Page 34 of Requiem

Jeremy 12

The article that comes out in the Sunday Arts section is a glowing half-page tribute to the orchestra’s new and improved sound under its new and improved conductor. There’s mention of a ‘brief and puzzling delay from within the horn section’ but goes on to note ‘whatever held up the horns was well worth the wait. Jeremy Corrigan’s hauntingly beautiful solo in the Ravel was matched only by his blistering heat in the Brahms.’

I’m reading it for the twentieth time when the orchestra director, Doug Lavery, comes into his office and takes a seat behind his desk. There was a message that he wanted to see me first thing this morning. Probably wants to congratulate me on Saturday night’s performance.

“This is a great review,” I state, not bothering to look up at him.

He doesn’t respond.

“Don’t you think?” I prompt, raising my gaze this time. He’s watching me with disdain etched clearly across his face.

“Jeremy, I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you go.”

I don’t think I’ve heard him correctly.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I demand, giving him a chance to correct himself.

“We know you had something to do with Jennifer’s horn disappearing. If you leave quietly, there won’t be any reason to get the police involved. We’ll cover the cost of her instrument, and no one will press charges. But I want you gone today, Jeremy.”

I stare at him incredulously. “What the fuck are you talking about? I just scored you the best review this orchestra has had in five years! I saved your ass when that teenage twit you hired misplaced her instrument three minutes before a concert. And you want to fire me? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

He just gives me his weasely smile.

“Quite the contrary. I’ve just been waiting for you to pull a stunt like this so I can throw you out of our orchestra. I don’t care how good you are, or how much the Maestro likes you. You’re nothing but a thug. And, if I’m not mistaken, a murderer, too. I want you out.”

This guy has no idea who he’s messing with. Does he honestly think that I’m going to let him do this to me?

“You can’t fire me,” I declare defiantly. “I have a contract.”

“Oh, but I am, Jeremy. Unless you want me to start a criminal investigation. And something tells me the police will look at you a little harder this time around.”

The pretentious fuck leans forward across his desk and surveys me over the top of his glasses.

“And you know what? I’m feeling generous. In addition to not pursuing an investigation, we’ll pay out your salary for the next six months. There isn’t a better deal to be had Jeremy, so I suggest you take it. I mean, if another orchestra were to get a whiff of your latest stunt, you wouldn’t even be able to get a gig selling tickets at the …”

He flips open a file folder on his desk, runs his finger down a page within and looks up again.

“ …At the Owl Bridge Symphony. That’s the little piss-ant town where you’re from isn’t it? Owl Bridge, Illinois?”

“You did not run a background check on me,” I hiss.

He just smiles at me.

“You’ll never get away with this. Between my attorney and the union rep …”

Now he waves a hand at me dismissively. “Your lawyer can try whatever he wants, but I think you’ll find the Union of American Orchestral Musicians to be less than sympathetic to your cause.”

“Well, it seems you’ve thought of just about everything.”

He looks proud of himself. “I had to. You may have cheated your way into this orchestra, but there’s no way I’m going to allow you to sully its reputation with your sordid behavior. Take the deal, Jeremy,” he repeats.

When the rage comes, it is always the same. It washes over me like a rogue wave out in the ocean. I never see it, but I know the instant it hits me. My jaw clenches and my heart starts to beat faster. I can feel the thump of my pulse up in my temples. My face grows hot and my hearing becomes dull. I develop tunnel vision and, what I do focus on, unfolds in slow motion.

Right now, all I can see is this asshole’s gloating face. The necktie that makes the folds of his flabby neck spill over his collar. The greasy strands combed over his bald spot. The hair sprouting from his ears and nose. I stand up, reach over his desk and pull him forward by that ugly, soup-stained tie, until he is splayed out and choking. I use my free hand to pull a photograph off the desk and stick it into his face.

“Oh, look! It’s your daughter, Denise. She likes to take those late night runs, doesn’t she? I’ve seen her a few times. She starts out east on Lake Street then she cuts through the Michigan Avenue Park and runs down along the canal before heading back home. Gosh, I hope she’s careful. A woman out alone like that could get herself gang raped. How horrible that would be!”

Doug is shaking his head while he wheezes. I toss the framed photo to the floor and the glass shatters. There’s a second picture. I pick this one up, look at it, and again shove it into his reddening face.