December 1998
Cambridge
Snow was lightly falling as Anthony Hewlett-Johnson made his way to the small, cozy coffeehouse where he typically liked to unwind on a Friday evening. Friday nights were open mic, and while not every performer was good, Anthony still was willing to take a chance and listen.
As a child, Anthony had taught himself to play piano, and could play by ear. But he was no virtuoso - he could either focus on music or focus on intellectual pursuits, and he chose the latter, as his love of learning and applying that knowledge burned stronger than the urge to perform and create. He was also shy about performing in front of others. He was still shy about public speaking too, something he wouldn't be able to avoid when he eventually went into law, but he'd managed to overcome that, or at least fake a certain level of confidence; music felt much more personal, more intimate. As intimate as sex, though eighteen-year-old Anthony was still a virgin who had never even kissed anyone.
So he lived vicariously through watching other live musical performances. It was also something comforting and familiar, especially now - Anthony's father's brother Nigel, his favorite uncle, played guitar. Nigel had PTSD from the Gulf and music was one of the only things that seemed to really help him. Nigel had committed suicide over the summer, and Anthony was still drowning in grief, so going to the open mic nights was like hanging on to a piece of him.
It had been a difficult week of school - the holidays were approaching, and his classes wanted to cram everything in before break. He felt overloaded, and when he was stressed out he felt the grief more sharply; it used to be that he could confide in his uncle about things, like his insecurities and frustrations. He had nobody now.
At least he could get out of his head for awhile. He got his usual hazelnut latte and took his usual table towards the back, by a window. He took off his wool greatcoat - which had been his uncle's - and draped it on the back of his chair; he was wearing a black sweater and black jeans, because he wore almost all black these days. He instinctively reached for his glasses in his pocket before he remembered he had put on contacts just before he left. He ran a nervous hand through his short black hair and made himself look away from the crowd - he glanced out the window to watch the snow falling in the blue twilight and golden streetlamps. It was peaceful and that helped center him. He looked back at the area off to the side of the cash register and the snacks under glass, the empty chair and microphone waiting for tonight's performer. He hoped it wasn't going to be another Alanis Morissette wannabe. He checked his watch. Any minute now.
The person who was approaching the mic now had long, slightly wavy black hair falling to the middle of the back like Alanis did... but it was a man. A very tall man - Anthony guessed he was close to seven feet - wearing a Metallica T-shirt, faded blue jeans, and Doc Martens boots... lugging an enormous harp. Anthony blinked, not able to believe his eyes. He would have expected someone like that to have a guitar or a drum kit, not a harp. It was amazing that in 1998, anyone still even played the harp.
It was a gorgeous harp, appearing to be made of rosewood, an intricate carving of flowers and leaves on the body, dusted with gold.
A gorgeous harp for a gorgeous man. The man took his seat and Anthony saw his face. Cool grey eyes that nonetheless seemed to burn like flame. Thick eyebrows over the intense gaze. High cheekbones, a face that was both pretty and handsome at the same time. He could have been a supermodel. Anthony guessed he was late twenties or early thirties. As the man flexed his hands, Anthony saw long, elegant fingers. Then he got a look at the man's arms, noticing the veins. The T-shirt showed off his physique, hinting at well-defined biceps and pecs. The man wasn't huge in the way gym rats tended to be, his build was more on the lean side, but he still looked strong, fit.
Hot. Anthony's mouth went dry and his heart skipped a beat.
Sometimes if the performer was bad enough, Anthony would leave after he had his coffee, but Anthony decided that even if this was the worst harp performance in the world, he was going to enjoy the eye candy. He felt like an idiot, face on fire - he was sure this guy wouldn't notice him even if he was on fire, probably was straight too - but he couldn't stop looking.
To his surprise and delight, the man's harp playing was as gorgeous as he was, if not moreso. The man started right away with what seemed to be an original composition, melancholy, haunting minor chords that fit Anthony's mood of loneliness, going out into the snow to take refuge among strangers to escape the noise in his head. A stranger in a strange land. Feeling alone, wandering, friendless. Anthony could feel the sorrow in the music, bringing tears to his eyes, hoping he wouldn't start crying in public. If this man's beauty meant he had throngs of groupies throwing themselves at him, the music still sure sounded convincingly lonely and sad, composed by someone who was deeply acquainted with grief. The sadness continued to build, and then it gave way to major chords, like relief, like light breaking through clouds, the happier notes all the brighter for the sorrow that came beforehand.
Anthony's applause was genuine when the song was over. He would have stood if he didn't think it would be too conspicuous.
The man played a couple more original compositions, one that was just sad all the way through and made Anthony tear up again, and one that was more ethereal, delicate, giving Anthony mental images of summer and forests and hills and exploring, running, playing. Anthony got a mental image of the harpist as a boy, with two other boys, one red-haired and tall, one fair and small, and a very large wolfhound, sailing on a raft down a river, watching birds in the trees and in the sky. While Anthony's mind tended to wander when he listened to music, it was usually only seeing color, only rarely getting a vision like sea or sky. This was much more intense than what he was used to, and he felt sheepish. I must really be stressed out, for my imagination to be running away like this. Anthony hadn't had friends in childhood, so he thought he was probably expressing some sort of longing for that, wishing he could be young again, without a care in the world. Of course, he hadn't been carefree even when he was young.
Anthony thought that was going to be it, but now the man was playing covers. He played "Thunderstruck" by AC/DC on the harp - Anthony wasn't really into metal, but he enjoyed the harp interpretation nonetheless, impressed by the way the harpist's fingers flew with fast notes to imitate the guitar part. After that, the harpist played "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd and for the first time he sang. He had a beautiful, rich tenor that was like the voice of what people thought angels sounded like. Anthony's breath caught. And the song struck a deeper chord with him on a night like this.
Did they get you to trade
Your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
Did you exchange
A walk-on part in the war
For a leading role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here
We're just two lost souls
Swimming in a fish bowl
Year after year
Running over the same old ground
What have we found?
The same old fears
Wish you were here
Anthony felt almost like the harpist was channeling his late uncle, like Nigel's ghost was right there. Anthony quickly dabbed at his eyes with a paper napkin; if this kept up he was going to need to leave, because he wasn't going to make a scene in public bawling.
It got worse. People were yelling out requests now. "FREE BIRD!" "Play Metallica!" "Do Billy Joel!"
The harpist chuckled and shook his head. He spoke into the mic, a deep, smoky, pleasant, sexy-sounding voice that would have made Anthony drool if he wasn't so shaken up. "Anyway, here's 'Wonderwall.'"
His uncle had loved Oasis. Anthony's first concert had been going to an Oasis show with Nigel and his late partner Steve, in 1996. They had given him his first alcohol and he'd drank too much and had a horrible hangover the next day, but it had been worth it. Anthony could never hear Oasis anymore without thinking of his uncle; one of his last memories of his uncle was him playing "Wonderwall" on guitar, singing. The harpist's voice was much better. Almost too good. There was so much weight behind the words when he sang them...weight that punched Anthony's core.
And all the roads that lead you there were winding
And all the lights that light the way are blinding
There are many things that I
Would like to say to you but I don't know how
I said maybe
You're gonna be the one that saves me
And after all
You're my wonderwall
Anthony had felt that way about his uncle - as a bullied, friendless teenager, his uncle's friendship, being more like an older brother, had meant all the world to him and had even kept Anthony from suicide. For Nigel to then take his own life was a shock. And I couldn't save him. Anthony knew logically his uncle had mental illness and it was difficult and it wasn't his fault, nonetheless his grief had the additional sting of guilt, wishing there was something he could have said or done.
The harpist's eyes met his across the room. Anthony knew the harpist was probably not looking at him and just "out there" at the audience, nonetheless, Anthony was riveted in that silver gaze, feeling like somehow he knows and this song was meant for him, the harpist was playing this for him. His heart was pounding in his ears. Anthony fought the urge to scream out "STOP, THIS IS TOO MUCH"... and yet, it wasn't. The music was ripping him open, lancing a festering wound, and applying a balm.
The man played one more song, an instrumental, "Watermark" by Enya, which Anthony recognized because his mum loved Enya. The tears came again, and Anthony just sat there, tears silently spilling down his cheeks, no longer caring if anyone saw. It was another last stab, the song seeming to acknowledge the pain he was in and telling him it's OK. Anthony closed his eyes and when he opened his eyes the harpist was looking at him again.
Jesus Christ. Anthony's face was on fire.
The harpist was done after that and Anthony did stand up to applaud. The man bowed gracefully, and exited with his harp. Anthony thought about going after him to say thank you, but he felt like that would be creepy and weird so he didn't, but had regrets about it. He decided to get one more coffee "for the road" to take back to his dorm, and as he waited in the queue he felt a nagging sensation. He turned around and saw the harpist had come back and was also now in the queue, standing behind him.
"Take my spot," Anthony blurted out.
The harpist raised an eyebrow, but moved on ahead. When it was his turn, Anthony cut in and said, "I'll, ah. Pay for whatever he wants. To say thank you." Even though he was a uni student he guessed he still probably had more money than a musician, and even if he didn't, it was the least he could do; he felt like he was given a gift.
The harpist turned and opened his mouth. "That isn't nece-"
"Please."
The harpist took a deep breath, nodded, and ordered. As he and Anthony waited off to the side for their drinks, the harpist turned to him again. "That really wasn't necessary, but thank you."
"No, thank you." And then it happened. "Your h-harp p-performance was... mag-magnificent, oh god." After Anthony had been chased up into a tree when he was twelve and fell out, breaking his femur, he'd tried to get a handle on some of the things he was bullied about, like a stutter. Nobody would ever know he'd once had a stutter, nowadays, unless they'd gone to school with him. It was back here and now, feeling overcome by the man's attractiveness, that beautiful, melting voice, the enormity of his talent, the enormity of his presence, feeling like he was around a rock star even though he was sure the man wasn't famous at all. I'm stuttering again.
Heart hammering, Anthony bolted, not even waiting for his drink, not able to face the man anymore, or anyone at all. He ran out into the snow, then made himself slow down so he didn't slip on the sidewalk, and marched as quickly as he could back to his dorm, not looking back. Feeling as awkward as he'd ever felt in his life. Feeling even more embarrassed for feeling this awkward, it's just a few minutes of interaction, it's not like you could ask him to go on a date or something. He felt irrationally upset, and angry with himself for being irrational. But he felt like he'd been rubbed raw from the song, and for the brief instant of connection with someone who somehow, through his music, seemed to understand his kind of sadness. He'd felt something almost like a kindred spirit for a little while and he'd blown it. This was what he had to look forward to for the rest of his life, was being a socially awkward failure who could maybe command a courtroom someday but couldn't talk one-on-one in a more personal setting.
Fuck.
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