Solo

Dearest Iqbal-

True story! This afternoon I stepped out of my office to get myself a cup of coffee. The streets are now dry and warm, and a cool breeze was blowing off the Rio Hudson. As I entered into the establishment I saw in the the corner of my right eye something that I certainly could not be seeing. But I turned my head a few degrees and confirmed it: There, sitting behind the wheel of a parked Lincoln was a man playing a trumpet. The bell of the trumpet was aimed directly into the center of the steering wheel as if he had read the button that said "horn" and took it as a command. 

I proceeded into the coffee establishment, though through the front glass windows I could still clearly see the musician. His fingers were purposefully pounding the pistons, repeating phrases and practicing motifs. At one moment he seemed despondent, but then rallied and his fingers danced a can-can of sorts which seemed to please him. 

I stepped forward on line, stepping incrementally closer to the register but never taking my eyes off the solitary player, in public but without an audience.

"A black coffee, no room for milk."

The player began to dance, or at least bob and dip his shoulders to the left and then the right to the tune he heard. A sonata? The opening blast of Mahler's 5th (duh duh duh dahhhhh), or his own composition? I began to wave my hand in the air and conduct ("was that room for milk?"), signaling the tympani to come in low, giving a round wave over my head to signal a sweep of strings, "give some room to the first trumpeter, won't you?" He needs his room! 

"With room for milk, sir?"

"Without!" Crescendo. 

No that won't do! The horn must be more prominent. Staccato doesn't mean deafening!

"Do you wish to pay, sir? There are actually other customers."

I spun around, taking my eyes off the soloist. I was waving 2 dollar bills like a baton in the baristas now red face.

"Sorry. There's a..."

"There's a line, sir."

I handed him the two dollars. 

"At the counter." He dropped a pair of dimes on the counter and looked over my shoulder to the next person.

I got my coffee, sipped in cautiously and stepped out. I looked both ways, checking if anyone else had seen the soloist.  I gingerly approached his window and knocked. He spun to me, wide eyed and rolled down his window.

"Oh I'm so sorry, sir. I didn't mean to disturb. I didn't meant to do it here, but, see, I've got no place else to practice. Such an imposition on my part."

He was red in the face, near melting with embarrassment.

"No, not at all," I beseeched. "No worry, I was just..."

"No, it's terribly inappropriate."

He tossed the trumpet on the passenger seat, and turned the key in the ignition.

"So sorry. Never again! I Promise I'll never do it again." He sped away.

I looked around. Had anyone seen? I peered into the coffee establishment. The barista was glaring at me with unbridled hatred.

-Robert de Saint-Loup