Lost In Place (24 page)

“Jesus!” he yelled, roaring with laughter, “seventeen years old in this day and age and he hasn’t gotten laid yet? Oh, Christ, Mark! If when I was your age I knew what I know now, I’d be getting laid every night with a different girl! I could have any girl I wanted!” He snapped his fingers for emphasis.

Ed never specified exactly what it was that he didn’t know then but did know now beyond saying, “All ya gotta do is know what to say, and when to say it. That’s all ya gotta do, fresh-face.” He even bought me a pack of rubbers to put in my wallet in case I got lucky someday.

Working full-time made me realize that if I wanted to keep up with music I had to be more disciplined about my practice time. I talked with my mother about it, and delighted that I was asking her advice, she suggested that what I needed was a concrete goal to work toward. There was a youth music competition coming up in a month, she said; if I wanted to give it a try, I would have to prepare
one required movement of Bach and one piece of my own choice. Since I had not had a formal cello lesson in almost four years, and it wouldn’t be fair to start with a new teacher just for the competition, she would do her best to coach me. I would have to practice at night—every night.

I decided to give it a go. The next day my dad mentioned on our commute that I’d better take the competition seriously; all of the judges knew Mom, so in a way her reputation was at stake. She was the one signing the entry form as my sponsor, saying that she thought I was qualified and wouldn’t be wasting the judges’ time.

My mother’s reputation! Talk about pressure. I decided to keep my chosen piece a surprise from everyone until the competition. I started practicing steadily at night, but that still didn’t give me enough time, so I took to waking up at five and doing quiet scales before breakfast. There
still
wasn’t enough time, so I started bringing my cello to work every day. I kept it down in the file basement, and instead of going out for lunch I brought a sandwich down there and practiced.

My mother tried to help me with the Bach, but the truth was that I didn’t spend nearly enough time on it; I was really focusing on my optional piece. She tried several times to warn me that I would regret not having the Bach in better shape, but I didn’t, or couldn’t, listen. “I just hope you remember that this is a
classical
music competition,” she said when I insisted on keeping my optional piece a secret. Oh, it’s classical, I assured her.

Somehow I made it to the finals. That Sunday afternoon we finalists had to play our required
and
our chosen piece on a stage in front of the judges, and the auditorium was open to the public. Annette and even a bunch of my Laserium buddies—except for Michael—had come to
cheer me on. I came out and played the Bach … badly. Then I walked offstage, tore off my jacket and shirt, put on Annette’s Nehrudelic outfit, brought my cello out and laid it across my lap. I could see my mother closing her eyes.

I’d prepared a morning raga, a piece of
classical
Indian music. At least I can say that I played it better than I had the Bach. When I finished all my friends started yelling “Encore!” and “Eat a peach for Duane Allman!” and held their pocket lighters up in the air as if it were a rock concert.

Miraculously, I took second place. The winner was a boy whose eyeline barely reached up to my belt. It was a bit of a letdown having to stand next to this toddler while he got the bigger trophy, but he deserved the prize; that kid was something. That night my parents were actually in a good mood over something I had done, and it came as a gigantic relief to me.

A few days later my mother handed me an envelope. “It’s the judges’ remarks,” she said. “I always look at them because there’s usually at least one helpful critical comment there.” I didn’t really want to read criticism, but curiosity got the better of me. There were five judges, only one of them a cellist. The four noncellists all had polite things to say about the Bach, but it was obviously the raga that had won them over; in fact, they had given me such high marks for it that it seemed I should have gotten first prize rather than second. When I read the cellist’s sheet, however, my face turned red with shame.

“The second piece was not cello playing,” he scrawled, “so I can’t comment on it. The Bach was a mess. Dreadful left-hand technique, no bow control at all. Possibly musical, but how can you tell through that disastrous technique?
Scratchy sound, squeaks, weak tone, etc.” In each category he had given me the lowest possible numerical score except for “Originality.” He was pretty generous there.

I showed it to my mother and she froze. At first I didn’t know what was going on, but then I realized that she was furious. “Who is this?” she fumed, her hands shaking with rage. She tore the sheet out of my hand and looked at his name. “William Turner …” she read aloud. “I’ll find out who this is and I’ll write him a letter and tell him exactly what I think of this! Nobody has the right to say such mean things about you! Nobody!” Tears of anger filled her eyes; I don’t think I’d ever seen her so mad. I almost had to wrestle her to the ground to keep her from driving out to the guy’s house and challenging him to a fight. It made a queer kind of sense, though; she’d been so frustrated with me for so many months, and had struggled to keep her temper under control all that time, but now that I had again done something she was proud of she wasn’t about to let some pedant ruin it.

I managed to convince my mother that my feelings weren’t hurt and that the man’s review hadn’t crushed me; in fact, reading his comments had brought a familiar sensation back to me. It was the same feeling I’d had whenever Sensei O’Keefe yelled at me, the feeling that I must have found a true master at last. If this guy thinks my playing is so bad, I thought, maybe he’s the teacher I need. I called him the next day and made an appointment for a lesson.

When I showed up for my first lesson Mr. Turner set me up in a music room, sat back in a black leather chair and said, “All right, I’m not sure I remember what your playing
was like. Play whatever you want.” He looked like the lawyer Alan Dershowitz, and had not smiled once since I arrived.

The only piece of Western music I knew was the Bach, so I started in on it. After five bars he was wincing; he wasn’t putting it on, either—he was actually in pain.

“OK, OK,” he said, stopping me. “I remember now. You don’t have to go on.”

Mr. Turner sat quietly for a moment, as if not sure where to begin. “I have to tell you that I think that was the worst cello playing I’ve ever heard in a competition,” he said. He seemed to be waiting to see if I would get angry and leave. When I didn’t budge he got up, picked up his own cello and said, “Listen for a minute, and watch me closely.”

He glanced at my copy of the music, frowned, then tossed it on the ground like a pair of filthy underwear. “The first thing I want you to do is to go home and burn that edition,” he said. Then he closed his eyes and played the piece from memory.

He was great; I hadn’t heard cello playing like that up close since the Parisot concert when I was seven. His body was completely relaxed, as if it took no effort at all for him to play like that.

When he finished Mr. Turner looked at me and said, “Who are you studying with now?”

“No one. I haven’t had a lesson since I was thirteen.”

“Oh! no wonder!” he shouted. “Why didn’t you say so? OK, so maybe you’re not the
worst
cellist I’ve ever heard! But wait a minute—who sponsored you for the competition?”

I told him the whole story of how I’d done it so that my parents wouldn’t think I had ruined my life.

“Ah, ah. I see. OK. Maybe it’s not all that bad after all. If you’d been studying with someone, that would have been bad news because by now you shouldn’t be having all those technical problems. Maybe we can solve them; there’s hope now. But what is it you want out of this? What’s your goal?”

I really hadn’t given this much thought. I was already starting to get bored with jazz; what was I going to do? It was one of those odd situations where you feel obliged to come up with a life plan in an instant, so I did my best: “I’ll be going to Yale in the fall, and I want to major in music. Ultimately I’d like to perform.”

“Not as a cellist?” he asked, looking doubtful.

“Yes. If I work hard starting now, could I get in shape in time?”

He shook his head, finally smiling. “You know who teaches at Yale, don’t you? Aldo Parisot! I’ll be perfectly honest with you. If he heard you play right now he’d sue for damages. I really don’t know if you’re being realistic here.… I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being a good amateur.”

Amateur! How I hated that word! “What if I work
really, really
hard?” I asked.

“Mm …”

“I mean
really
hard,” I repeated, unintentionally gesturing with my hand the way Mr. Rowland had always done.

He shrugged. “I guess you’ve got to try. But listen, if it doesn’t work out, I don’t want you saying that I led you on or anything. I’ll be straight with you. Every single cellist I know who plans to major in cello at college and go on to a performance career is several long years ahead of you in terms of technique. I’m not saying it’s impossible,
exactly, but you should be aware that it would be highly unusual if you pulled it off.” He paused. “
Highly
unusual. Just so you know.”

If I had been a true pessimist like my dad, I would have taken the man’s cautionary advice to heart. But being a synthetic pessimist, I reacted in precisely the opposite way. His grim prognosis filled me with so much energy that I could barely sit still through the lesson; the thought that proving him wrong and beating the odds would redeem me, wash away my sins and make me a genuine hero made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t felt since getting my white belt from Sensei O’Keefe. Kung fu had been silly, though; this was a serious calling, and this time I was fighting to climb back from a genuine fall. It was uphill this time, my back was against the wall, the chips were down, a lot was at stake, and my reputation—my whole life, actually—depended on it. I got busy starting that very night.

16
 

M
y fears that The Incident had ruined my relationship with my parents forever proved exaggerated. As soon as I started getting up early in the morning again, my father relaxed, and as long as I practiced Bach every night my mother seemed convinced that I would turn out fine. After ten weeks on the job I’d saved over a thousand dollars, and this time it was going straight into the bank. No more throwing money away on cars, I decided. My dad had just bought my mother a used Karmann Ghia, so now I could pick Annette up in something sportier than a bus and didn’t feel the same need to have my own car.

Halfway through my eleventh week at work I nullified my wise, money-saving decision by demolishing the Karmann Ghia. I was on my way to see Annette right after dinner one night, I had a green light at a familiar intersection, I was driving within the speed limit, I had signaled my left turn, and I had been straight for two months, but
it was dusk and for some reason I didn’t see the full-size American car coming from the opposite direction. We crashed head-on, and the Karmann Ghia got the worst of it by far. I wasn’t wearing a seat belt and my face went right into the pre-safety-glass windshield, but I was saved from serious injury by a stupid hat that I had made myself out of a piece of leather Scott had given me. Inspired by something I’d seen on a poster for the movie
Shaft
, I had designed it and sewn it together by hand. It looked OK from a distance, but I could never keep it on my head; I had failed to put any sort of elastic band or stiff frame in it, so I had to flop it over the top of my head and let it lie there like a beanbag pillow that had lost most of its beans. I couldn’t wear it outdoors because the normal movement of walking or the slightest breeze made it slide off my head, so I kept it in the car and wore it when I drove. When our cars crashed, it slid down over my face and acted as a shield, so all I got was a bruise on my forehead. Fortunately the other fellow wasn’t hurt at all, and when he saw me climb out of the wreck unscathed, he was too relieved to even be angry. I was very lucky.

I climbed out and looked at what had once been our sporty Volkswagen. “My dad is going to be real mad about this,” I remember telling the other man, and I started trying to unbend the metal with my hands for some reason that seemed plausible at the time. As a policeman filled out a report, my eighth-grade earth science teacher drove by, stopped to see if anybody needed CPR (he taught the course every year, but never got to use it in real life), then offered to drive me home. “My dad is going to be real mad about this,” I kept saying, but the earth science teacher insisted that my parents would both be glad I was alive.

The Karmann Ghia was towed away, the flares burned out, the policeman gave me a ticket and then it was time to go home. After reassuring me that my dad probably would not kill me, my former teacher dropped me off and I made the long walk up the driveway. When I went into the house my mother said, “Mark, you’re all pale! Are you all right?”