Walking through the archway, her brown hair is in a ponytail and her head is down. She is wearing a checkered jacket, jeans, and sneakers. In her hand is her violin case.
I watch as she takes her usual spot near a bench and bends down to place the black case on the ground. She lifts the violin with her left hand and picks up the bow with the right. It’s now that she finally raises her head and takes a look around, observing the crowd around her. It is a fascinating thing to watch. She seems almost timid until she has that powerful piece of maple in her hand. Then she becomes fierce.
Her violin box is open at her feet. A dollar bill and some change are already laying in it. When she lifts the bow to the strings, I turn my music off and my heart skips a beat in anticipation of her playing. It’s the tenth time I’ve watched her and every time I am incredibly moved. While I can tell she needs training, she has great technique. The brand of her violin is for an intermediate, which leads me to believe she doesn’t have money for an upgrade. She’s probably had it from when she was a student. At her level, she should be using a Schneider or Gunter Lobe, which are better for advanced players. Those run anywhere from two to five thousand dollars.
You don’t even want to know how much I spent on my Laura Vigato. Let’s just say it was enough to have purchased a Hyundai.
Listening to her play, I close my eyes and enjoy the song. Since I’ve moved to New York my mother has been asking if I’ve seen the Philharmonic play at Lincoln Center. My answer is consistently no. I’m not ready to see my peers doing something that I am supposed to be doing.
Yet for some reason, I can work at the school with no problem and I can come to the park and listen to this girl play without feeling despair.
I’ve thought about this a lot over the last few weeks. I know what most people would think if I told them this. They’d say, “Of course you don’t mind listening to people whose skill level are beneath you.” That’s not it. I don’t see the children at the school or this girl in the park as being inadequate or beneath me. Sure, I’m higher in skill level but I should be upset she can play and I can’t. I’m not. Instead, I find myself looking forward to seeing her walk beneath the arch and playing for the crowd. I shrug my shoulders and go back to listening to the young woman.
I eat my packed lunch of a turkey sandwich and water and do a fair portion of the New York Times crossword. I’ve never completed one without asking for help but am determined to someday.
When I see the violinist is ready to pack up, I rush up to her case and place a twenty-dollar bill inside. The first time I did so she looked surprised. Now, she just smiles and politely thanks me. She’s probably wondering why there is a weird lady who stares at her every Sunday while eating a sandwich and tips her very well. If she only knew how I envied her.
I look at my watch and see a few hours have passed; the sun will start to set soon. Autumn in New York is beautiful in the sunshine but when the sun starts to settle down, the temperatures drop considerably.
Gathering my garbage and belongings, I rise and walk over to the trash. As I’m placing my brown paper bag in the garbage pail, I notice an SUV lurking in the street just beyond the trees.
For a second, I think it’s the same one Devon drove me in the other day and then I remember something: I live in New York. There are black SUVs everywhere.
Looks like me, the chesterfield, and our good friend Pinot need to have a get-together tonight.