3

Another two days passed before Andrew willed himself out of bed. He needed a haircut but would wait for the golden waves feathering his ears to take over his neck before finding some scissors.

He pulled on his audition attire, a white button-down shirt with short sleeves and black dockers. Violin case in hand, he stepped out of the room, determined to do something that didn’t involve closing his eyes and forgetting the world outside.

The subway car proved a cool respite from the heat.

Across from him and two seats over sat a stocky young man with a cello case between his legs. His brown hair, neatly clipped around his ears, sat long and tousled over his brow. His jaw worked steadily on some chewing gum, its roundness masked by a neatly trimmed box beard.

On his cello case was a faded sticker of the Poland flag. The young man caught Andrew’s stare and pointed with his head at the violin.

“Where you playing?” he asked.

Andrew blinked before responding. “I’ve got an audition,”

“Get out.” As the train slowed, the young man stood and collected his cello. “I hope you get it.”

Andrew smiled back as he exited. A sudden sense of attainment eased his mood; he could talk to another man without seizing up with anxiety.

The train dropped him into the Plaza at Fifth Avenue station. He walked three blocks east before finding himself outside The Peninsula’s glass entry doors.

A tall, short-haired hostess flashed her bright smile. She wore enough Estee Lauder to gag a maggot, and after listening to him explain why he was there, she politely walked him to the elevator, and riding up with him, shared that ‘them band people is on the top floor’ in her thick southern drawl.

The elevator doors parted, blasting them with a wind that ballooned his buttoned shirt and nipped at her dress.

In NYC, the top floor clearly meant the roof.

“You go past the flowers, honey,” she said, her leopard print neckline flapping in the breeze. “That’s where you’re playing today,”

Andrew thanked her before walking around the fragrant orange and yellow rose barrier, a flowering wall that surrounded the roof. It also blocked the wind and released a crisp floral scent. A wrought-iron pavilion stood amidst dozens of small round tables. Ivy vines twisted throughout its lattice, dull green leaves adept at hiding speaker wires.

Suddenly, a man stumbled past him trying to pull on a shirt.

“Who the hell are you?” said the bushy-haired man in a thick British swirl, “and what are you doing on my dancefloor?”

Andrew froze, unable to speak or move.

“Take another drink, Karl,” a voice mocked. “You hired him yesterday.”

Laughter erupted from the musicians under the pavilion.

“Oh, bloody hell, my second violin.” Karl placed a gentle hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, love. Forgive my rudeness.” He rambled, perspiration dotting his pencil mustache. “We have a full register tonight, and dinner starts in two hours.”

Andrew walked with him, purposely slipping from his grip.

“Did I give you your W2 forms yet? Screw it, love. I’ll give them to you after practice.” Karl then glared at the sitting musicians. “I would appreciate it, Samil, if you didn’t mention my drinking so casually in front of others,”

“Whatever,” came the retort.

Andrew turned to find the young man from the subway car.

“Have a seat, second-string,” he said, patting the chair beside him.

Andrew sat and graciously accepted a wrapped cube of pink bubble gum.

“Don’t worry. You won’t get in trouble,” the young man assured him. “His limey ass doesn’t remember what day it is after his fourth tequila shot,”

“Thanks,” Andrew whispered.

“You’re young, white, and clean-cut.” His eyes took inventory. “That’s all they want.”

Andrew brought out his violin. “Good to know.”

“Just watch out for Karl’s boyfriend,” he whispered. “He’s the manager of the restaurant. He likes to hit on young guys, queer or straight, don’t matter,”

Anxiety tapped at Andrew’s heart.

“I’m Samil Walkiewicz,” said the young man, their eyes locking.

Silently, they sized each other up and found nothing of sexual interest. Then, they relaxed enough to focus on the day’s musical notes.

Once the playing started, Andrew’s nerves settled. Afterward, his tension faded as he learned his hours and pay rate.

Their train ride home came filled with conversation. Samil felt boringly gay, and for the first time in two weeks, Andrew did, too.

♪

Andrew woke drenched in sweat.

Violent fragments lingered, the most hurtful just seconds before dawn. He trembled beneath the sheets, unable to sleep again until his new alarm clock began to beep.

Unable to stand the cold, he turned off the AC unit, knowing he had a good twenty minutes before needing it again.

The Peninsula owned him from four to eleven Sunday through Thursday, where he played tawdry classics that the Jewish dinner guests mostly ignored. Many of his fellow musicians stayed after the last set, spending cash at the bar, while Andrew and Samil caught the Q-train home.

“Did you see that old fart with those three chicks?” Samil asked.

Andrew opened his eyes. “There were plenty of old men with girls tonight.”

“This man was like, Moses old,” Samil cracked. “No way those bitches liked him on purpose. They were furniture, for sure,”

Andrew smiled. “Furniture?”

“You know how those concierge guys hook up old coots with girls,” Samil raised his fingers into quotes. “from reputable dating services?”

Andrew laughed. “Why the name furniture?”

“You never saw Soylent Green?” he asked. “Remember the house-honeys.”

“I remember that one,” Andrew said. “The overacting was epic,”

“It’s people,” Sam delivered the lines like a pro. “They’re eating people,”

Andrew let out a belly laugh before allowing a few moments of silence. A song he knew began playing on someone’s radio at the end of the train car.

“Up, up, up and down, turn-turn turn around,” sang Andrew, deadpan like the singer.

“I hate this song,” Sam said, his eyes closed.

“I like alternative stuff,” Andrew said. “It’s different,”

“That’s the definition of alternative,” said Sam, “but that grunge shit is tired. Give me something I can dance to,”

“The boardwalk back home played club constantly,” Andrew sighed.

“Get out,” Sam’s eyes went bright. “We got a boardwalk in Brighton Beach,”

“I grew up in Atlantic Shitty,” Andrew said. “Seagull crap and broke gangsters.”

“Get out.” Sam’s smile then flatlined. “No, really, we’re at your stop. You need to get out.”

He jumped up and exited the train just as the doors were closing. He turned to find Sam waving at him, hand spread on his chest like an old woman leaving on a sea cruise. Andrew laughed harder than he had in weeks.