BAD NEWS
When the results of the audition arrived by post three weeks later, he knew without even having to open the envelope that the news was bad.
On looking back, he couldn’t say specifically what it was that tipped him off. Had the envelope been too thin? Or too thick? No, it had been just right, and the ambiguity had sent his mind racing in random directions?
He remembered there had hung a sort of aura around the thing—a dark aura—but that detail was surely an embellishment, the product of a faulty memory under stress.
In cold reality, it had been an ordinary letter like any other official communication from the university, distinguishable only by the fact it bore the music school’s silver foil insignia and return address on the outside. There had been no dark aura.
The important part of the letter read:
“…regretfully finding that, while the jurists did give your performance a generally positive appraisal--despite noting certain irregularities in the audition process--your personal and academic history suggest you lack the requisite personal experience or supplemental training needed to excel in the music program, given the current, highly competitive academic environment.
“Recent state legislatively mandated funding cuts have made it difficult to accommodate all qualified students. You are encouraged to audition again during the next open audition period, for entry to the school beginning in the next successive term. In the meantime, you can improve your chances to be admitted by pursuing extracurricular activities related directly or indirectly to your chosen field of study. For example, string majors might choose to join a local, all-volunteer chamber group, to gain experience in live performance. On the other hand, even a full-time job…“
Nick had never imagined himself as the kind of person who broke down before. But he broke down now, his shoulders heaving and his breathing speeding up in fits, as tears streamed down his face.
It was a moment of madness. He wailed. He tore at his clothes and gnashed his teeth. It was biblical. For a minute and a half or so he went on in this fashion.
Then finally he managed to shake it off, at the same time remembering there was still a half pint of vodka in the freezer and a dime bag of weed that a friend had given him at a party in the shoebox where he kept his stash.
He closed his eyes and envisioned the next few weeks unfolding: he foresaw himself getting so drunk he forget everything else, quickly going beyond hopeless, caught in the iron grip of self-pity. He could already see where things were heading.
When he came-to a few days later, he had a throbbing headache, and the bottle of vodka had nearly run dry. He had been taking his time with it, drinking small sips, enhancing its potency with weed. But the bottle now lay spent on the coffee table.
He had fucked up. He had fucked it all up. He had lost his job. Or more accurately, quit his job. By abandonment: the coward’s way. He just hadn’t ever shown up. Not so much as a phone call. And it had been how many days now?
But it really didn’t matter exactly how many days it had been. It had been enough. That much was clear. There were messages on the voicemail from the night manager. Nick had ignored them, leaving them there, nagging only at the edges of his awareness. He knew already. He’d have to go back home. No other options. Until now, he had lived from one paycheck to the next.
Home, he thought, such a strange word for it. The place where he had lived since his grandmother died when he was fifteen—it was that much—but he could hardly call it home. That word suggested security, warmth and comfort. He had known nothing of these things when he lived there. Or if he had known them, they had just popped into view for an instant and then disappeared again, like shooting gallery clowns at an outdoor carnival.
He knew all of this on one level, but on another, he still couldn’t face the reality of it, try as he might. So instead he soaked his wits in liquor and smoked too much, regressing to an infantile state, lying fetus-wise on the living room floor until daybreak, where he awoke nuzzling his bottle of watered-down vodka.
But at least now there was one last thing to look forward to, he realized. It was Friday, the night of Jesse’s graduation party. With some luck, he could re-up his stash there, or snag a flask full of vodka or rum. Even whiskey was a possibility. Jesse, like many of his friends, was generous.
Maybe he could even meet someone tonight. His heart ached at the thought of sleeping alone again. His ambitions were getting loftier than ever now, he thought, ironically.
Maybe he could seduce a trust fund girl, live parasitically off someone else’s unearned wealth for a while. He simply didn’t want to consider the only immediate, practical alternatives. So he didn’t.
When 11:00 PM came around, Nick found himself there, standing at Jesse’s apartment door, knocking briskly.
Jesse answered. This was apparently supposed to be another of Jesse’s 70’s pop-culture themed party, for he modeled a sparkly mauve trimmed jumpsuit, with an enormous and almost comically ill-fitting white collar. His chest hair was not only exposed, but also conditioned with glistening styling oils to heighten the dramatic effect. The entire costume was complemented, both fittingly and absurdly, by a thick gold neck chain under which a marble-sized silver disco ball medallion hung glinting in the street light.
“Hey—what’s up, man! You look rough. Is everything cool? Is that your costume?”
“Yeah, no, everything’s fine—“ Nick stammered. “I’m fine. I didn’t realize this was a theme party. It caught me off guard. I had a really late night last night, couldn’t sleep I guess. Getting the party started a day too early. Hey, hate to ask this but I could really use a smoke. Do you mind?”
“Oh, no way, man. Help yourself. Here, take a couple for the road. Come on in and enjoy yourself. I think I saw Greenblatt heading toward the smoker’s lounge a couple minutes ago. You can probably still catch him if you hurry.”
Nick took the loose cigarettes and deposited them in his shirt pocket, noting with a touch of disappointment that they were a generic brand. Like asbestos spikes in the lungs, he thought. Pure poison.
But he quickly lit one anyway, thanking Jesse as he departed in the direction of “the smoker’s lounge,” the spare room in the back where all the pot smokers in his social circle congregated when they partied at Jesse’s, passing around tortoise-shell colored glass pipes of various shapes and sizes, stuffing them full of exotic and unctuous strains of cannabis, then drawing in the musky-smelling smoke with relish, and choking and laughing uncontrollably as the smoke swirled around them.
Nick wasn’t disappointed by the scene that awaited him inside as he entered that familiar room tonight. The first person who greeted him as he pushed in through the door was indeed his good friend, Greenblatt.
