The player - shot story

The Player by Michael Peterson 10/21/21

A vagabond stood on the corner, dirty and unkempt. All his worldly possessions in an old rucksack next to his old faithful black dog. Not rich by societal standards, but rich in heart and soul. 

From an old battered and beaten case, his calloused hands withdrew an old violin. As he tuned the strings and rosin the bow. His dog laid down, and looked upward toward his master. He drew the bow sharply and quickly against the strings. A loud screech sounded out, grabbing the attention of the people who were walking by. 

Suddenly he began whipping the bow back and  forth. The instrument screamed as in pain. Horrid undefined melodies furiously flew from it. People covered their ears and turned up their lips, booing him and making snide remarks. His eyes clenched shut, as he moved with the shins that came from it. Then he slowed his pace. The sounds of a master boomed where the howling had just been. The before incomprehensible wailing had been. Then feverishly he began ripping at the cords with the bow again. Blunt, uncaring, unrefined movements, screamed from the instrument. High pitched squalling, rampant succession of the scales. A sharp,  D minor, G major,  B flat, the sounds of a child playing with a musical instrument. Then within the tempest of assaulting sounds an undercurrent of his mastery began to eek out. 

As I sat there, listening to him, I could hear his story loud and clear. His pain, suffering, and heartbreak were all there. These random noises he pulled from the violin weren't random at all. Each of the blunt hard strokes were his racing thoughts. His rise and fall. His loss. His journey from everything to nothing. His fall from grace. Not a fall from divinity mind you, as you could hear his unspoken song to the heavens of you truly listened, but the fall from social grace. The loss of his place within the world. His place within the orchestra's line up. The los of his wife, the home they built, the life they had, the lamenting that still lived in his heart. 

His eyes still wielded shut, allowed thin rivers of tears the streak down his unwashed face. His dog looking up at his whole world, sat there poised and captivated with love and admiration for her master. Tail softly wagging as if keeping tempo with him. 

People still listened unaware of what was actually transpiring at that moment. Unwilling to listen to what emotions flowed from the crass abrasive song that was coming from his playing. 

His whole story sang to me. I understood this violence, and heard the beauty therein. I watched all of this unfold as he played. Then he slowed his pace again. The beautiful symphony once again returned, and began to fade as the violin grew quieter and quieter. He was done with his song. The storm inside him quelled. He drew a tag from his pocket, and wiped his eyes. The dog stood up and wagged her tail faster and with excitement. 

He placed the violin into its case, as she snuck in a few quick licks. "Yes baby I love you too. Ok Gracie girl, let's get going." She jumped around excitedly and let it a few quick yip's. And they began walking toward my direction. 

I stopped him and said "sir, i'm sorry for your pain. Your playing really moved me." Shocked he said "you heard that?" Puzzled I nodded. "Most only hear noise, and they have nothing kind to say" he trailed off. "I could hear it and feel it, and noticed your tears" I shared. His dog nuzzled my hand for pets. "And who is this" I said happily. "This is Gracie. My only friend in the world. Named after my beloved wife who passed some time ago. We always wanted a dog but never had the time. She and I both worked. But she got sick and left me on a Tuesday. So when I got her, the name fit. She's always loved my playing, just like she did. So now all we have is each other, and my violin" he said with a humble smile and went to continue by. I reached into my pocket and pulled what money I had and handed it to him. "Thank you for your music" I said and walked to my car. Later that evening in my way home from work i spotted him again. This time with a single rose in his Hand washing into a cemetery. I pulled too the side and watched as he walked six rows in and five plots over. He laid the rose down. Drew out his violin and began playing. A soft beautiful melody. Gently he pulled the bow back and forth. Each string vibrated and sang like a choir of angels. 

When he was done, he kissed his index and middle finger and touched the tomb stone. Collected his items, and disappeared into the trees behind the cemetery.