My eyes momentarily close when my stomach drops a beat. That’s how I know he has entered. Keeping my jaw clenched and my attention fixed, I try to ignore how he stops in the doorway for a fraction when he sees me, before carrying on like he hasn’t a care.
Keenly aware of my excellent peripheral vision, I watch him sit down and open his cello case. When he is engrossed in the task, I glance up and take a look at him. He’s once again wearing a suit. That makes three encounters in a row I’ve seen him in formal attire. His hair is combed back, his entire appearance structured. I miss his shorts and crew-neck shirts, his wind-blown hair and sun-kissed skin.
When he rises, his gaze meets mine, briefly, without a hint of acknowledgment, before greeting the class. He takes a place in the center of the room, addressing the students who are formed in a circle around him. “Today, we are going to learn to listen. The key to playing great music is to be able to listen to great music. I want you to develop your own musical voice. Find what gives you the most satisfaction. When you hear it, when you feel it, you’ll be able to play it.” Asher’s words remind me of my own inability and those brief moments a few months ago when I felt the music again.
He hands each student a notebook made of brown leather-like material, asking them to take notes and starts the lesson by placing Bluetooth speakers on a table and synching his iPod to them. I assume he’s going to play something classical. Instead, he completely shocks me when I hear heavy metal.
The song is one I recognize easily. The students look up with mild curiosity. You start to feel old when you meet people who have never heard Metallica.
“‘Enter Sandman’ moves at a tempo of 123 beats per minute. Listen to the E minor chord at the top.” The class, me included, listen to the sound of the guitar playing. “Now, hear the buildup of the beats. It hits you fast and then never lets up. The riff continues throughout the song.”
It’s hard not to be sucked in. The tune is quite catchy for a song about a child’s nightmares and the destruction of the perfect family.
The students bob and move their heads, some closing their eyes trying to listen for the rhythm. Asher is entranced as well, lost in the song, almost too familiar. Its heavy undertones of a child being frightened by the dark remind me of the story he told me about being an orphan. That is, if his version of the truth was, in actuality, the truth.
Ignoring the memory, I go back to watching the class as they soak in the song. When it is over, he talks to the students about the rhythm and together they describe their emotions when hearing it. In my head, I do my own assessment. I felt a gust of energy. I could have taken a run or charged the field. The faster the song got, the harder the beats hit my chest and I felt a rush.
When the discussion is over, Asher turns to his iPod and plays them the same song by a band using only four cellos. The students are mesmerized that the song they were just listening to was recreated using only the instruments they are learning to master.
By the end of the sixty-minute class, with the room sectioned off into groups of four, Asher has the students playing the main riff. It’s incredible. So incredible, I stopped taking notes because I was so caught up in the lesson.
When I saw him play the cello last week, I knew he was skilled. What I was not aware of was how good he was with the students. Some, I am learning, have known Asher for years. Imagine my surprise to find out he’s been teaching underprivileged kids in Harlem for the last five years.
His rapport with his old students is apparent in the way they address each other with respect and familiarity. His newer students are given the same attention. If he was telling the truth about his mother being a music teacher, teaching out of their home, than he gets his grace from her.
When the students gather their belongings, I watch as they thank Asher and tell him they’ll see him next week. I gather up my tote bag and am walking back toward my office when his deep voice calls out from behind me.
“How’d I do, boss?”