The Concert

We were definitely in a rougher part of town. Eric, my trusted friend, wove his way expertly through the early morning rush hour traffic with me in tow. He needed to find and assist a couple of distant family members who had fallen on hard times. He knew they lived down here somewhere, and for some strange reason, known only to him, I was gently coerced into tagging along.

Okay. It was definitely a rough area, now. I found myself wondering why I’d agreed to be part of this peril, as I swallowed back some inadvertent anxiety creeping insidiously up into my throat. That, or vomit.

Finally we had arrived. Somewhere. He deftly backed his older car in between some seriously beaten up industrial garbage pails. How he avoided hitting them, I’ll never know.

“C’mon,” he said encouragingly, seemingly oblivious to my gnawing fear. He locked his sturdy club on the steering wheel, then secured all the doors, before bounding toward an old but still intact warehouse. Deserted, it seemed. I really had no choice but to follow; I had no plan to stay out here on my own.

The large steel door moved with a bit of a shove and slowly creaked open. Going inside, my first shock was in finding how clean it was. It had the high ceiling one would expect in such a place, cement floors stained here and there with the experiences of the past, and echoing sounds. But very tidy. Here and there were makeshift set-ups for the singles and small groups who called this place home, temporarily or otherwise.

Eric moved quickly, giving me the distinct impression that this was not his first experience here. He found the nearest set of substantial wide stairs and bounded up, with me a shadow close behind. He knew exactly where he was going. Rounding the corner, he started up the next set of stairs as I followed along. But this time there was a problem. Three-quarters of the way up there was a stringer or two missing. He could jump it. I could not.

“Stay on that level. You’ll be fine,” he shouted back over his shoulder to me. “No worries.” he added for good measure.

“No worries,” I muttered.

“Right.”

And then, “Shit, shit, shit.”

I felt bile rising up into my mouth, then the all-too-familiar panic forming, that cold, tingly sensation creeping up the back of my neck.

I turned and walked back down to the second level. Worked on my box breathing pattern, tried to slow my racing heart.

It wasn’t long after that people began showing up, congregating, as if waiting for something. They weren’t well-dressed by any means, but their clothing was respectable. They appeared to be uplifted, smiling, chatting amiably to one another as they took up positions here and there in the cavernous space.

This, in itself, was shocking. What came next, even more so.

A small drum set was wheeled carefully into one corner by a resident. Close on the heels of the first young man came another. He carried what appeared to be an electric violin. The air began to feel electric – no wonder. The city, in its wisdom, had continued to provide electricity to this place, likely knowing it was home to many.

The two musicians wasted no time doing a quick warm-up. Like the others, they appeared to be ‘on the outs’, and had made their home within this community. I’m sure they’d likely move out, once success was on their side, but for now these were their people, their family.

As if on cue, the crowd sat and waited, an expectant hush in the air. I found myself becoming strangely drawn to the scene, my anxiety creeping reluctantly back down to its lair within me.

And then, after a couple of short business-type announcements related to the establishment, the concert began.

First up was a mournful, classical piece, something new to me but reverently held by its audience. The notes floated through the air into the hearts and souls of the spectators. I noticed a few people wipe a tear away secretly as they hung onto each plaintive note, each raw emotion. The applause was genuine.

Next came a brand new, more modern composition. It was wrapped in pregnant, tender nuances with romantic overtones, the two instruments playing an almost sexual innuendo with one another. Their audience moved as one to the strains of the melody.

Lastly there was a modern rendition of a popular piece on the radio. The drums sang as the violin rocked out its tune, electrifying the very air. Everyone jumped to their feet, clapping and singing, vibrant.

As the songs ended, thunderous cheers rocked the factory walls.

The drummer spoke up. “Thanks for coming, everyone. You do our hearts good. Make sure to do your best in school today, kids. Moms, dads, good luck with the job hunt today. You can do it. We all can.”

The violinist added, “Above all, love one another and do good in the world. Be safe. We’ll see you here bright and early tomorrow morning, as we wake up this crazy world, together.”

At this point, almost everyone left with renewed purpose. The space was quiet and cavernous once again, no longer a place to be feared.

On cue, my driver appeared, bouncing down the steps with enthusiasm.

“Mission accomplished,” Eric said, then, “How’d you make out? Not too bored, I imagine.”

I was staring at him, dumbfounded, when he winked at me.

“Quite the place, isn’t it.”