life with more cowbell

Patrick’s hand flies to his chin, “Shit!” a thin red trickle streaming onto his index finger. He removes his hand to assess the damage, watching the coursing blood turn the shaving cream on the face of his steam-fogged reflection pink. Rinsing the wound, he fumbles for the toilet paper. There is none. “Fuck.”

      Wrapping a threadbare blue towel around his waist, he crosses his small basement bachelor apartment, grabbing some napkins left from some old Chinese take-out on the coffee table. The uneaten food is hard and brown, well on its way to becoming a mold colony beside half a forty-ouncer of Johnny Walker. He wipes the blood and shaving cream and haphazardly applies a large piece of napkin to the nick.

      Collapsing onto the couch that converts into a bed – when he bothers to pull the bed out, that is – he gropes for the remote and flicks the TV on. Staring blankly at the screen, still barely awake, he channel-surfs for a few moments, past Oprah, soaps and after-school cartoons. The Weather Channel says the weather is overcast with a high of twenty-three degrees Celsius, and there’s chance of showers and thunderstorms throughout the day and into the evening. It’s already 1:00 p.m.

      Oscar, a roundish ginger tabby, springs onto Patrick’s lap.

      “Morning, Oscar.” Patrick scratches the top of the cat’s head. Oscar purrs in reply.

      Patrick fumbles around the couch cushions for his cellphone and finds the message alert light flashing. There are two messages waiting for him. He can guess who at least one of them is from.

      Message one: “Patrick, this is Amanda. I’m tired of waking up next to the dent in my bed. We’re done.”

      Erase. Next message.

      Message two: “Hi, it’s Mum. The group is putting together a big Halloween party next week, dry of course. Call me wh—”

      Patrick taps Erase again and looks at the cat. “Let’s get some breakfast.”

      Oscar hops down and trots ahead of his pale, lanky friend a few steps to the opposite end of the apartment, where the kitchenette is located. Patrick plugs the kettle in, then grabs the bag of dry cat food from the lower cupboard, the cat circling his legs and purring ferociously. He pours food and fresh water for Oscar, retrieves a pack of cigarettes from the counter and lights up. Inhaling deeply, he leans against the stove, running a hand through his wet wavy black hair as he watches the exhaled smoke curl toward the ceiling. The snap of the kettle shutting itself off jars him back to attention. Cigarette stuck in his mouth, he makes himself a pour-over coffee, black no sugar, and opens the grimy, industrial beige drawer nearest him. He searches through the collection of airplane booze and selects a bottle of Canadian Club. Pouring the contents into his coffee, he trudges back to the couch.

      Sinking back into the dusty orange cushions, he alternates between spiked caffeine and nicotine. He turns to Oscar, raising his mug, “Breakfast. The most important meal of the day.”

      On the five nights a week that he works at Farinelli’s, Patrick arrives around 6 p.m. and heads straight for the kitchen. There, he gets a plate of the daily feature, and holes up in a corner, staying out of the way of the kitchen staff, who are already working furiously in the relative calm before the storm of the 8:00 p.m. rush.

      “So, how’s that sexy lady of yours?” Eddie, the slightly built young sous chef, asks as he steps aside for Chef Marco to taste the tomato sauce.

      “More basil. More basil!” Chef gives Eddie a light thwack on the back of the head with the flat of his hand.

“Yes, Chef!” Eddie replies.

      Patrick smirks and shrugs. “Okay, I guess.” He scoops another forkful of linguini into his mouth, slurp-inhaling the last long string of pasta.

      “Chew. Chew! Jesus, how are you going to enjoy it when you don’t bother to taste it? Besides, you’re going to piss Chef off,” Eddie adds, a bit more quietly.

      “Sorry.” He makes an obvious show of chewing the next mouthful. “Okay?”

      “Better.” Eddie turns his attention to preparing more fresh basil for the sauce. “So, she dumped you.”

      “She expressed some dissatisfaction with our present arrangement, but it was via voicemail. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her yet.”

      “She dumped you. Don’t worry, there’s lots more fish in the sea. For those of you who prefer fish, that is,” Eddie grins, stirring more basil into the sauce.

      “Yeah, like some wealthy ice princess who shows up here is gonna warm up to my impoverished yet talented charms and whisk me away to her palatial home in Forest Hill.”

      “Well, there is quite a stunning selection among the staff.” Eddie bats his eyes and blows a tomato-stained kiss at Patrick.

      “Eddie, quit flirting with Mr. Music and pay attention to the sauce!” Chef Marco barks.

“Yes, Chef!”

      “Sorry, Eddie, you’re just not my type,” Patrick shrugs.

      “Always with the jokes. You’re an attractive, ridiculously talented man. Full of shit, but mostly a nice guy. Find yourself a nice girl. Get your ass settled down.” Eddie continues stirring the sauce, adding a bit more red wine.

      “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I’m not exactly the catch of the day. Apparently, I have ‘commitment issues’.” Patrick reaches for the wine bottle.

      Eddie snatches the bottle away. “You are on duty in, like, five minutes. Have some coffee. And don’t you need to get changed?”

      “For the better?” Patrick snorts as he walks a few steps to the coffee pot and pours a cup.

      “Into the tails, pretty boy,” Eddie orders playfully, tasting the sauce and giving an appreciative nod.

      Patrick extracts a tarnished silver mickey from his coat pocket. It bears a permanent smudge, the faded monogram PMK in elegant script, and a dent at the bottom. He pours a generous amount of whiskey into his coffee.

      Eddie gazes at him intently, catching Patrick in the act.

      “Just a little Irish coffee, Ed. Take the edge off.”

      “Honey, you’re going to need a power sander take the edge off of you.”

      Patrick stops in mid-gulp and stares at his friend. Their usual friendly, goofy banter has taken a decidedly serious tone.

      Dressed in white tie and tails, Patrick sings along in his head as he finishes the latest anniversary request piece with a flourish of his bow. Fuck you. Whoa-oa-oa, fuck you. Whoa-oa-oa, fuck you… Feelings. It’s “their” song. Charming. Assholes. Once a favourite party trick from his days with the symphony, he can hear any piece once and play it, note for note. Now, it’s his job. Standing behind a faux marble column, he takes a discrete but healthy swig from the mickey. Who will it be tonight? Circling back into full view, he scans the restaurant, eyes gliding across the white linen covered tables… “You’re going to Queen’s and that’s final!”… over the heads of the well-heeled clientele perched on navy velvet chairs… “Just how long do you expect me to keep pouring money into this?!”… and past the brisk waiters bearing the various Italian dishes and imported wines. Antonio Farinelli, the jovial owner of the restaurant that bears his name, is chatting with an important regular, their conversation punctuated by his staccato belly laugh.

      Farinelli had followed Patrick Kelly’s career with great interest for some time and had befriended Patrick, who had frequented the restaurant during his touring days. At that time, Patrick’s childish antics on the job, tolerated as the expression of a precocious teenage genius, had brought things to a head in his early twenties. After “the incident” with conductor Saul Wasserstein, and being a no-show for his second sold-out performance, word of his petulant reputation and rumoured alcoholism sounded the death knell of his career. Farinelli had been greatly saddened to hear of his friend’s fall, and one drunken evening, after closing time, Patrick had offered his services as a musician for his restaurant.

      “You can’t be serious.” Farinelli had been sure it must have been the brandy talking.

      “I am totally serious.” Patrick swung an arm around the shoulder of his friend. “I love this place! And I can think of no better task than to serenade your lovely clientele as they dine on the finest Italian in Toronto.”

      “While what you say is true, I can’t help but feel that you’re playing a joke on your old friend. Uh?” Farinelli poked his young friend in the stomach.

      “Antonio, I have never been more serious in my life. Here, let’s shake on it.” He uncoiled his arm from Farinelli’s shoulder and held out his hand.

      Reluctantly, Farinelli had agreed. After recklessly spending all his money, Patrick was broke and had been evicted from his luxury condo rental. He needed a job and he needed to get the hell out of his mother’s condo. Besides, it would be great for business. That was two years ago.

      Finally, Patrick sees them, a too-gorgeous-for-words 30-something couple exchanging cold stares and biting remarks just on the other side of the row of columns separating the bar from the dining area. A navy Armani and a black Donna Karan. Tall, wealthy and beautiful. Centrally located. They’ll do nicely. Probably arguing over what colour Jag they should get next. Christ. Patrick repositions his violin and resumes playing as he strolls across the room, some Mozart this time. Ah, Mozart – a sure-fire antidote to the crap these overprivileged, tone deaf idiots ask me to play. His quick, slender fingers take flight over a solo version of Symphony No. 25 in G Minor. The piece had always been a favourite of his and Wolfgang had been a personal hero from childhood. As he gets closer to the arguing table, he pauses to hear, more clearly, what is amiss…

      “All I’m saying is, if we’re going to be entertaining so much, I’m going to need some help,” this from the woman, frustrated, brushing a strand of luxurious blonde hair behind her ear.

      “Well, why don’t you just hire a live-in housekeeper who cooks, then?” this from the man, irritated, as he pockets his cellphone.

        “Because you said we couldn’t afford one yet!”

      Oh, God. Get a life! Patrick snorts. He can’t help it, but Dueling Banjos just starts playing itself. He grins inwardly at the thought of how he had used this piece to torment Wasserstein, the old man growing redder by the moment as he blasted Patrick for his “infantile behaviour and unprofessional attitude”. I wasn’t fired, I quit. Humourless old windbag.

      The couple fall silent as Stephen, the waiter, comes to the table with a Manhattan and a Martini. Hearing the tune from Patrick’s violin, he does a quick double take and sets the drinks down, pausing to see if the couple is ready to order. Patrick continues playing, hearing only snatches of conversation now as he stands with his back to the couple, pretending to play for the family at the next table.

      “Too much vermouth,” spits the man, shoving the Manhattan aside.

      The violin music switches to We’ll Take Manhattan as Patrick moves to another table. Stephen briskly retrieves the offensive beverage and exits to get another, glaring at Patrick as he passes him. Patrick sneers back, his face partially hidden by his instrument as he continues the lively rendition, now only hearing snatches of the couple’s argument. This’ll be the highlight of the evening, no doubt about it.

      “What I said was, I didn’t think it was a necessary expense, not that I couldn’t afford it.” The man scrunches his soggy cocktail napkin.

      Patrick segues into If I Were A Rich Man.

      “This wouldn’t be a problem if I went back to work.” The woman briskly swirls her olive.

      “I thought we agreed that you’d stay home so we could start having kids.” The man’s jaw tightens.

      Patrick shifts to You’re Havin’ My Baby. The man pauses for a moment, distracted, then shakes his head, as if being struck by and immediately cancelling a thought. His cellphone begins bleeping, he removes it from his jacket pocket and answers. Stephen returns, gingerly places the fresh Manhattan in front of the man and stands by.

      “A few more minutes,” the man instructs Stephen. “I’ll be there in an hour,” he says into the phone, briskly repocketing it.

      The woman looks away, one arm folded across her waist as she absent-mindedly rubs her neck with manicured fingertips.

      “Take your time,” Stephen nods with a reassuring smile. “Stop that,” he hisses into Patrick’s ear on his way back to the kitchen.

      “And how am I supposed to get pregnant with you working late every night?” the woman continues, wry accusation sharpening her words.

      The man sighs. “I told you, until the Hilliard case gets wrapped up, I’ll have to put in some extra hours. This is very big. It’s sure to seal my partnership.” The man’s voice has softened somewhat – out of tenderness or exhaustion, Patrick can’t tell.

      “Maybe you’re just getting it from that anorexic clerk of yours,” the woman replies shortly, turning her attention to the menu.

      Your Cheatin’ Heart rings through the restaurant. She’s cute. Quite lovely, actually. I’d do her. Patrick has always been partial to, and particularly successful with, blondes. His dark blue eyes sparkle with mischievous, Irish glee.

      “Don’t be ridiculous.” ‘Armani’ takes a big gulp of his Manhattan and looks at the menu.

      “Late nights and long lunches with everyone but your wife?” ‘Donna Karan’ looks up from her menu. “But they’re just ‘clients’, aren’t they?” she adds, dryly.

      “I don’t have time for an affair. Though, God knows, you’re driving me…” The man downs the remainder of his drink and sets his glass down hard.

      “What’s that supposed to mean?!“

      “You haven’t exactly been the epitome of warmth in the bedroom lately.” The man looks down, swiveling the empty glass on the table.

      You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’ sounds out. Accompanied by swaying Motown steps from Patrick Kelly, Violinist Extraordinaire.

      “Are you saying I’m frigid?!” the woman laughs out the word “frigid”’.

      “Well, what would you call it?” the man glares directly into her eyes.

      Coolly returning the stare, “Tom, I’m having an affair.”

      Good for you! I knew she had it in her. This’ll throw some gas on the fire. Patrick turns his attention to Tom, violin diminuendo, as he awaits his next cue. With mercurial speed and hawk-like precision, he snatches a shot of whiskey from a passing tray and downs it with his bow hand.

      Tom is temporarily speechless, his face revealing neither shock nor disgust. “Who?” he asks, simply.

      “Kevin Daley.”

      “Trevor’s accountant?”

      “Yes.”

      “When?”

      “Shortly after Trevor’s birthday party. We bumped into each other in the elevator at the office. That day you cancelled our lunch date last minute.”

      “One of many.” He grips his empty glass tightly in both hands. “Do you love him?” Perfectly coifed dark head tilted down, he looks up at her.

      “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” She shakes her head, attempting to remain detached.

      “Do you love me?” he asks quietly, raising his head and looking into her eyes.

      She returns the gaze, worry lines deepening for a moment. “I don’t know.” Her voice is small now, cracking.

      Tom says nothing for a moment, then finally sighs out a small “Humph”, casting his eyes back down to the dead Manhattan.

      Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word flows from the violin. Tom remains speechless, his eyes sad and wet.

      Stephen is back, having noted the pause in conversation. Warmly, but warily, he asks, “Are you ready to order?”

      Tom returns his gaze to his wife. “Bring the lady whatever she wants.”

      “And for you, sir?”

      “I’m leaving.” He gets up. “Goodbye, Julie.” He places several twenties on the table and leaves.

      “I’ll give you a moment,” Stephen tells her gently, making a discrete exit.

      Patrick has stopped playing altogether now. Julie is crying quietly. She looks up and notices him regarding her.

      Caught, he blurts out, “Is there something I can play for you?”

      “No. No, I don’t think so.” She wipes her pale blue eyes and makes an effort to collect herself, rearranging a stray fall of hair behind her right ear. She turns her attention to the tabletop, hurriedly reaching for her small black handbag. She rises, leaving two twenties on the table and jams the remaining bills into her bag. Then, she walks briskly, but contained, to the Ladies Room.

      In a few minutes, Stephen returns to check on the situation, noting that Patrick has moved to the bar. “Where is she?”

      “Who?”

      “The woman who was just here. Crying,” Stephen’s tone could freeze water.

      Patrick shrugs. “In the can.” He signals the bartender.

      “Is she alright?” Something glimmering under the abandoned table catches Stephen’s eye.

      “Who cares? She’ll have his money to keep her warm.” Patrick slides the shot of whiskey the bartender has just deposited toward him. 

      Stephen returns to the couple’s now vacant table and, a glint on the floor catching his eye, he crouches to investigate a small, shiny object. As he rises, an expensive gold and diamond earring in his hand, he sees Julie emerge from the washroom and head for the coat check.   

      “She’s leaving. You go take this to her,” Stephen instructs Patrick, holding the earring out to him.

      “Why me? You do it.” Patrick positions his violin to resume playing.

      “I’m busy,” Stephen replies, tight-lipped. “Besides, it’s the least you can do.”

      Patrick groans, almost knocking Stephen over with his boozy breath. “And we should always do our very least.” He makes a show of reluctantly grabbing the earring from Stephen’s hand. Still carrying his violin, he follows her to the door, slightly unsteady as he goes.

      It’s a cool and cloudy early fall evening, and there’s a grey tone to the darkness in the overcast sky. Patrick finds Julie standing alone, waiting for a cab or an Uber, her arms folded protectively against her chest, her shoulders tensed.

      “You lost an earring,” he says, thrusting the object in his upturned palm toward her.

      “Oh! Thank you.” Julie seems startled, like she’s never seen it before, staring for a moment before she takes it from him.

      “Well. Good night.” Patrick turns to go back into the restaurant.

      “I didn’t mean to…,” she trails off.

      “What?” He turns back to her, annoyed.

      “I didn’t mean to hurt him.” Her eyes are wet with remorse.

      Patrick looks away from her, gazing down the street. He spots a cab, westbound on their side of the street, and raises his free arm. The cab squeals to a stop in front of them and he opens the back door for her.

      “Thank you, again,” she tells him, eyes flickering up at him as she gets into the cab.

      Patrick closes the door behind her and stands, alone now on the sidewalk, violin dangling limply in his right hand as he watches her drive away. As it begins to rain lightly, he puts the instrument inside his jacket and moves under the large awning that protects the entrance of the restaurant. Continuing to stare in the direction of the cab, her words resonate in his head. I didn’t mean to hurt him.  

      As a boy, he had watched his mother drive off. His father had told him that she was sick and needed to go to a place where she could get better. He had wanted to go too so he could help, but his mother had told him he had to stay home and practise. She hadn’t even looked back at him as he stood at the end of their suburban driveway, holding his grandmother’s hand. And so, he practised.

      His mother came home eventually and was better for a while but soon she became sick again. By that time, Patrick was eight and he then understood that her illness had something to do with all the bottles hidden around the house. Once, his mother caught him pouring vodka down the bathroom sink. Embarrassed and angry by his discovery of the bottle she’d been concealing in the toilet tank, she hit him and told him to go and practise. And so, he practised some more.

      When his parents finally divorced, he was twelve and the judge ordered him into the custody of his father. By that time, he had won gold medals in numerous provincial, national and international solo competitions and had been hailed as the newest child prodigy of the classical music world. At fifteen, he was touring the world, playing with the top symphonies and conductors. By the time he was twenty-one, it was all over.     

      Now, as the rain subsides, he fumbles in his breast pocket, careful not to drop his instrument, and pulls out the silver mickey. Cradling the violin in his left arm, the mickey in his left hand, he twists the cap off and holds it up to his face. His whole body trembling, he brings it to his mouth, the threaded silver opening cool against lips as he tilts it upwards. The amber liquid glides past his lips and over his tongue, the sweet burning taste barely discernable, his tastebuds disabled long ago from too much smoking. He feels it trickle down his throat and into his battered stomach as he replaces the silver cap. He puts the mickey back into his pocket and stares up at the sky.

      Through the patches of retreating rain clouds, he sees a small bit of clear night sky dotted with a single, tiny star. Hugging the violin to his chest, he shakes, not because he’s cold but because he’s crying. After a few moments, he positions the violin under his chin and begins to play, notes streaming from the instrument as tears course down his face. Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, a bedtime song from childhood memory.

Image by JL G from Pixabay