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My Bandmate’s Secret Baby
Chapter One – Pauline
As I worked on fixing the bow of a cello, I listened to a record of cello music. I marveled at its vibration that sounded like the thrum of the earth, which made me think of a bow drawn like an archer aiming dead at the soul.
And people wondered why I loved the cello so much. I found it to be the oddest of questions, just the same as if they had asked me, “Do you think the sky is blue?”
The music was spinning from a record playing in the corner and I thought about how it was probably forbidden, or at least frowned on, to listen to music at work. If I was at the front counter, Larsen might have my head.
As it was, though, I toiled my days away in the lower floor workshop, where no one could see me, and no one should care that I had lugged a record player down here. It seemed the least that was due to me, as I was never quite able to get the smell of glue out of my nose, or my clothes— the air was thick with it.
The workshop wasn’t a basement per se, any more than a goose was a duck. But a thrillingly steep staircase, with sturdy handrails, was needed to get to the store part of the shop.
It was down at street level, affording a lovely view of the café and bagel shop across the street. Most of the businesses on the other side could also be seen, which struck me as market research at its most cunning.
One by one, the hairs on the bow I was repairing hooked their way through, following the path intended. The only people who truly knew how many hairs were on a bow were those of us tasked with replacing them.
Usually, the entire bow didn’t need fixed, just the worst bits. Occasionally, maybe two or three times in one’s career, there came the poison candy of a full restoration that was in order. High in earnings but inhumane in workload, this was the sort of job that was both dreaded and desired in equal measure.
I stood up and flexed my fingers, causing a soft crunching sound, and then I took a break, with any thoughts of complaint pushed from my mind. The job I was working at was better than most that were out there, even though it fell short of my training. An off-white certificate held a place of pride in my living room, the words “Master of Music” printed on the parchment in faux-gothic script.
With a hop and a jump, I just slightly skipped along the cross walk to the café, finally surrendering to its siren song. My diet would have to wait another day to really get going.
“Hey, Pauline, you want your usual?” asked the waiter, once I was inside and ready to order.
“Yes please, Gustavo.”
He handed me my usual donut order.
I dropped a fiver into the tip can when his back was turned, to avoid any awkwardness. He needed it more than I did. Even if he didn’t always agree.
After I had a paper cup warming my hand, the table found me, more than the other way around. That was the sort of serendipity that was common when you stopped looking and let life just flow.
