‘Is this seat taken?”
From the corner of my eye I’d seen, low and behold, an opening on the aisle of the plane’s first row. Bisecting three seats was a college kid. Clean-cut as he was, his shoulder length hair would have, in the day, caused my father to call the Board Of Health. On the window, straddling a seat, was a monstrous case carrying (apparently), a musical instrument.
“It’s yours,” smiled the kid. .
“This seems too good—like First Class,” I told him. “Why don’t people want to sit by you?”
Sensing instantly that he knew I was joking, a bond created, and on a 57 minute flight to Chicago, friendship was born.
“What’s in the box?” I asked him, eyeing the plastic.
“A cello.’
That’s when he told me they didn’t make him store it underneath, that he’d paid for two seats.
“Did you ever think of playing the flute?” I wondered (aloud).
His name was Jason and he was from Portland. Freshman year under his belt, he was heading home for the summer. And he shared….
About how his parents had given him opportunities to find a school he wanted— that it was about two years ago they were scouting schools—that he’d chosen the College Of Wooster.
How great it was, I thought…his having such fervor for music that he’d fly ‘cross the country in pursuit.
“It’s great to have passion for something,” I lamented, (but not in a sad way). I told him how at Ohio State I’d thought of going into show business, perhaps writing or something. I spoke further of the real world setting in, my falling in love, going on to grad school, and how while I enjoy what I do, it’s not like I wake up everyday and can’t wait to get there.
“What do you want to do with your music?” came my inquiry.
“I’m also taking German studies,” he shrugged.
Our talk slowing, I turned to my book. Soon, though, he broke the silence.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
“Better than that,” I told him. “I’m content.”
Pensively he rejoined: “Good answer.”
We talked some more. He spoke of a twelve hour flight he’d taken. “My trips are short,” I mentioned. “New York or Chicago. “
“How long’s your layover?” I asked.
“An hour.”
It would still be evening, said Jason, when he’d land in Portland. “I’m chasing the sun,”
I recounted of Alan, how he’d fallen in love on line, resigned a tenured chair, and moved out to Portland. I spoke too of Chuck from Chuck’s Diner…how he’d also moved there a few years back.
We spoke about television (“Portlandia’), life, and people. He told of a homeless guy and how the man had refused aid. Oddly, we sensed, people shun the homeless, almost fear them. Still, I told him, “Most people are nice” He agreed.
We were in final descent and I kept thinking how lucky this kid was. His whole life lay in front of him. He had, as Ben Selzer would say, “The world by the kalooms.” I thought too of how, (gut-level honesty), I’d never have had the stones to leave Ohio in search of fame and fortune. How it’s just easier, cozier…to say so. How if I couldn’t stand the solitude of one summer at Michigan State…..
The plane touched down. With a thud. Instinctively my friend held his cello, nurturing it
“Stick with the music,” I said. “Stick with your passion.”
He nodded.
“Enjoyed the talk,” he said. “I love talking to strangers.”
(And then I couldn’t resist):
“Do you know how you get to Carnegie Hall?” I asked him.
“No,” he said, looking at me as if I was The Yoda, as if I knew.
“Practice,’ I told him. ‘Practice.”
(The joke was old, of course. ‘ First heard it from my grandmother. Still: being able to share it, all these years later, left me not only happy, but—BETTER YET—content).
Here we go again.
Bruce, Bruce, Bruce….
The joke is: “How do you get to SEVERANCE Hall?” Have you forgotten all I taught you about George Szell?
sweet, sweet story. if you were going to chicago i know you were good.