May 31, 2021

The Gong

Of all of the stories I have ever written, the only one which has ever give me pause is the Heather Lewis Movie Theatre story. Since the only people who ever read these pieces are friends and family, you might already be familiar with it. If not, I will give you a brief refresher: it is about the time I went to a movie with Heather Lewis, left ten minutes into the movie in order to go to the bathroom, then poked my head into another theatre where I ended up standing in the back for the entire movie. It is a funny story and I’m not sure the description does it justice but it does do a pretty good job of conveying the fact that it makes me look like a little bit of an asshole.

The story works on its own but in the collection it was preceded by a handful of other stories in which my friend Allie implored me not to tell the Heather Lewis Movie Theatre story in a social setting because it makes me look like a little bit of an asshole. I thought, and so did others, that it was a pretty good payoff after a well crafted set up and it became a fan favorite. Also, although there were plenty of other stories which made me look like a little bit of an asshole there were some which cast me in a favorable light so I figured it would all balance out.

So it should have been fine but although I had disguised her name and changed details, I still had a feeling in the back of my mind that Heather Lewis would somehow get pissed off. There was absolutely no reason why she should get pissed off because she comes off looking good and I come off looking like a dick but I had a bad feeling about it and so, operating under the an abundance of caution credo, I decided to remove it, and the stories which referenced it, out of the collection.

I self publish my books using Amazon’s Print-On-Demand program so changing the book file, which I ended up doing quite often, was a very easy exercise.

I’m not sure what the opposite of best seller is but that is the category I fit in so there could not have been more than two dozen people with a copy of the book which included the Heather Lewis Movie Theatre story.

That is only to say that when I ran into Heather Lewis outside of the Baskin Robbins on Avenue, my heart did not go to my throat because I did not for a second think she would have read any of my stories and least of all the Heather Lewis Movie Theatre story. We greeted each other enthusiastically, although we neither hugged or kissed, and she asked me what was going on and I said ‘same old, same old’ which seem to satisfy her even though I had no idea what she thought my ‘same old, same old’ was and it certainly wasn’t writing about the time I left her alone in the movie theatre. She was very excited to tell me about the fundraiser for the Toronto Symphony she was co-chairing. There was, she said excitedly, going to be an amazing silent auction.

Heather Lewis had always been a big fan of classical music and we had gone to quite a few concerts on our dates. People are surprised to learn that I too am a classical music enthusiast- the first record albums our family ever owned was the ten set Herbert von Karajan with the Berlin Philharmonic. I had been weaned on classical music. Also, I think myself a bit of a renaissance man and knowledge and appreciation of the classics was an important building block.

And that was that. We said our goodbyes and all would have been well and good and I would not have ended with a Heather Lewis story which made the Heather Lewis Movie Theatre story look like a walk in the park if she hadn’t, as she turned to leave, a dripping mint chocolate chip cone in hand, said “I thought the movie theatre story was cute.”

“Tell me again exactly what she said,” said Allie. We were sitting on my back deck eating party sandwiches from St. Urbain. I had already told the story three times.

“She said ‘I thought the movie theatre story was cute.’”

Back in the day Allie and a team of forensic scientists would have come over to my apartment in order to analyze and parse a message a woman might have left on my answering machine. But I had no message. I could only relay what I heard.

“Was she smiling?”

“No.”

“Was she smirking?”

“No. She said it straight up. No intonation.”

“Let me ask you this,” she said “if 100 people had heard her how many of them would have thought she was saying anything other than she thought it was cute?”

“Am I one of the 100?” I asked.

“No,” she replied.

“Then I don’t think anyone would read anything in it.”

“But you do?”

“It is Heather Lewis. I dunno. Doesn’t feel right.”

“Did it ever occur to you that nobody gives a shit about your stories?”

“That is just crazy talk.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to the Symphony Fundraiser. To the silent auction. I’m going to bid on something expensive.”

“That might be the dumbest thing you have ever done.”

But she was wrong.

I was about to get a lot dumber.

Here’s what you should do in order to test the strength of your friendships. Buy a table of ten seats to a symphony fundraiser and see how many people are willing to get dressed in a tuxedo or evening gown for an evening of free food and selected pieces from Chopin.

I was now up to two.

Lewberg, after I checked to see if the bar would stock Ketel One and Goldfarb, after I reassured him that I would pay for his rented tuxedo, that the food was indeed free and, this was the clincher, he could wear earplugs throughout.

Everyone else said no.

Most laughed in my face.

In the end, I donated the extra 7 seats back to the foundation and Lewberg, Goldfarb and I found ourselves sitting with a busload of elderly residents from a local retirement home.

“Heather Lewis looks good,” said Lewberg.

Goldfarb took his earplugs out and said “what?”

“Heather Lewis look good,” Lewberg said again.

It was true. Heather Lewis did look good. We had waved from across the room but had not spoken.

Lewberg refused to analyze the wave with me.

“Heather Lewis is not pissed off at you,” he said. “She doesn’t know you are alive. Seriously. Nobody cares about your stories.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you are right,” I said.

“How much was the table?” Asked Goldfarb.

“Two grand,” I replied.

“How many books have you sold?” He asked.

“Last count 84.” I said.

“Your business skills are inspirational,” said Goldfarb.

“I’m going to go bid on something,” I said.

“Yeah. Go spend some money,” said Goldfarb. “That wave looked angry.” He then put his ear plugs back on.

Goldfarb, Lewberg and Allie were right. Heather Lewis was not pissed off at all. It was all in my mind. But, there was an item in the silent auction I was actually interested in. It was a guest appearance with the Toronto Symphony during a performance of Rossini’s Barber of Seville.

Playing the gong.

Two strikes.

Da dum.

The Barber of Seville was my late father’s favorite piece. When the gong played, he would punch the air.

Da dum.

It became a thing in our family.

Da dum.

It was as close as my Egyptian Jewish family came to a Bruce Springsteen concert during Born to Run. The gong da dum in the middle of Rossini’s Barber of Seville.

Da dum.

So, I had kinda forgotten about Heather Lewis. But now, I wanted to play the gong.

I won’t tell you how much I bid.

Let’s just say I will have to sell more than 84 books.

Gustave Klimsh made it clear he was not happy to have me playing the gong in his symphony.

He was the conductor of the Toronto Symphony. He said his orchestra was made up of the most talented and dedicated musicians in the world. He did not need it sullied by a former powder paint salesman.

He didn’t actually say that

But it was what I felt.

“Look.” I am happy to bow out. I love this piece. I wouldn’t want to do anything to ruin it.”

“No. No. You will play. It is a gong. You cant fuck it up.”

He didn’t actually say that.

But it is what I felt.

I knew the piece backwards and forwards.

On the day of the first rehearsal, I paid close attention and hit the gong right after the third arpeggio.

Da dum.

I nailed it.

Then Gustave said “No.”

And then I said “No?”

“It is one gong,” he said.

And I said “I think it is two.” Then I said “da dum.”

And he said, a little more sternly this time “it is one gong.”

I said “I have been listening to Herbert van Karajan and the Berlin Philharmonic all week I am pretty sure it is two.”

“Van Karajan does not understand Rossini,” he spat out “it is one. You will do one.”

Then the second cellist turned to me and said “Just do what he says.”

So I did one. It sounded wrong. But I did one. We rehearsed all week. Truth be told, it became incredibly boring. If I could do it again, I would have bid on the spa weekend.

But on the day of the concert, Heather Lewis announced me as the guest percussionist. Gustave gave me a wave and the musicians tapped their bows as they do on these occasions. I have to admit, it felt pretty good.

So, when I did what I did, I did it out of reflex and not spite or bitterness.

It was my father punching the air.

Da dum.

Now a lot of people who aren’t familiar with classical music think that conducting is a ceremonial position. That the conductor is just waving his baton around in order to look dramatic. But when a conductor stops conducting, it is a little like taking your foot off the pedal.

And when I did da dum, Gustave stopped conducting. Just for a split second.

And so the musicians stopped playing.

Just for a split second.

I'm sure most of the people didn’t even notice.

Although Heather Lewis did.

Sitting in the front row.

So if you are reading this story can you please do me a favor and don’t show it to Heather Lewis.

I have a feeling she won't think it is cute.

The end.