Soloist

Same Walk, Different Shoes

“Same Walk, Different Shoes” is a Substack community writing project that I organized as a practical exercise in empathy. The premise is simple. A group of writers anonymously contribute a personal story of an experience that changed their life. Each participating writer is randomly assigned one of these story prompts to turn into a short story. The story you are about to read is one from this collection. You can find all the stories from the participating writers at Catch & Release. Enjoy the walk with us.

The soloist walked out onto the stage. The clacking of her heels on the wooden floor was barely masked by the smattering of applause afforded to an unknown artist before she’s proven herself. She nodded to the conductor who stood poised before the orchestra. The echoing coughs, clearing of throats, and rustling of pages were a tense prelude of hushed expectation. I was struggling to breathe.

My mouth was dry and I was beginning to sweat despite the frigid temperature in the hall. I studied the soloist’s hands and detected the faintest tremor. She shifted back and forth on her feet as the music began with a meandering and somber theme featuring only the woodwinds. She turned her head to give a series of peripheral glances back at the orchestra, reminding me of a nervous bird. But then, like a bird, she began to sing and her voice was pure light itself. She filled the auditorium not just with her voice but with her being, her presence. The relief I felt was complete but quickly replaced with a sharp longing that had all but disappeared in my life until this moment. I hadn’t wanted to come. I have avoided music mostly, especially live performances. It’s too painful. But Peter surprised me with the tickets, likely because he sensed I might decline if he asked. We had only been dating three months, and I’d never told him about my life before. He joked that for someone so smart and cultured in every way, I was musically illiterate. If only that were true.

When I walked away from music, it was final, like a divorce. I can’t explain exactly why it had to be that way. Music was the language of my childhood. It was the currency of my family. When I was a girl, there was no question if I would be a musician, only what kind. Music was my mother’s dream, so it became mine and I pursued it with a seriousness I gave to little else. I got into the music program at a prestigious school. Like the other shut-ins who holed up in the five-by-eight practice rooms for six to eight hours every day including weekend nights when normal college students were out partying, I devoted myself to my instruments. It was rare as a music major to attempt mastery of more than a single instrument. Looking back this should have been a red flag. I wanted to do all the things which is blasphemy in the religion of serious musical pedagogy.  I played flute, piano, and guitar, and I studied voice. I think I was casting about desperately to find the instrument that would allow me to feel the magic my mother felt when in truth, I didn’t feel it, at least not enough.

“Are you okay?” Peter asked as we made our way through the crowded lobby after the concert. “I saw you crying at one point.”

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. It was lovely. She has an incredible voice.”

“See, I told you you would love it. Music is cathartic. You need some in your life. Maybe next time…”

I stopped walking and let go of his hand.

“I don’t need you to convince me of the value of music, Peter. Look, it’s not your fault because I’ve never told you, but this is kind of a thing for me.”

“What is?”

“Music. For the first 25 years of my life, there were few things more important than music.”

“Oh, I had no idea. You never talk about music. I thought that was kind of weird. So you were a real fan. What happened?”

“No, I wasn’t a fan, I was a musician, just like my mom, and her mom. I got a music degree from the conservatory.”

Peter looked down and sighed heavily. When he met my eyes again, there was a look of mistrust. I couldn’t blame him. It was kind of an outrageously big omission. Why had I been so secretive?

“I’m a little uh… surprised you didn’t feel you could share something like this with me. I mean, we’ve seen each other naked many times at this point and you couldn’t tell me that you used to play music?”

I took his hand and we started walking again. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. Please don’t take it personally. I don’t talk about it with anybody.”

He opened the door and we were blasted by a wall of icy wind coming in off the lake. Peter put his arm around me. With our heads retracted into the hoods of our parkas, we hurried to make the five blocks to my apartment. At block three, Peter shouted through the stinging snow, “This is ridiculous! Let’s pop in here and warm up!”

The Raman shop was still open and half full of customers who had either sought refuge last-minute as we had or had encamped themselves for the evening, unwilling to face the fury of February in Chicago. The immediate reprieve from the wind would have been enough, but the warmth radiating from the small open kitchen and the savory umami smells it produced made us melt into our chairs at an empty table against the wall of exposed brick. The waitress delivered a pot of fragrant hot tea without being asked and poured it into small porcelain cups which we picked up immediately and cradled with both hands, allowing the warmth to radiate through us. Over the rim of his cup, through the steam, the question in Peter’s eyes persisted though he didn’t say anything. I liked that about him.

“You want to know why I quit,” I said.

“Only if you want to talk about it.”

“Did you know music students have to do juries?”

“What does that mean? I would say it sounds like something boring except for the ominous way you asked.”

“At the end of a semester, every music student has to perform in front of a jury of professors who judge your performance and decide whether you can continue the program or not. You do nothing but practice for weeks leading up to them. Many people don’t sleep much. It’s not uncommon for people to have complete mental breaks. Then you’re called into a cold auditorium to stand on a stage and do your thing perfectly while three or five or seven professors who only live to find your flaws sit there with clipboards.”

“Sounds awful. I assume you quitting had something to do with one of these juries?”

“No. Surprisingly, I made it through four years of those. Felt like I was going to die every single time. But that’s kind of the point of them. If you’re a performance major, you have to be able to perform complicated things under extraordinary amounts of pressure. The theory is, if you can run the gauntlet of juries, then you can face any audience.”

“That makes sense. But, I’m guessing it didn’t work that way for you?”

“No, it did not. I played flute, piano, and guitar, but I focused on voice as my primary. That’s what I got my performance degree in. Then the wheels came off.”

“Jeez, I had no idea you had all this talent. Three instruments? I can’t play the damned kazoo. I feel so stupid taking you tonight and pointing out things like you were some amateur. So, what happened?”

Our Raman came and I was happy to have the distraction so I could gather the memory and decide how I would tell it. We inhaled our steaming bowls of noodles, slurping with great abandon. I’m not sure food has ever tasted so good as it did that night. After a few minutes, I took a breath, set my bowl down, and picked up my story again.

“Every graduating senior gets to do a big farewell performance in the main auditorium during their last week. It’s always a good time after so much stress from the year. The stakes are low and people relax or relax as much as any classical musician has the vocabulary for such things.”

I paused here, studying the frayed splinters of bamboo I was peeling away from one of my chopsticks. I hadn’t thought about that night in over a decade and here I was about to recount it in front of a man I really liked and had been trying hard to impress. Tears came to my eyes. He reached a warm hand across the table which gave me the courage to continue.

“I dressed in the gown my mom had bought me for the occasion. I went that afternoon and got my hair done. I practiced just enough to be warm. My nerves were jangly but that was normal as I stood backstage waiting to go on. I was only doing three short pieces. I know there was a Cole Porter tune and two different selections from operas I don’t remember. These were songs I could sing in my sleep, at least until I walked out onto that stage in front of a full house and I turned into someone else.”

I didn’t know how to describe to him what it felt like without sounding overly dramatic, but it was traumatic. Something mentally snapped in me and it never went back. I lost everything I thought I wanted. I lost everything I had worked for in a single night. I sighed and did my best to finish the story.

“I broke out into a cold sweat and began to hyperventilate. The piano started and I missed my cue. The accompanist repeated the figure in an exaggerated way and I came in, but my voice was this thin, warbly quiver that literally shocked me to the point of not being able to finish the first line. My hands were shaking so hard I had to clench them behind my back which is not the preferred stance for an opera singer. I thought I might throw up if I opened my mouth again. But I did and I did something adjacent to singing so I could make it through the first easy piece I had selected. After the last note echoed through the hall and I heard the tense smattering of applause. You know, like we heard tonight before that woman totally killed it. Anyway, after that I knew I couldn’t go on. And it wasn’t just that I couldn’t finish that performance. I was done.”

“Oh my god, you poor thing. That’s the saddest story I’ve ever heard. So that night, that was really it? You never played or sang after that?”

“I ran off that stage and didn’t speak to anyone for a week because I knew they would all say the same kind things and try to convince me not to give up. But I knew music was dead to me after that.”

“I’m sorry I took you tonight. It must have been horrible for you.”

“No, I’m glad you did. I actually wanted to go. It’s taken more than fifteen years, but I’m slowly rediscovering my love for music. I forgot how much it matters just to be able to listen. I deprived myself of that because of my ego, I think. So stupid.”

“Do you want to get out of here?”

“Yeah.”

As he helped me into my coat, he kissed me on the cheek then whispered in my ear. “Do you think, if I promise to do something equally uncomfortable that maybe you’d sing for me sometime?”

“Yeah, yeah I think we could arrange that.”