the preparatory beat and the applause.
Perfection is never meant to last. And one night, as Ada performed a solo rendition of Bach’s Violin Partita №2 in D Minor, I struggled to keep my balance. I had felt pain in my leg joints for some time, and did well to hide it when I partnered with Ada. But the pain got worse, and that night it took everything in me to keep it together. Ada shifted her weight forward then back, and I let out a moan that echoed off the back wall of the stage. Sheer panic followed the release of my anguish. Maestro’s eyes shot daggers that carved into my aching legs. Ada didn’t miss a note, but that didn’t matter. Everyone on stage knew that my mistake was unacceptable, and just like that my time as first chair had come and gone.
I was promptly moved to a closet backstage before the night was over. As the custodian stacked me atop a pile of chairs identical to me in varying degrees of atrophy, Ada passed by on her way out. She was wearing a woolen, baby blue peacoat and her short, chestnut hair was tucked under a light grey cloche. Her violin, the trusted instrument that never failed her and that she remained faithful to, was safely cased and carried in her gloved hands of silk lined brown leather. She glided across the stage wing to the door that opened to the city street. She glanced in my direction, but not at me, never breaking stride before exiting out of my life into the cool night.
I remained atop that stack of chairs in the closet for some time, waiting, hoping that I’d be forgiven, and that my potential would once again be recognized. That never happened. Instead, there came a day I was moved into the back of a large truck that shuttled me to the basement door of an old building. I was carried inside along with the other miscellaneous objects that made the turbulent voyage. Smells of chalk dust, molded paper, and cheap incense haunted the underground hallways. I was then placed in a large room with a low ceiling and a short and shallow stage at the far end of it.
Silence fell once the movers left, the echoes of their grumbled voices trailed off, and I was alone. Despair was creeping up the elm grain of my back. I missed the music hall and the orchestra. I missed the perfumes of a packed audience and the cool, quiet vacancy that would follow.
Then a comforting sound came from somewhere above. It was the bold, harmonic pipes of a church organ. The sound wrapped its arms around me and told me I wasn’t alone after all. If music existed there, then it couldn’t be so bad. And indeed, music did exist in that strange place in more ways than I could imagine…
In the days, weeks, and months following my arrival, I was partnered with many different people. Most were children, uniformly dressed. Every day they’d perch upon me to eat meals at circular tables. On Thursday afternoons I was partnered with children that sat opposite an elderly woman they called Sister Patrice who’d conduct music lessons. Acoustic guitars, recorders, clarinets, and the occasional violin were all among the instruments used. It was a struggle for most students, and their constant errors were torturous. Sister Patrice’s patience was a masterclass of its own. I despised my situation at the time. I could only think of how or where my abilities could be better used. I wanted to be anywhere but where I was.
Discontentment grew within me and ate away at my soul like a decay fungus. My resentment turned to anger, dissolving my finish, making my surface rough to the touch. Nobody enjoyed partnering with me in those days. Hate made me hollow and heavy, so much so that whoever moved me would need to drag me and suffer the indignant scream of my legs as they scraped against the linoleum tile floor.
Eventually, the room would be used late on Monday nights. I was placed in a circle among chairs of different makes and ages. A few were new and in good condition, but most were old and further along on the road to their disposal. I was more akin to the latter than I would have liked to believe. Later in the evening, long after the boisterous sounds of children had completely faded, a dozen or so adults would shuffle into the room. Like the circle of chairs, they too were of various ages and physical health. They’d all pour decaf coffee into Dixie cups before slowly making their way to take a seat at the circle in the middle of the room.
They took turns telling stories of their alcohol addiction. Some gave much detail and others gave very little. The pain of their experiences was apparent in their voices. Some would take long pauses in the middle of their sentences that felt like an eternity. Sometimes the rest of the sentence never came. The group waited and listened patiently until the speaking member was finished. One night, I was paired with a new member, who called himself Rob. He told the group that he lost his job because of his drinking. His wife had left him five months ago, taking both of their children. Soon the bank would foreclose on his house, and he’d be left without a home or anyone to turn to. He broke down in tears, sobbing. The members on either side reached over to console him. As he leaned hunched over, releasing wails of despair muffled by his hands, I felt a profound sense of pity for him. Rob and I had both lost our professions, loved ones, and purpose. He sat there, taking accountability for his losses, but I failed to take any responsibility for my bitter disposition. Maybe it was really myself that I pitied. But that pity would turn to empathy, and I soon reciprocated the afflictions and sadness felt in the room. I was no longer a silent observer, but an active participant.
Rob would return infrequently, about once every month or so, carrying with him the fumes of alcohol from the previous night. There was never any judgement expressed from the regulars of the group, not from myself and not even those who’d been sober for years.
It wasn’t all gloom and anguish; it was often quite hopeful. Some in the group were living happy and fulfilling lives, all while keeping their addiction recovery in perspective. Their advice and guidance were invaluable to the other members. And, at the end of every session, the organizer led everyone in a prayer. All participated in some fashion no matter their faith or lack thereof. While this happened, my attention would turn to the wooden cross that hung high on the western wall of next to a ticking clock. So much unconditional love and respect was given to that decorative relic. We were made of the same thing, possibly even came from the same forest, but were destined to serve different purposes. I’d given up on believing in destiny once my fortunes turned against my wishes. I thought I was destined to be amongst great musicians and composers. However, destiny is not determined by what serves our ambitions and desires, but by the outcome of a life lived with purpose. I came to better understand and discover my new life purpose from the Monday nights spent in that basement.
That had a positive affect on my outlook for the rest of the week. I listened intently to the children as they gossiped at the lunch tables. Their laughter became a new kind of music that brightened my days.
I also began to look forward to the Thursday afternoon music lessons with Sister Patrice. I started to recognize the merit of education, and I was grateful to assist in those formative lessons that would stay with the students their whole lives, whether they’d pursue a musical vocation or cease playing entirely. I had once again found myself in a “first chair” position. I went from being the first chair of a prestigious orchestra house to being the first chair the children sat upon while they discovered the wonderous world of music.
Years passed. Then came a day that the room was being used to host a birthday celebration for two unrelated children that shared the same birthday. I spent most of the party unoccupied, off to the side and against a wall. The room was filled with happy children and adults alike. They danced to hit songs from the band, The Monkees, and played silly games. Then, sometime after the cake was cut to pieces and passed around to everyone, I was pulled from the side of the room and placed in a line with 12 other chairs, each of us alternating in the direction we faced. I was somewhere near the middle. One of the adults turned on the radio and then the children began circling us. Soon the music was switched off and the children all rushed to take a seat, but there was one more child than there were chairs. It was a boy, about the age of 7, who stood a few paces to the left of my position, glancing to the girls seated in the nearest chairs, wearing a dejected look of desperation on his face. The small crowd of spectators let out a sympathetic sigh, punctuated with a couple chuckles of amusement before a woman, presumably the boy’s mother, gently escorted him away while whispering words of consolation. One chair was then removed from the end of the row.
The game continued like that for several rounds: Music, procession, silence, chaos, humiliation, elimination. Until finally there were 2 children left in the game, one boy and one girl. As it happened, they were the birthday children, and I was the only chair remaining in the game. The music played and the children marched around me. They each quickened their pace while passing behind me, then slowed almost to a stop while crossing my front. The crowd of viewers watched in giddy anticipation.
When the music came to a final abrupt stop, the boy was behind me and the girl in front. The girl quickly turned to sit and become the victor, but the boy pulled me back and she fell to the floor. Laughing devilishly, the boy jumped onto me. The girl, writhing in anger, charged and pushed him, sending both of us hurling backwards. I remember hearing a loud crash followed by a barrage of cries and gasps. I felt my back break into pieces, shards, and splinters. There were small parts of me sent flying to the edge of the wall that I would never recover. One of my rear legs also finally gave out, separating at the joint. I don’t remember all too well what followed the accident. But after some time of being left there, spread all over the floor, what remained of my intact self, along with a few of the larger pieces, were collected and placed on a curb by the street.
Funny, I thought that night, how shortsighted I was to not ever conceive of such a lonely end for myself when that was what I was heading towards all along. When you pour every inch of yourself into a singular thing, in my case — music, it’s all you’ll ever have. And there I was, in the dark and cold of night, useless and unwanted, without any music but the sound of a distant cricket and a few passing cars on the main road.
My thoughts went to Ada, and how I desperately hoped she would never feel this kind of loneliness. I surprised myself with how, even after all those years apart, I still wanted the best for her. The highlights of our time together flashed in my memory like a carousel projector. When she’d rest upon me before a big performance, or slowly rise afterwards to take a bow. The way I’d anticipate her subtle movements, the way her bow sailed flawlessly across the strings, and the way she liberated me from my wooden confines with nothing but a sound.
But no matter how many happy thoughts and memories I recalled, I couldn’t escape returning to the night I was placed in the storage closet, watching her walk out the backstage door.
As low and hopeless as I was that night, it proved to not be the end of my story. Dawn came on slow, the morning light was thwarted by a dense fog. A loud, rusted pickup truck rumbled to the curb in front of me. Its engine produced a monstrous percussion.
A bearded, heavyset man rolled out from the driver’s seat to inspect me and what remained of the parts that were piled near my three intact legs. After a few grunts of curiosity, he picked me up and carefully secured me to the back of his truck with all my parts.
We arrived at a makeshift workshop in the back of an antiques store. I learned that the heavyset man who brought me there was named Lloyd, and he was keen on repairing old, neglected articles such as myself. He gave me a new leg from a raw cut of walnut and replaced my back with material that had once been a decorative bureau. While he worked, he’d listen to music from a record player. It was strictly country music, and Glen Campbell was a particular favorite of his. He’d tap his foot and sing along to Gentle On My Mind as he carved wood or pondered which tool was best to use for the job at hand.
Once I was whole again, he coated me in a premium oil finish. A couple of days and new coats later, Lloyd decided to adorn me with a cushion. He fitted my upward facing body with a burgundy red leather and moved me to the front of the store with a paper tag hanging like an ornament from my back.
All around me were refurbished and previously owned items. Clocks, lamps, paintings, pottery, books, and toys. It was a trove of misfit treasures. In a small way it took me back to the Monday night AA meetings. All of us were from different places, served different purposes, but were brought there to heal and start anew. And new was how I felt. It was the best I felt since my time in the orchestra hall.
One day a young married couple with kind faces walked through the storefront door and, after a single pass through, they pointed at me while speaking to Lloyd. They handed him some money and whisked me away to their station wagon.
They placed me in their living room with careful thought and deliberation. One of the walls was faced with dark wooden slats, the others were dressed in a paisley wallpaper of sunset red and oceanic teal. Next to me was a fully stocked bookcase, and in a corner near the room’s entrance was a grandfather clock. Opposite to all of us was a modest Baldwin baby grand piano sitting at the bay window. It was clearly the most cherished item in the house, not only by its material value, but by its strategic positioning. The piano could easily be seen from the neighborhood street through the window, and would no doubt gain quick notice from any visitors upon entering the front door. Above all, the room exuded a warmth from the many laughs and loving memories that were had there.
The married couple had a young daughter, Mary, who used the piano to play and practice. She showed natural talent and promise. It brought me joy to be around a youth discovering music again.
The family invited over friends and extended relatives to listen to Mary play the piano. Mary’s grandfather was partnered with me. We all silently witnessed Mary play Beethoven’s Fur Elise. She did splendid. A tear of pride rolled down her grandfather’s face.
Music filled the room, and our hearts, to a point that it could never be withdrawn. I was met in that moment with a level of contentment I thought I’d never find again, and fulfillment in my nature as the chair I’d always been.
