When I was fourteen, I decided that I wanted to appear in the annual high school musical. It was one of those 'heat of the moment' decisions, but I knew with the same instinctive passion that urges Salmon upstream to a watery, sex-frenzied death that I wanted to sing and I wanted an audience.
So, I set about the task of convincing the head of the music department, Mr. Donalleti, that he should, if not actually build a musical around my skills, at the very least accord me the opportunity for the fame and recognition that my singing ability warranted. Mr. Donalleti, much to my initial gratification, agreed entirely. He promptly cast me as 'unnamed orphan' in the current production of the musical "Oliver." This, alas, was not what I had in mind. What I had in mind, specifically, was an image of myself bathed in the white-hot beam of the spot-lights, soaking up the applause of my fellow students, while I graciously and with enormous humility accepted the invitation to perform a third encore.
Still, it was a start, and I imagined that once the true depth of the well of my talent was plumbed, it would be only a matter of time before Mr. Donalleti discarded one of the droning hacks who composed the main cast and replaced them with me.
Alas, I quickly discovered that the main problem with embarking on a stage career as 'unnamed orphan' was all the other orphans. Those other, tuneless, wanna-be actors jostling for recognition were all three years my junior and several inches shorter. In fact the brutal truth was that by comparison I looked more like Frankenstein's monster than a malnourished waif, as I clumped unsteadily about the stage with all the natural grace of a palsied moose.
The height discrepancy was remedied somewhat by placing me, alone, at the far end of the long wooden table that composed the only scenery. I suspect the actual effect of this would be like one of those bizarre optical illusions where the end of the room looks closer than it actually is and doubtless this explained the rapid blinking and head shaking that Mr. Donalleti exhibited whenever he looked in my general direction.
The other problem that rapidly became clear to me was that singing with people, and producing the same notes at the same time, was actually rather difficult. It's definitely not as easy as it sounds. Especially when, being fourteen, my voice had a tendency to drop suddenly off the end of the known musical world like a deranged chromatic roller coaster.
After each unexpected voyage into the territory of the tonally damned, Mr. Donalleti would leap away from the piano like a man faced with a starving lion, and stand, pale faced, rubbing furiously at his forehead. Doubtless in his mind was a vision of the abject horror of an auditorium full of parents and teaching colleagues actually being forced to _listen_ to this stuff. For our part the cast would gradually settle into a kind of fidget-punctuated silence and on more than one occasion one or two puffy, pale faces would swing in my direction like accusatorial weather vanes. In response I would gaze off into the middle distance, secure in the knowledge that if they'd only pick songs I could actually *sing* everything would be going a lot more smoothly. Finally Mr. Donalleti would sigh, shake his head and return to the piano to resume what must for him have been the musical equivalent of the Spanish Inquisition.
Several episodes of forehead rubbing later, he took on the look of a man who, like the Lady of Shalot, knew his doom had come upon him. More hopeful expressions have been seen peering out of a painting by Bosch. I too had begun to experience a strange sense that all was not well with the world. Perhaps, just perhaps, singing the same song seven or eight times in a row, badly, was not the gold paved road to acceptance and adulation that I had initially hoped. Still, I was determined to keep at it, if only because the true awfulness of my performance had not yet sunk in.
In the end, Mr. Donalleti could bear it no more. He bounded up onto stage, his forehead gleaming red, hands trembling and shouted "no, no, no. This way, this way."
He spun around, drew in air in a long, hissing breath and began to sing.
I left the play and never trod the boards again.
It wasn't that I felt any sense of the inadequacy of my talent. After all, this was just a high school play and in truth I was far from the worst performer, even if I was the most obviously untalented. No, in truth it all just seemed too much work for the payoff.
But looking back on it now, I can see how for Mr. Donaletti it _was_ the payoff. For him, music was everything. When he had begun to sing, his arms wide, facing out across an empty school hall, he changed. He was a taller man. His back straightened, his chest filled, and his limbs trembled with the passion of the act of simply singing. Whatever his dream was, whatever his hopes had been, this moment was the barest whisper of the memory. He loved music and this was the bargain he had made with the devil. Music would be his mistress, but he would know her only through us, and we were an imperfect medium.
I don't know what fate is worse; being forced by lack of talent or opportunity to give up your dreams, or living them by proxy in short, punctuated bursts. I guess for him it was enough to teach music to bored high-schoolers and to produce an annual musical. The great musical of his life was always in rehearsal, the orchestra always tuning up. For me, it was enough to sit in the audience and hum tunelessly along with the opening song.
The overture to my life had yet to begin, the curtain on my performance, yet to lift. I'm sure it'll be great once it starts. Really. Just great.