A person with whom I've recently become friends invited me to a musical get-together with some of his friends. Knowing only a little of music from the piano lessons my parents made me take when I was younger, I voiced some concerns about my ability to contribute, but he told me not to worry -- I'd fit right in. Reassured, I readily accepted the invitation and he told me they liked to dress up and pretend it was an important occasion.
The day of the gathering, I showed up to my friend's house armed with my plastic recorder from elementary school and dressed nicely. But to my embarrassment, my friend was dressed in a tuxedo and carrying a very old and expensive looking violin. Again, he told me not to worry and that everyone would be happy to have me there, that my clothing was perfect and that they'd been needing a recorder player for a while.
So we got in his car and and went to a parking lot behind a large and vaguely familiar building. My friend looking at his watch and urged me to hurry -- we were, apparently, almost late -- so we walked quickly into the building through heavy double doors. After following a narrow and winding corridor, we entered what I saw was a giant concert hall. My friend led me to the second chair violin seat (he sat in the first place) and, noticing my hesitation, again assured me that I would be perfect for the part. I tried to explain that I had no musical talent past a little piano from long ago and when I played with recorder music when I was bored; I didn't even own a violin, how could I be in the second chair seat? My friend, seemingly surprised that I was worried about a violin when he'd said I could play recorder, produced one from somewhere and handed it carefully to me.
Just then the lights turned on with a loud series of clicks and the rest of the orchestra quickly came in and began tuning. After only a few minutes, the conductor came in and announced to the orchestra that today was the day of the most important performance they'd ever played -- it was for someone unfathomably eminent and powerful who I'd heard of but not realized exactly who they were.
All through this I was becoming more and more nervous but my friend wouldn't let me leave -- it would all turn out okay he said.
The conductor turned and addressed the only two people in the audience -- an old man and a younger man who looked like his son. After a scant few words, the conductor turned, and, without hesitation, the orchestra started to play.
The music was a confusing jumble of sounds -- now and then a single instrument would become audible above the rest -- there wasn't any discernible beat and, as I found when I looked around, no one had any music. Some musicians were smiling jubilantly and others had tears quietly running down their cheeks. I felt the urge to cover my ears, but refrained since I was already out of place. I couldn't bring myself to pick up either the violin or the recorder; all I wanted to do was leave, but I couldn't find a way to do so unobtrusively.
After an uncomfortable half hour, the conductor motioned for the end of the piece and the sound cut off abruptly except for an oboe and the tympani. Everyone waited patiently and silently for them to finish and then stood as one to bow. Then they remained standing and watched the two men eagerly as if waiting for praise at their playing. But the men's expressions never changed and they just stood and left.
The orchestra packed up and left silently. In the car on the way back, my friend said nothing and I felt awkward breaking the tense silence. I wasn't sure whether I was annoyed at my friend for taking me to the concert or if I was afraid he was mad at me for not playing.
When we reached my apartment, I climbed out of the car and turned to thank him for the ride. My friend remarked, "We've played and played and are never good enough. Maybe we haven't waited long enough. Maybe next time we'll be good enough."
I wondered if they ever practiced but I said nothing. Instead, I turned and walked quickly inside.
I never touched an instrument again.
