The Piano Lesson Cabal

It's not her drama. They're nattering on like pissy little school girls, taking strips off their best friend's husbands, talking smack about her legs, his face, her skin, his place. It's appalling. A self perpetuating feeding frenzy of judgement, these forty year old women buzz like a bee hive under siege in the music school's waiting room. Such vitriol and bile, Veronica can't control the scowl creeping across her face. Tuesday night ritual: bitch n bash. Ronnie drops off and picks up her nephew, the world's best boy. A seven year old dynamo of genius and giggles. Normally she spends the hour of Grayson's piano lesson doing homework at the cafe next door but there's a staff christmas party tonight so she's left to her own devices in the too close for comfort foyer. Ronnie wonders why women like this have children to begin with since everything in their lives seems to be an unbearable burden and trial. Rich, white, suburban, solidly middle class moms with mortgages and minivans, kids and cats and dogs and overwhelming anger issues. A deep sense of dissatisfaction pervades the group. Ronnie is overwhelmed with sadness. This is how it ends. Bitterness twisting into acrimony. What a life to look forward to. And on the other side of the door is pure potential. A gaggle of 7 year olds hammering away on Steinways, submerged in sound and exploration. A joyful noise. They used to be allowed to watch the lessons then the teacher banned the adults from participating. Too distracting, overbearing. Intolerant. Ronnie can see this now, it's unavoidable. She hopes her sister isn't one with this coven, full of reproachful accusations and criticisms about her life, her son, her kid sister. She can't imagine growing up in this and not becoming one with it. Oh the children. All of the sudden Ronnie wants to jump up and shout enough, stop it, just stop it, all of you, you heinous, awful, petty women. Then the door swings open spilling children onto laps and grasping for hands, chattering a mile a minute, overflowing with kinetic energy. The women turn on a dime, gathering their charges, smiles tight, keys in hands, shuffling families out the door. Until next week's cabal.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Moving in Stasis

Go. Get on that plane, that train, that bus. Walk if you have to. Swim, we've got great lakes and oceans and rivers. So many bodies of water and tracts of land to get across. Find a way, they said, just get here, soon. And so Tally packed a bag with just the essentials: a blueberry corn muffin with a shmear of cream cheese, her well worn pocket stone she rubs in her left hand, a packet of mints from the drive in theatre, and two pineapple juice boxes. A clean pair of socks, some dental floss, mom's old cigarette lighter she stole off her bureau, and twenty three dollars and eighty five cents in change. That was the heaviest part of her backpack. She wondered if she was forgetting something but her mind raced with all the things at once. Will her shoes be comfortable on the long journey? Did she feed the cockatiel before she left the house? How can she get across the ocean if the boats aren't docking in the harbour anymore? What if she runs out of money? Will Joseph be
Read more

Kindness Is A Boomerang

If he can make it off the couch to the kitchen, then he'll be up and at 'em. Movement is motion and motion is energy and like a battery, he'll recharge. Feel better. Or different. Good enough. Long nights of hourly wake ups, followed by the struggle to quiet his mind. Loop, loop, looping through endless thoughts of what if and who will and I should and maybe they'll but just go to sleep. Sleep. No tech in his room, just sleep and sex. Although physical touch has been lacking. Wanting. Week seven, but who's counting.  And that's just sheltering in place. Before that, well...seasons. The sky is bright. City living with no light pollution is like life at the cottage on Lac St Joseph. There are meteors tonight, a shower or falling or maybe it's his brain playing tricks on his eyes. Looking for things  he can't possibly see. Four missed calls. Thirteen notifications. No one he's pining for so it's a wash. Is it too late to get up... too early
Read more

Good, Not Great

She hits the down button. Two hospital admin types, young women in almost stylish outfits, the ones afforded on entry level salaries, wait on a car going up. The elevator arrives, doors open, she steps on then realizes she's going up. Force of habit, she says aloud to no one in particular, pavlovian response. The two women sort of smile as they study the floor, suddenly intensely awkward and private. She gets louder as she backs out of the car. Doors close and she hovers her finger over the already illuminated down button. Right, just did that. It's quiet here, far from the madding crowd. Emerg was busy, mainly the geriatric crew. A few indigent and drunk and disorderlies draped over chairs, hanging out of gurneys, buried under sheets and gowns, moaning, rambling incoherently. It's the large-and-in-charge paramedic night: 4 teams of doughy young men stand sentinel with their wards, buried in paperwork, bored with the hurry and up wait logjam of daily deliveries.
Read more