(MARION, VIRGINIA, 8/28/05)

I arrived at the Lincoln around noon.  Daveena asked if I wanted a microphone for the piano and I said no.  Sleepy as fuck, I practiced half-heartedly, waiting for the spark to come, some semblance of enthusiasm — from myself, from anyone — but even the ushers and tech people looked bored, and for me it didn’t even feel like a performance day.  It felt like I was going through the motions, preparing a performance without quite apprehending that I was actually the performer, the conduit, the necessary vessel for the music.  This was supposed to be a transcendental artistic experience, right?  I wanted to go back to bed. 

It was one-thirty when the ushers opened the house.  The electronic music [I provided] drifted through the hall as people slowly began to filter in, those huge murals staring on like movie screens, cartoons on pause. 

I stood behind a curtain on the side of the empty stage, hovering in a doorway that led to my dressing room.  I was listening to the music and staring at my black shoes.  I mentally scanned through the music I would play in the moments ahead and hoped I could pull the performance off with so little and such lackluster practice, not to mention barely any sleep.  After so many concerts, I still feared the same passages, the same mistakes.  When I went over them in my head, even my brain made the mistakes, stopped, and tried them again.  Imperfection becomes you, Tendler.

This is state twenty-four, I told myself.  And I haven’t improved at all.

Daveena appeared through the curtain.  “You ready?”

I took a deep breath.  “Yes, whenever.” 

Maybe I should’ve taken that microphone.  The [piano] sounded so muted in the first half that I found myself literally slamming through the Ginastera to raise above mezzo forte.  The crowd, congregated toward the front of the auditorium seats, seemed to applaud mostly out of courtesy.  At intermission, I roamed the floor thanking people for attending.  One of the theatre’s employees approached and began talking to me about her daughter.  “She’s doing what you’re doing, except she plays gigs all the time, and with a band.”

“Oh, so she has a band,” I answered.  

“Yes, but she’s trained in all sorts of music.”  The woman’s eyes sort of fluttered as she explained.  “She plays a lot of weddings and dinner functions.  They have CDs and a website.  Do you have a website?”

“Not yet.”

 She said her daughter’s name. “Have you heard of her?”

“Maybe,” I lied, nodding.

“Yes, she’s like you but she has an international career and makes a lot of money from her shows.”

“There’s a time and place for everything.”  There was a pause as we both assessed who, if either of us, was insulting the other.  “I just mean,” I stammered, “for me, this just must not be the time or place… for money or recognition.”

The woman straightened her posture.  “Well, I wish you success in whatever you do!”

She left me numb and wandering when a man, maybe in his fifties, stopped me.  His breath smelled like cigarettes.  “Great work, my friend!  I’m really enjoying this!”

I thanked him and we shook hands.

Then he stood back and put his hand to his chin.  “Now, the black.  Lose the black.”  He studied me some more.  “Yes, lose the black.  I mean, you’re here to play the piano, right?”

“Yes,” I agreed, though I had no idea what he meant.

“And that Ives!  I don’t get Charles Ives.  His music is all over the place.  Is there a rhythm to it or anything?”

“Several,” I said.  ”Usually at the same time.”

“I don’t get it.”

“So lose the Ives,” I said flatly.  

“…and as for the Griffes.”  He took a moment to form his thought.  “It’s okay, I guess.  I mean, the first three pieces you play of his, they’re nice; sort of background music to a movie.  You seem to enjoy playing the Sonatathough, but I don’t hear the exotic elements you spoke of.  I hear Liszt.”

Daveena was behind him now, gesturing to me that we needed to begin the second half.

“I like the Ginastera, though,” he granted.

“I’ll be interested to hear what you think of the Copland.”

“Oh, well, I know Copland, so…”

“You know these pieces I’m about to play?” I interrupted.

“No, no.  Not these in particular.”

“Right.  Well, then like I said, I’ll be interested to hear what you think of the Copland.”  I turned and walked away and my mouth began to form words.  I couldn’t quite predict what it planned to say.  Then it sneered, “Fucking asshole.”