Gene played his violin every day. Even without a home, he practiced hours and hours before breakfast. And we were the beneficiaries of his work. Our small public access television station served as his alter to which he played.
He would roll up on his overloaded bicycle around 8:00am. I was usually the first one to unlock our doors, and I would just be setting up the coffee machine when the sound of a cat being slowly tortured would drift in through the swinging glass doors. In the early days, I would run to the doors, peeking out through the glass in alarm, but it was only Gene, his Aloha shirt stained and sticking to his back as he scratched a worn bow against the cracked instrument.
Clients and community members hosting or participating in television shows would often come running into our small studio, telling of the remarkably awful musician who was playing outside. We would only nod.
“That’s Gene” we would sigh, not usually taking time for explanation. The soundtracks of local political and call-in shows filmed in our studio all began to feature Gene’s music, whether they wanted it or not. The building was old, and the sound-proofing inside the small production studio was questionably effective.
Some days, I would work the front desk, greeting people as they came in the door and directing them to the right place. It was on just such a day that Gene walked in.
I knew him by name, and I smiled as he walked in. Like most days, he was wearing his standard stained Aloha shirt with kacky shorts. Clacking at his knees were a series of rollerblading guards and braces. Roughened plastic banged together as he walked. My smile fell slightly as I noticed his violin, swung within easy reach around his neck. Overall, Gene seemed like a very nice guy. He spoke with at thick french accent which left me wondering whether he was from France or Quebec. I could just understand his English.
“Can you record me on the video? I need a DVD.” He held up his violin as he spoke.
My mind raced. What he was asking for was against the policy of the studio. Sure, we were capable of recording him, but the studio was reserved for ongoing shows only. An employee walked through the hallway to my left, coming from the kitchen with a large cup of coffee. She took one look at Gene, glanced wearily at the violin strung around his shoulder, turned on her heels, and walked back into the hallway. Apparently I was on my own.
I cleared my throat.
“What do you need the DVD for?” I asked Gene. He smiled and his eyes twinkled excitedly as he spoke.
“It is for audition! I am send audition DVD to the London Symphony. They’re need new music player.” Gene held up his violin to illustrate his point.
“So you won’t be making any money with the DVD?” I asked, “you won’t be selling it?”
Gene closed his eyes and shook his head sagely from left to right.
“Okay then, are you ready now?” I asked him, coming around from behind the desk.
Gene’s smile was blinding. His entire face spread into a facelift-esque tension as he lumbered toward me.
“Thank you sir! Thank you so much!” I had never heard someone so sincerely grateful in my life. “I just go clean up? Back in 5 minutes?”
I nodded, and watched Gene’s retreating back, his various plastic guards clacking together as he moved.
Sure enough, Gene was back in exactly five minutes. His timing was so precise that I found myself checking his wrists for a watch, but there was none.
Gene had somehow slicked his thinning hair back into a series of thin strands running from the front to the back. From the large series of bags slung across his old bicycle, he had somehow extracted some worn black pants and a remarkably clean black-and-white patterned shirt.
I led him into the studio and showed him where to stand. I went into the control room, and showed him the three shots I would be using. While he was warming up, I went into the supply cabinet and grabbed a DVD. instinctively I started toward the cash register, but I stopped myself. I couldn’t ask him to pay for it.
Back in the studio, Gene had his eyes closed and was playing an allegro, his bow scratching the strings rhythmically. He wasn’t using any sheet music. I tried to hear a pattern, some sort of song hidden among the scrapes and scratches, but I just couldn’t.
I signaled that I was going to start recording, and told him he had fifteen minutes. I instantly regretted this, wishing I had said ten, as the control room filled with surround-sound cat torture. I covered my ears, slouching low in my chair so Gene couldn’t see me through the window.
His music went and went and went, he didn’t stop. Gene was in rapture, obsessed with what he was playing. I was less charmed, and alternated between covering my ears, and quickly hitting a button to change the shot. It was a long fifteen minutes, and around the halfway point, faces of staff-members would appear, alarmed, at the door to the control room. I would shrug, and they would leave, not wanting to stick around for the novelty.
Mercifully, the music stopped. I opened my eyes and looked at the clock. It had been exactly fifteen minutes.
I stopped the recording, and met Gene at the door outside the studio. I gave him his DVD, and in a quiet voice told him there was no charge. He seemed to sense that I was a rogue rebel, and he matched my whispering tone.
“Um…excuse, but, could I watch here?” He held up the DVD.
I breathed a heavy sigh.
“Sure”
Back in the control room, I inserted the DVD into the player. I had not mentally prepared myself to listen to the music again, and I jumped as the screeching started once again. I tried to disguise it by standing up and heading toward the thick door leading into the lobby. I shouted to Gene that I would be back, but he paid no attention. The sounds hypnotized him, his face responding to each note the on-screen Gene played.
The sounds were noticeably lessened as I stood in the lobby looking in to the control room. And as I watched, I half expected Gene to grimace or show some signs of a reality check. But he only smiled, staring at the screen, and listening to the beautiful music, his incredible contribution to the world he lived in. And in his face, through his ears, I heard it too.
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{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
This is really good. I love the ending.
Great story! So many good points in here – our perception of what is is so different to anyone else’s and playing purely for the love of it really shines through.