David sat in a small, dark auditorium in downtown San Francisco watching Tori A---- perform. The tickets had been a Christmas gift to his wife, and at fifty dollars each, he wondered why they couldn't get closer to the stage. Tori sat at her piano, a nervous showman, her body twitched as she strained at odd angles...he admired her work ethic.
He glanced over at Linda who seemed lost in Tori's jarring, high pitched voice. He was glad that she was enjoying herself, but wished he were closer to her age and shared more of her cultural interests, so that he could enjoy the concert with her. Instead he looked around the auditorium, at the couples, at the stage, at the cheap lighting, and thought about the pouring rain, and the long trip back home to Santa Rosa.
Tori finished one song and immediately began another. "A woman of few words" he thought with approval, but after she applied the same formula to several songs, his opinion turned less generous. He thought to yell out, "Where's the fire, got to be somewhere in a hurry?" but of course he wasn't the type to make a spectacle of himself. So instead, he just sat and scowled at Tori, wondering how much she was being paid for this concert, wondering if she slowed her pace for the bigger venues. He remembered a quote from a famous athlete: smiling wider with each example, he told a reporter, "This is my million dollar smile, this is my two million dollar smile...this is my three million dollar smile." David laughed to himself, "I guess this is her one million dollar performance."
Tori began yet another song, again without any foreshadowing...the background hologram changed and he assumed the music she now performed pertained to the illustration. He tried to listen for a moment but grew bored. "She does have a nice voice" he thought, but he also believed that it grated on the listener with her seemingly hurried approach, which to him, coveted insincerity. He knew he was probably being unfair, but right then he didn't care.
He scanned the auditorium, most of the audience were younger than him, most seemed to be in their late twenties and early thirties and were well-dressed, good-looking and neatly groomed. Glancing at his wife, she looked like them, beautiful, effervescent, he felt out of place...and as she watched Tori perform, he seemed oblivious to her.
He leaned in to his wife, and tried to speak above the music. "Having fun?" he asked, and as she replied, her lips moved, but it was difficult to hear her words, though she smiled as she spoke so he added, "I've heard this song before, I think I've heard you playing it at home."
"Yes," he could hear her say, and struggled to listen, "I have the CD, this song is one of my favorites." He nodded silently, now it was his turn to smile, he didn't want to compete with the music.
Many in the audience stood and swayed to the music, couples, uninhibited, sang along as they danced. He looked again at his wife and knew she too would like to be standing, feeling the rhythm. He knew he held her back, he was not a demonstrative person, and he felt bad, he knew she restrained her emotions, for him. “If I had been worth a damn," he thought, “I would have take the initiative, stand and grab her by the hand.” But to be that exposed, that much out of his element was too much for him and so he sat, and felt inadequate.
Again he tried to listen to Tori's lyrics, but the sound system in that small auditorium made it impossible. Instead, he remembered an interview he'd seen on television a few days before. Tori sat at the piano and looked meaningfully at the camera. She sang in a leisurely manner, but seemed to stress the parts of the song she felt significant by leaning almost imperceptibly toward the camera and by a slight widening of her eyes. What irony, that here in this auditorium she didn't make much eye contact, instead concentrated on her piano. "I guess someone in a hurry doesn't notice the incidental scenery" he scoffed quietly.
A young woman a few rows in front of him danced. She moved her full hips provocatively to the music, and he followed her movements, her straight hair undulating as she swayed. She was quite young, twenty-five maybe and he felt guilty, for looking, but he envied her freedom...even as he was repulsed by it.
Tori hurried into another song which allowed him to again drift back in time...during that same television show, he remembered a comment she'd made, "My legs are like roots of a tree." Waking to the present, he looked at her feet, she pounded them often, as the rhythm demanded..."Leaves caught in the wind he thought, but not roots." Again he silently mocked her superficiality.
In that interview, she seemed affected, feigning an importance, a significance to her work better suited to those without talent. He found it odd that she'd want to frame her music, to create the queue by which we could view its significance. Oddly he remembered a passage from The Catcher In The Rye that he always admired,
"I certainly like to hear him play, but sometimes you feel like turning the goddamn piano over. I think it's because sometimes when he plays, he sounds like the kind of guy that won't talk to you unless you're a big shot."
Was that it? That after all those Grammy awards and gold records, she still wanted to be a big shot and all those millions of dollars hadn't convinced her of it yet? At least that is what his cynicism allowed him to believe as he sat watching her perform.
Here, at the concert, the affectations were far less, and yet, her lack of interaction seemed to express those same pretensions. It reminded him that there was more than one way to see the same thing, and just because someone sees it differently doesn't mean what they saw wasn't accurate. It was a small solace, this thought, for he would rather have been home sleeping.
The audience stood to applaud, which they did intermittently, whenever one of her better known songs began, and he stood too, but his thoughts were still on the interview and how she answered questions in an almost falsetto voice...rising to stress what she believed was important...but with every sentence she did the same thing, like it was scripted or choreographed..."What a sham" he'd thought at the time, and he said that same phrase even louder when later in the interview she suddenly leaned in near the microphone and whispered into it...for emphasis he guessed. A shiver ran down his back as he thought of the pretension of such an act. At the time, he'd laughed loudly at the screen and had turned off the set.
Tori's voice filtered back into his consciousness and he looked at the stage, at her band, and wondered what they thought? Was this just a gig? Just a paycheck? Was it a dream? Or was Tori just a stepping stone until each was able to headline on their own? He watched the bass player and asked him silently, "Are you like most sycophants, and say everything that curries favor with Ms. Tori? When she walks into rehearsal does she know your name? Does she call you John or Joe, or does she quietly walk to her piano avoiding eye contact?"
He thought...was this concert ever going to end?
Tori twitched nervously on stage and that reminded him of the television program again. The interviewer asked how performing affected her, and she replied, "Like a snake I just shed a different skin." Her tone was serious as her eyes focused on the interviewer and let them linger there. He remembered laughing derisively. How refreshing it would have been if she'd just said, "I don't know, I just sing and play this damned piano." He swore he'd have fallen in love with her right then, would have become a serious Toriphile for life.
But she still had those vain needs and desires, even after all that fame, she needed validation and proof that her work had importance and relevance. He felt kinder toward her after that, having understood, despite it all, she was fragile like everyone else.
The ample hipped young woman didn't seem to have these concerns. She continued to stand throughout, her arms waving to the music, he doubted she had any worries about the singer's affectations, and so again, he felt ashamed, and guilty.
For a woman in a hurry, the concert seemed interminable. He wondered what time it was and pushed the button on his watch, lighting the dial. Eleven thirty at night...he wished again that he was home and in bed. He looked over at his wife and smiled. He loved her and hoped she loved him too, but he wasn't sure. At times she seemed happy with him, but she didn't really act like a woman in love...not that he really knew what that should look like. He wanted to hold her hand, but didn't dare, he wasn't sure how she'd respond, and to be honest, he found public displays of affection embarrassing.
But she was beautiful, too much so, and he suddenly felt a shiver run through his body...one day she'd know that, know her worth. One day she would believe him when he told her the truth, that she was too good for him, and then what?
Suddenly he didn't want the concert to end. He wanted to suspend time, to keep the inevitable from happening. He wanted Tori to slow down, converse with the audience, tell them how her legs were like the roots of a tree, anything, just so it wouldn't end...for when the concert was over life would resume with all it's questions and insecurities. He'd go back to his dead-end job, working nights. Linda would go back to her profession where her out-going personality had assured a quick rise up the ladder...and she'd also go back to spending her nights alone, watching insipid reality shows...and they'd drift further apart...that now seemed obvious.
They were different people, she loved Tori and would be angry if he confided his thoughts, that despite her talent, Tori adorned it in affectation. She'd be hurt, and she'd be right, for he had no right to crucify what she loved. He felt bad, he knew that a decent man would find that common thread between his wife, her likes and himself. He felt small...and then he realized: who was he but someone living with his own pretension...and yet...he believed that most of it he couldn't change, for it was ingrained, and so he began to see saw Tori in a new light, and he hated that; he hated being that vain, that fragile. The mirror image he saw when he ridiculed the singer wasn't hers, but his own. He knew it wasn't her, it was him, he had the problem, what he saw was merely a reflection. He wondered what else there was that he hadn't seen.
Finally Tori stood, bowed to the audience and left, walking quickly off the stage, and as she did he wanted to stand and applaud, to hug his wife and call Tori the most amazing performer of any generation...yes he wanted to lie...because in lying he would mitigate his own guilt and could then prolong the inevitable. He thought for a moment that maybe he'd listen to Tori's albums and learn the lyrics, but he knew his wife would question his sudden interest and he didn't know where things might go from there. He also knew their relationship wasn't that simple, or superficial, it couldn't be fixed without real change.
He thought how ironic it was, that while everyone in the audience whistled and cheered, that he felt, instead, felt like crying. It was an odd place to have such a revelation, there, in the middle of two thousand people, and this made him feel trapped, and doomed, for he believed there was nothing he could do but to follow this personal apocalypse to its natural conclusion.
He looked at Linda and asked, “Are you ready?” She smiled and shook her head, yes. He reached for her hand, and she eagerly took it. He squeezed it tight, as if he might lose her and they headed for the exit, and into the rain that punctuated the night.
In a list
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Comments
1 - 34 of 34
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wow..i didnt know how to start precisely, so i scrolled down and had a look at the comment column...(mr, miss, ms) waydownuponjoy wrapped it up for me nicely..precisely how i felt
an intriguing and intellectual piece you've created here, yem...i do wish there were more in this series.
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Ms. Her name is Joy. She's a nice lady and like you, a good poet.
Thank you Charli with a J but no E.
Real life is easy to write about, even if I told you earlier only I exist.
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I only watch the drummer in any band and resent the vocalist for taking up space and camera shots. I love all drummers.
A fine story which inspires me to maybe write about the dead boy that I have in my head. 
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I did ...
take the time this morning to read your enlightening story and in my humble opinion ... it should be considered to be only one chapter in a forthcoming book with the same title, "Silent All These Years". It's not often that a man voices his private thoughts unless they pertain to politics or sex! I found your story to be very interesting and well written, for anything that is called 'fiction' but holds my attention is certainly worthy. As I read your story I found your thought processes to be openly honest and believeable, which is always of interest to me when something is marked as fiction! I could identify with the way your mind meandered and yet tried to stay on track with the concert that was disappointing, to say the least. I've done alot of the same kind of bizarre-sort-of thinking at dances, at church services, at funerals, or almost anywhere where the mind has time to wander. I think it's perfect how you've shared what some just think (like me) and in that thought alone I find your story would be of interest to more folks. Add to it with more chapters of your astute perceptions at other places and times and you've got a book of secrets, which women just adore! Yem, you do have a talent that is quite noticable to me and it is slanted toward a sheer honesty that is humbling. I always appreciate your comments as they tend toward the same kind of inner/outer dialog and add a sense of reward to this writer that is not often found. I did note one typo in this prose piece, Isn't it a "bass" player that would be part of a band?
I was glad to find this more serious piece by you this AM! Thanks for going ahead and sharing it! j
y
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Thank you for taking the time to read it. I will look for the typo. I think there might be one or two others but I am too lazy to read it another time, lol.
It's of course based on real life. I did add thoughts that occurred at different times to the time frame so it's not strictly true.
I've written hundreds of serious stories (of varying degrees) but I usually just archive them on another account that no one bothers to notice.
Anyway, thank you for taking the time to read it, I knew if anyone would find it even remotely interesting it would have to be some one who loved words and writing because there is no action here/
Yes, it was intended as a longer work, this was chapter one, but I never got around to finishing it. And now, that chapter in my life is best left closed.
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Aha, now cast in bronze
to protect it from changes
and deletions!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And Beau all silvered.
Now go celebrate;
treat the gang to Moxie!
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Mariza hates bronze trophies, I'm starting to agree.
Yem
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I like this story really...well maybe it's Tori A if my thoughts are right that she is.
Wow! on the initiative of the guy to go watch the concert...it doesn't matter if he didn't like the artist. Well for me, it's the thought that counts hehe. I would like a guy to bring me to concerts.
I don't think a dialogue would be necessary since it is a concert scenario...too loud for conversation and of course, the lack of focus...
or maybe it just me...when I watch the concert, I tend to be absorbed that I forgot I have company hehe...esp when my favorite song is being performed.
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Thanks for reading it! I'm sorry, you deserve a guy who'll bring you to lots of events. We'll get out the guy catalog and take a look. I'm sure there is a fancy model out there somewhere who fits that description. I'll order him up and send him your way...you have to pay the postage however.
Thanks for reading, I appreciate it!
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No need to apologize though you did start to lose me after a while. I could relate to the man's lack of enjoy at the concert and to his enjoyment at times, t the way his attention wandered.
I think this piece might be improved by a sprinkling of dialogue between the man and his wife, interspersed with his thoughts. The thoughts were interesting at first but too long as you said.
I liked the man's thoughts about the relationship with his wife and that could be developed, I think.
Thank you for entering my contest. -
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Thank you for your honesty. I shall take your suggestions into consideration, yes, dialog would help, maybe in flashbacks, but it's already too long for your contest but will add it just for my own sake, Thanks for reading, I know it was longer than you had asked for, I appreciate it.
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tori as a vehicle for emotional dysfunction, it works perfectly... i saw her in an interview on the daily show once, didn't say a damn thing other than "i like wine." i enjoyed the story, think i've been there before, going to shows you don't want to see to make someone happy always ends up being more taxing than you thought when you made the promise.
i like the way you worked the interview into the show, works well to bring in elements of the narrator's life, this is really well done!
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"I like wine." I can hear and see her saying that.
Thank you.
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This is an excellent story! I so enjoyed reading about his thoughts while the show was busy. Very accurate details with the switching from present to memories. However he said not to be at home in such place, he did used his time so well, and the same place (the artist actually) provoked a sea of thoughts.
I have had experiences like that, in places I didn't really wanted to be, or with people talking to me about things that didn't pull any interest in my mind. That is when the mind drifts and goes to places so different than most people around us go.
Hm, ok I think I'm talking too much now.
I came, I read and want to say that this is very good.
But you and prose, not a surprise at all
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You read this once before, but you maybe don't remember. I've done some cosmetic work on it since then however.
Thank you Ginger.
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This little snippet brings so much into my thoughts because, I think, it speaks to so many of us who are "bound by invisible ties" as Moon noted. I remember so clearly standing in my mother's kitchen, I was a young teen and wanted so much to just say I love you, but couldn't. Those damn invisible ties...
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That has been a thought of mine to, that wanting to but unable to say that to my mom. Kind of sad we have to be that way. Thanks.
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<
When V comments on one of my thingies I feel honored in deed! I am quite serious about that! Because while I don't often get them, I know I am getting a comment from the person I respect the most when it comes to fiction.
And while it's a little slow and boring, I did try to emply something I learned from you, and that is to just slow down and tell my story. I would have slowed it down even more, gone more into small detail but I would have put the contest host into a catatonic state she would never have wakened from.
Thank you T2-V I'm serious, I am honored by your comment!
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Amidst the noise of the audience,
the performer's "high pitched voice,"
the hero contemplates, attempts to see
relevancy, whether just his interpretation
or true reality.
The story unfolds as if the hero is coming of age,
growing up, right there in his concert seat,
realizing his perceptions of the performer
on the stage might be a truer reflection
of himself than he has realized or would admit.
In addition to the challenges to his own situation
the hero expolores, his continued glancing around
the audience hints to the reader of all the other
stories circulating in the minds of the attendees.
What a confluence of life collected there.
The returning references to the TV interview
gives even more depth to the story, perceptions,
bias, accuracy or tinting it with one's own
beliefs.
In a Yemish departure from the main theme,
I saw in my mind, all the TV viewers seeing
the same debates, the same campaign clips,
but depending upon their own preconceptions
or prejudices having totally opposite views
as to what they had just seen or heard.
The conclusion, almost Chaplin-esque, as the
hero, both sad and yet clinging to the presnt
close moment, lives his fate silently, in
acceptance, exiting the scene.
Bravo, prose writer!
M-C
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Wow, if comments could receive gold trophies this one would get one! Thank you for taking the time to not only read the story but to do so patiently, because I know it is that kind of story that one who be lost if they skim it too much. I also know that it may be boring for all it really does is look at a moment and tries to show human shortcomings and perceptions. I will say now, It's not fair that anyone has to read my fiction. This is a poetry site, and as such I don't expect them to read it. I hesitate a long time before posting because I feel guilty, would have hidden this for the contest if I could. I even feel guilty knowing the host will most likely curse the late entry and the length, lol.
Anyway, thank you, this was fantastic. -
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Ah, thank you, Yem.
No skimming here, for the reader is caught
in the hero's mind, agonizing with him,
squirming in the seat, and then rooting
for him to hold on to his reality!
Gold, hmmmm! Merci! -
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platinum? That is higher than gold, right?
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Ah, degrees of being most precious!!!
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"My precious." What was that Lord of the Rings charater again? Sounded like Golem, but wasn't that. Also, was called Spiegel, or something like that. He was fun, I want to create a character like that.
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While reading the piece, the thought
of dialogue also entered my head, but
as I became more deeply entrenched in
the hero's head, I realized that dialogue
would give the wife a voice, giving her
more importance. But the hero was entrenched
in only his world, his judgements, his criticisms,
as if nothing wlse mattered, his own world of
self-torture, it would seem. Lost might be this
in depth look into the male mind, suffering along
with him, then awakening with his realizations,
rooting for him to hold on to her hand, tightly.
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It was my intention to avoid dialog, wishing to remain in his head until the end. Preferring internal dialog. The idea was to focus on that thinking, trying to analyze it...so I knew it would take a bit of patience to read, ah well.
Thanks. I will add some dialog but not a lot and it'll be in retrospect to keep in his head. Thanks!
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Staying with the "what's in a male mind"
as Moon mentioned also, I assume.
Not that much patience, the read, more
captivating, hanging in there with him... -
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Yep, the male, especially that one male's thinking. Thanks, but if the reader isn't interested in that male thought process they will get bored so the goal I guess is to find that middle ground for those who find it boring. But I am getting bored it it already.
How are you? I won't know until tonight, have to run. Feeling ok, btw, hopefully all is well there. Hey, McCain is playing fair these days! lol Bye
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Good for the btw!
Hmmmmm...M-C's alternate solution,
as the story continues----a rousing
good argument outside the auditorium!
Ah, but I become Yemish!
Normalcy here, which is wonderful!!!
Re "fair"---a new synonym for untruthful!
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See, fiction just comes naturally
to you...always a new idea,a new
character plucked right out of air!
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wow!
I have to tell you that I really loved this one. For years I have been wondering what goes on in the mind of a male and now I feel that I know.
There is a certain empathy in me for the man, he seems to be bound by invisible ties, fears if you will that I had never thought about before. A general fear of letting go.
very inciteful
for goodness sakes don't delete this one!
hehe
Moony
good luck
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Thank you! You didn't have to read my story, I know this is a poetry site and don't expect poets to do that, that is asking a lot from them. BUT...I do appreciate it since fiction is what I do like to write best. So thank you again!
Yes, guys don't share their feelings very well, especially us dumb ones who are unfortunately attracted to intelligent women. We spend our time feeling very inferior, lol.
So there is my lesson for the day...smart guys find smart women. All my dumb brothers, find yourselves dumb women!
Yes, that is all humor so please, no one yell at me!
Thanks, I appreciate it.
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whispering very softly (no yelling)
why on earth do you think
you are dumb?
I love stories and poetry and so does everyone else
stick with the smart women
they are much more fun
lol
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