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Slow sips lead to donut dips, and soon I was truly in the moment, a sweet symphony playing in my mind. In my opinion, sugar was the other best thing in life.
Glancing up at the bulletin board where the cafe allowed people to display notices, like I usually did, I spied a poster, new and bright. Curiosity kicked in, and I was off to investigate, seeing what it was all about.
It took me three readings to be sure the printed poster really did say what I thought it did. But apparently it was true: a local Folk Metal band was, indeed, in search of a cellist.
Visions of future gigs danced in my head, a chance to really use the skills I’d spent so long honing. The years and dollars spent on my degrees seemed less of a sinkhole all the time.
Tearing a tab from the carefully cut row at the bottom of the poster, I put it in my wallet, looking forward to when I could call. The suspense was almost worse than any potential rejection.
“Oh, hi, Pauline,” I suddenly heard a familiar voice say.
Returning to my skin, I turned to the sound of the deep voice, wondering if it could be true.
“Hi, Professor Hernandez,” I said, trembling a bit because I was amazed to be in the presence of such a genius.
“Working hard or hardly working?”
“Both, really. It’s my coffee break from work, I mean.”
“Dante Street Massacre,” he said, reading the poster that he must have noticed me staring at for so long. “They finally did it?”
“You know them?”
“Oh yeah, they’re good guys. Not what one would really expect from a Metal band. Weird as a soup sandwich in some ways, but a lot of fun. They’ve been talking about going in more of a Symphonic Metal direction for a while.”
For him to call someone weird, considering that his stage name was Boo Slim, carried a lot of weight with most people, including me.
“I was thinking of calling,” I said meekly. “They need a cellist.”
“You definitely should; they’d be lucky to have you.”
“You’ve heard me play?”
“Of course! I go to every recital— or all the ones that I can, anyway. Good luck, Pauline.”
Brushing past me, he proceeded to the counter, chrome-heeled boots clicking on the hardwood floor.
I took it as a good sign that the revered Professor of Art, who was also very good at music and was a performer and recorded artist, thought I could get the job. There was a light bounce to my step as I nodded my goodbye to Gustavo and headed back to work.
Now that I’d returned to normal functioning through chemical intervention, my labor continued. Things were finally taking shape in a noticeable way after nearly three weeks of tireless work.
My impetus to finish felt even stronger after finding out about the band. I didn’t want a lack of time to be the reason I couldn’t join if a spot were to be offered to me.
No less meticulous, my work was even more focused throughout the rest of the day. After clocking out and winding down, I set out to rescue my car from the tiny staff lot at the rear of the building.
The phone’s buzzing came as a surprise.
“Hello,” I answered.
“Darling! How’s my little Angel Cake?” my mother cooed.
“Lecturing at Oxford,” I answered, since that was what she called one of my siblings.
“Sugar Plum?” she tried again.
“On contract with the United Nations.”
“Dumpling?”
It wasn’t entirely her fault, really. My parents did have four kids, all of us nicknamed after food.
“In Oslo on student exchange.”
“Which nickname was it that I called you again?”
“Pumpkin.”
She also called me “Hey, you,” but I was the second youngest, after all. The notion of loving all of one’s children equally was more of an abstraction than a reality in our house.”
“How are you, Pumpkin?”
“Surviving, which is all any of us can do.”
The silence was short but poignant. Her mental gears were surely turning, in search of the best possible sugar coating. Mother was always approaching life in much the same way as she did her cookies.
“Are you still playing?”
“When I can. The shop keeps me going, though.”
“Still doing instrument repairs?”
“And restorations. It’s very skilled work.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is. It’s just not the skilled work you really wanted.”
I couldn’t argue there, though I still took an inventory of my blessings.
“I’m still looking for performance opportunities,” I said. “In fact, I have an audition with a band.”
“An audition!” she pounced, going into full stage-mom model. “When is it? I must be there to cheer you on!”
“It’s, um, a closed audition; they’re being held next week.”
“Well, my thoughts will be with you.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
I hung up and then retrieved the tab from my pocket that I’d shoved into it earlier. I called the number, praying I could make it so that I hadn’t actually lied to the woman who’d given me life. Instead, I could claim that I’d just been chronologically challenged.
