13-Our First Kiss

I watched Larry approach the teenager. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he later told me he offered the musician money to borrow his guitar.

“You want to give me $50 bucks to use my guitar for 15 minutes?” the teenager asked.

“Yup.” Larry pulled the money out of his pocket.

“Make it a hundred,” the teenager said.

“A hundred? Are you kidding? C’mawn, have a heart. I want to hear my girlfriend sing. I’ve never heard her play before. Do it for love.”

Larry showed the man two twenties and a ten. The teenager handed the guitar to Larry.

“I’ll do it for karma,” the teenager said, waving off the money.

Larry smiled at the boy.

“Thank you. This means a lot to me.”

When Larry came running back to me with a guitar in his hand, I felt privileged that someone would go through such lengths just to hear me sing.

“You can’t say no now,” Larry said, out of breath from his sprint.

I grabbed the guitar from his hands and sat up straight. I put my feet flatly on the ground, and placed the instrument gently on my thigh.

Music is something you feel, and I wasn’t about to rush this moment. I strung a few chords, and adjusted the out-of-tune guitar. I hummed the chord of C softly, and waited until the music came to my ear. I waited for my spirit to feel heightened. Then it happened.

I sang from my soul and felt the words leave my mouth. The people who passed by stopped with bewilderment, yet I didn’t even notice. I could no longer hear their conversations or see their curious faces. I only saw the blue sky above us.

I was in my own spiritual world, which consisted of music that expressed the depth of pain and the strength of love. I sang a song I composed eight years earlier after I said goodbye to --what I believed at that time-- was my soul mate. He left New York to pursue his writing dreams in Hollywood, and it was the most painful goodbye I ever experienced.

The song talked about loving a man who was leaving me for the love of the unknown. The words evoked pain, fear, love and desert.

When I was finished singing, I looked up and saw a crowd of 20 people, listening to my performance. A few people smiled at me like I was an angel.

A grandfather lifted his granddaughter into his arms. A young couple held hands. A girl put her head on her boyfriend’s shoulder, while he ran his fingers through her long wavy hair. A teenager with spiked, black hair sat on the cold concrete, next to my feet.

There was a moment of silence after I quit singing. You could hear a car honking in the street, and a fire engine driving by.

Their faces were easy to read; they weren’t sure what to do next. Do they clap? Do they nod quietly and walk away? Do they drop coins into the now open guitar case? Finally, a teenage boy with shaggy blonde hair, ripped jeans, and tattoos on his arm, broke the silence. He was sitting on the dried grass with his legs crossed.

“That fucken rocks,” he shouted, clapping like he was at a solo rock performance. “I want to buy your CD. You are most awesomely, awesome, most high.”

He raised his hand in the air and rocked his head, even though the music was no longer playing. The crowd followed his lead and started clapping. One man whistled. A 5-year-old girl walked up to me and put her doll on my lap. She smiled at me as her grandfather in a three-piece suit and polished black shoes, nodded in approval from a distance.

A few people in the crowd asked for another song, but I insisted I had to return the guitar to its owner.

That’s when the owner of the guitar stepped forward to get his instrument. He looked into my eyes as he grabbed his guitar and said, “You inspired me. I’m not giving up on my music. I’m not giving up on my dreams. Thank you.” He bowed his head, a gesture in his culture of respect and admiration.

After the crowd walked away, there were a few minutes of silence between Larry and me. An aura still swirled above us, and we both remained in that peaceful and serene state.

“Do you have any idea of the feelings you just released right now?” Larry asked.

“Oh, it was just a song.”

“No, no, no,” Larry shook his head emphatically. “I’m a performer. I get these things. I know when people are moved, and their souls are touched. You just touched their spirit.”

I tried to penetrate his eyes. They expressed faith in a higher purpose beyond our daily grind. I knew the words he spoke were genuine and authentic, and I realized at that moment it was the same expression I gave him three weeks earlier when we met by chance inside a dark, dingy bar.

“There’s something more you’re not telling me,” Larry said. “Why aren’t you pursuing your dreams?”

Larry had opened Pandora’s Box without even knowing it. That question delved deeper, to a level I wasn’t quite ready to explore.

“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to make it as a singer?” I asked. “It’s not like I can just walk into Virgin Records and say, ‘hey, I want a record label, I’m ready to sign.’”

“Wait a second, stop.” Larry said, his voice slightly louder. “This, from the same person who told me to pursue my dreams with passion. Children need me? I have a purpose to my art? I can’t believe you lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie, Larry, believe me. I meant every word,” I grabbed his arm. “Larry, I can see your talent.”

“And I can’t see yours?”

I picked up a yellow flower next to our bench. I pulled the petals off one by one, until there was only a stem left. It stopped his probing for a brief second. I knew he was right, and so did he.

“I did pursue it when I was young and naïve,” I said.

Larry didn’t move.

“I pursued that goal of a record album night and day. In the afternoon, I struggled as a waitress. At night, I came alive with my music. I played in front of large and small crowds. I chased my dreams, and a decade later, where am I?”

I paused to re-gather my thoughts. I think Larry knew any observations he would make were only near-sighted because he didn’t say a word.

“I’m still in the same place. Do I have a bigger apartment? No. Do I have a larger 401K? No. Am I living what I express with my music? No. I lost my entire youth chasing that invisible dream.”

“You did not lose your youth,” Larry interrupted. “You gained wisdom. You are one of the wisest people I know. I take that back. You are the wisest person I know, and that didn’t come from being 20 years old. It came from pursuing a life filled with passion.”

Larry was scoring major points, but then, -just like all other men-, he talked a little too long. And in one nanosecond, he lost every point with only one question.

“How old are you?” he asked.

It was like a nuclear bomb went off in my head.

Oh, he didn’t ask me that. I can’t believe he asked me that. Are you an idiot? You’re never supposed to ask a woman how old she is. Even if your Mom never taught you that, movies teach you it. Don’t ask a woman how old she is! The thoughts were screaming in my head.

“You do know you’re never supposed to ask a woman that question,” I said politely.

“Can I get you some coffee?”

“Nice try on changing the subject,” I said.

“I’m sorry, but you know what I meant. I really think you are brilliant and talented,” Larry said.

I looked down at the hands folded on my lap.

Our communication had entered a new dimension where words weren’t needed. I don’t believe in telepathy, but it was like we both knew each other’s thoughts as they were created. Then Larry put his arm around me and we kissed.

But it didn’t happen like it does in the movies.

We didn’t look into each other’s eyes as music played in the background. White doves didn’t land next to our park bench. We didn’t gently ease into each other’s space, and softly touch each other’s lips.

No, we both went straight for the kill. We kissed with an urgency of a falling elevator. We grabbed each other’s face like our time on earth was about to end. It was sloppy, it was ugly, and it was even a little dirty, but our pent-up passion was now being manifest.

And when it was over a minute later, I turned away and exhaled like I was smoking a cigarette. I ran my fingers through my long hair, and stretched my legs apart on the sidewalk.

“Man,” I said.

“Wow,” he said.

There was no need to say more. Words had no meaning. We both took a minute to live in the present, and appreciate the gift of the past.

There was no need to say more. Words had no meaning. We both took a minute to live in the present, and appreciate the gift of the past.

Later that night at home, I gave more thought to what Larry said. I knew he was right. I needed another push, or inspiration to remind me of that forgotten dream. I walked over to the old, upright piano sitting in the corner of my cramped apartment. My apartment was less than 350 square feet, --barely enough room for the bare essentials of living--, yet to me, this big bulky box that played music was more valuable than my own bed. The piano opened my spirit to a higher place where my mind and soul ran free. It was a state where time and space had no limits.

I dusted off the keys, and picked up the only picture that was on top of my piano. I blew the dust off the metal frame and rubbed my finger around its edges. I looked at the photo closer. It was a picture of Billy Joel and me, jamming at a piano inside a luxurious home. We were surrounded by eight other people. I closed my eyes and tried to remember how that night started.

We were the opening act in the Village for an underground band that wasn’t even being promoted. It was odd to not promote a Thursday night performance, so I asked the owner who would be the main act.

“Elsa, I really want to tell you, but I can’t,” he said. “The band wants to try out some new music, and they don’t want it to get out that they’re playing tonight. I wish I could tell you who they are, but I promised them I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“I understand,” I said. “But is there a certain genre I should reach? You know my music. What do you want to hear?”

“Give me anything original. It’s all good,” the bar owner said.

You can’t imagine the surprise when I saw Billy Joel walk into the bar right before my performance. He winked at me as he sat at the reserved front table less than 10 feet away from the six-foot stage. Throughout my performance, he smiled and when it was all over, Billy walked up to me and said he enjoyed my music. It moved him, he said. He then invited me to an after-party at his Manhattan apartment in the West Village.

I pulled the photo out of the frame to get a better look at it. I noticed the picture was now losing some of its color. In the photo, we both sat on the piano bench. I played while Billy watched and held a cocktail in his hand. The camera captured us singing, with our mouths open. He was looking directly at the camera, while I looked down at the piano keys. We both looked about ten years younger. When I opened the back of the frame, a note fell to the floor. I picked it up and opened it.

The note said: Don’t ever give up on your dreams, Love Billy.