I entered the hall so late for rehearsal I came in with my cigarette still lit. I stabbed it out against a metal music stand as I passed through the backstage, signed in and pushed the heavy black curtains aside. I tiptoed toward the eighth seat, in a cello section of eight musicians, and took my seat. I could feel the impatience of the prepared orchestra like a percussionist waits to hit the kettledrum. My partner had the music set up on the stand and said we were waiting for the guest conductor. “She’s late, like you,” he said.

As I set up the cello, pulling the end point out to the floor to eventually sit it between my knees. I thoughtlessly ran the pad of my finger up and down the silvery end-point. This is a very dangerous and daring thing to do with your finger, the end point being as sharp as any addict’s needle. I was amazed at how I could tattoo the wood floor with it or place it in a little spot that splits the floor clean, but weirdly it did not cut my skin. I looked around as befuddled at that, as at all the silent anticipation. I hung my arm around the cello and waited.

Then she walked in.

It was like she had just finished a dusty dismount from her wild black stallion after a long ride through the tumbleweed desert and into a small western town. A stranger as beautiful as the amazement all the townspeople felt at just the sight of her. She walked confidently and pushed her cowboy hat back. Her blue eyes blazing, beads of sweat about her face, removing her leather riding gloves fingertip-by-fingertip while she walked to center stage and stepped onto the podium and leaned an elbow against the music stand. I swore, in my haze of love, that she was going to say, “Get me a whiskey.” Instead she shyly tapped the microphone and said, “Is this on?”

My God she was beautiful. It was like my eyes were smoking the ultimate cigarette, my head echoing all reality to the point of silliness. I could actually see myself running to tell Sam about her although he doesn’t know much about women. She’s not like Tootsie, I’d tell him, except the red hair, I’d say everything I knew about her even though I didn’t know anything about her. I was running the commentary while sloppily glued to her every molecule like paper mache.

“Hello, everyone, I’m Melody Barnes,” she said into the microphone.
Her name was Melody Barnes.
“I am your guest conductor for the week.”
She’s the guest conductor all week!
“I am so lucky to be able to tell all of you who just won the instrument soloist competition just finished this morning.”
What?
“They just finished the competition an hour ago and I get to relay the good news. It’s one of our own musicians here. Playing Rubinstein’s Melody in F, Opus 3, No. 1, Shannon Reed won the competition and I understand, from my sources, the panel’s vote was unanimous,” she announced.

“I know you’re probably surprised to have me break the news to the orchestra Shannon,” Melody said, “congratulations, take a bow.” She swung her beautiful arm beckoning me and clapping along with all the others present.

There are so few moments in life that compare to this. It’s true your eyebrows rise above your eyes and get pinned there. I wished I had more experience with such grand offerings, maybe then I would know how to get them down. Rapid ideas, which usually moseyed, ran as if on escalators through my brain stomping out the cells I needed to speak with. I’d known for an hour by now, but the shock still hadn’t settled in. This was one of the happiest moments for me, as I have auditioned, every year, since the celebration was underwritten in 2000. Actually, I never expected to win it.

I had no flowery enlightenments for people, when asked, or noble insight as to why I won. Saying, “Now I don’t have to panhandle in Washington Square Park anymore,” as the only response to the pressure of questions, I could muster, at least until I got home and then I could dance on the coffee table. But I was left to wrestle with the glorious standoff going on in my soul; the Washington Square Park comment was partially true. There have been times when I played matinees to make ends meet. It’s more a philosophical standoff though. The one that argues: corruption – the win came with a rather large purse – or love of the game. Do I do this out of love of music or am I a corporate sell out ultimately looking for a record deal? It’s a moral battle in every musician’s head, mine a lone wind come and gone, a ghost town. But, now it’s turned into a tornado causing all sleeping rabbits there – to scamper away. After the rehearsal when I left to meet Sam at Lincoln Center, I raised my moral white flag in defeat. I needed the silence.

Sam was waiting for me in the dazzling light of a dark evening – his ecstasy fueling his eyes to glow so fully they rivaled the bright lights of Broadway nicely. I didn’t have to tell Sam, he already knew. He was elated for me and hugged me, grown man to grown man. But I swear he wrapped himself around me so tightly, he could’ve whittled me down to an eight-year-old boy again.

“Shit Sam it’s not like I won an extra goldfish at the Halloween carnival.” Sam put up a peace sign, I thought he’d say two beers, but he said, “Two words, champagne.”