Audio_05_03_2024_20_39_36

Jane, a teacher and musician, had a persistent yeast infection that she couldn't hide during their violin lessons. Despite this, the narrator admired and respected Jane, and she invited them to sit with her in the pit at the Goodspeed Opera House. The narrator was nervous but grateful for the opportunity. Jane introduced them to everyone backstage and made them feel special. As the show began, the narrator sat in the violin section and felt like they were witnessing something special. They don't remember much about the show, but they do remember a card trick where cards fell on them. The narrator realized that Jane had orchestrated the whole night to make them feel included and happy, despite their lack of talent in violin. Jane was an avid runner. She was a teacher. She was a prolific musician from a musical family. She had a handsome but semi-haggard look to her. In a man it might be called rugged, but in her face it could best be called poorly rested. Jane had what seemed to me to be a perpetual yeast infection. She was the most successful full-time working artist I knew as a preteen, and I might have but couldn't have heeded her eternal yeast infection as a sign, a red flag of the artist's path. She never told me about the yeast infection, but it was evident in her frequent infernal crotch scratching during my lessons, which she tried in futility to hide. The infection was so persistent and intractable that my friends, having heard about it from me, would inquire, you have violin today, they'd say. Has Jane treated her yeast infection yet? The infection was so persistent and intractable that my friends, having heard about it from me, would inquire, you have violin today? They'd say, has Jane treated her yeast infection yet? I felt intuitively, without having words for it, that Jane needed a nap and a hug and $500. My respect for her ran deep, a kind of celebrity to me, even though her apartment and her aspect were patently unglamorous. I felt she was, to the best of her ability, in control of her choices, and that she was awake to her own vitality and potential. At 12, I hadn't yet read enough self-help to name all this, but I sensed it and sought the warmth of the particular light she cast. Jane, for reasons known to her, respected me as well, in spite of or maybe because of my lack of seriousness about the violin. She said one late afternoon in my weekly lesson amid her brown living room, come sit next to me in the Goodspeed Opera House pit. You can see what the show looks like from there. And I went with her one evening. I was nervous, but knew I should not pass up this rare and unique offer. I was nervous, but knew I should not pass up this rare and unique offer. She introduced me glowingly to everyone backstage, every actor, and told them with great pride that I'd be sitting with her in the pit that evening. She was eager to show me, her truly mediocre student, off to her colleagues. I was shy and cowed by all of it. The actors were polite and unaffected by my presence and by their looming place's call. In her greetings, Jane paid special attention to one man, an actor dressed as an old-timey magician, and told him I'd be sitting next to her. As the show began, I sat nestled below the stage in the slim violin section, the overture loud and close, sound waves enveloping me, my view of the stage partially obstructed by bows and trumpets. As the show began, I sat nestled below the stage in the slim violin section, the overture loud and close, sound waves enveloping me, my view of the stage partially obstructed by bows and trumpets. There was nothing I had to do but fit neatly there and bear witness. There was nothing I had to do but fit neatly there and bear witness. It was reminiscent, I now realize, of Take Your Daughter to Work Day, one of the quirky 90s phenomena that millennials now stumble back upon asking, did that really happen? Unlike normal Take Your Daughter to Work Day, in my case spent drawing with Crayola markers at a soporific insurance company and grabbing Hershey's Hugs from glass dishes atop cubicle walls, this Take Your Daughter to Work Day was loud, thrilling, percussive, and precise. It was now reminiscent, I now realize, of Take Your Daughter to Work Day, one of the quirky 90s phenomena that millennials now stumble back upon asking, did that really happen? Unlike normal Take Your Daughter to Work Day, in my case spent drawing with Crayola markers at a soporific insurance company and grabbing Hershey's Hugs from glass dishes atop cubicle walls, this Take Your Daughter to Work Day was loud, thrilling, percussive, and precise. Percussive and precise. I don't recall the show itself at all, but there was at some moment a card trick performed on stage. The old-timey magician, the old-timey magician man shuffled and let fly a deck of cards so that they bounced gamely off of Jane's violin bridge and rained directly on me, falling with great meaning like prophecy on my nose. Jane was smiling hard as she played, sneaking a sidelong glance at my upturned face as cards fluttered down on us. I saw in that moment that she had dreamed up the whole night just for this, to see playing cards snow down on me from the hallowed stage, to make me a part of the magic now with my open, delighted smile. To make me a part of the magic now with my open, delighted smile. And all this I marveled, even though I wasn't good at the violin. It was a pleasure to be confounded. And all this I marveled, even though I wasn't good at the violin. It was a pleasure to be confounded.