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flash fiction entry for Flood’s speakeasy: Audition

Posted on 3 Dec 12 by in the speakeasy, writing fringes | 15 comments


“You have exactly one hour.”

My piano tutor, a walnut-faced shrew, rapped my knuckles with her small plastic baton to smack them back into the proper tempo, an adagio I’d mastered weeks before. One hour until the audition and damn if this woman didn’t break the skin of two of my fingers.

We’d been at it since early that morning, for hours, and I guess my mind had slipped away for a few seconds. Raluca, my tutor, likely a war criminal in her home country or, just as likely, the trigger for an estranged granddaughter’s eating disorder, sipped hot tea with an ear toward perfection from my selected piece. I felt the sting of the baton before I ever saw it coming.

“These people are my friends, Cami,” continued Raluca, and I knew she was exaggerating. Raluca was respected. Raluca was not liked. “They are only considering you as a favor to me. You will not embarrass.”

Gently appraising my knuckles with the fingers of my right hand, I thought of the assistant principal of my old elementary school who, I was sure, was my actual benefactor in the “give the talented black kid a fighting chance” community service project enthusiastically launched the day I pecked out some passable Scott Joplin on an old piano in the cafeteria. The music teacher had a friend who had a friend who had connections with certain foundations that specialized in spinning the lives of poor kids into fundraising dollars, and now here I was with the supposedly famed Raluca Ene and my bleeding knuckles auditioning for The Bestest and Mostest Prestigious Music Academy in the World which should simultaneously serve as Cami’s Ticket out of the Ghetto Because Who Would Ever Want to Live There Around Those People.

I asked Raluca for a glass of water, then waited as she disappeared into her kitchen. I needed the break from my audition piece and tinkered with Simon and Garfunkel as quietly as I could on the piano surrounded by Raluca’s photos and awards. Their Bridge Over Troubled Water was my mother’s absolute favorite song, and it’s the one thing I carry with me that’s always full of good memories. Hysterical giggles from me and my sisters would rise over each sour note as she faked and flung poor Garfunkel’s harmony against my little brother’s falsetto whenever we were making dinner or riding in the car or just sitting around having us a good time. God, she couldn’t sing worth shit.

My father played the organ for a very large Baptist congregation for money. That was his job, along with hiring the church’s many band musicians and choir directors. He was also the de facto staff counselor for all the closeted gays worshiping at any given moment in the seven weekly services. He had never been a believer, but the church pastor didn’t consider being saved by Jesus Christ as a requirement for musicianship. Especially not when my dad could hook him up with so many confused, closeted gays for weekend retreats and consensual sex in the name of the Lord. Once, after a particularly fruitful retreat, the pastor bought my mom a new minivan out of gratitude for my dad’s faithfulness and on the front seat when we picked it up from the dealership was a platter of homemade cookies baked by one of the pastor’s young daughters. Thank you, read the note. And keep the plate.

“Cami, you truly want to honor your mother’s memory?”

Raluca placed a glass of water on the side table behind me. I braced for her trademark insensitivity as I spun around to face her. A few months earlier, I’d screamed at her the reason why she sometimes catches me playing that song and, even though I hadn’t shared it from a good place, I still regretted telling her, no matter the accidental rage that had come with it.

“Be flawless in your audition. You can only do that if you put your family—-your mother, your father, your sisters, your brother—-out of your mind like they never existed. And that cannot happen if you’re fooling around with Simons and Greefindle moments before the performance of your life.”

She followed the advice with her favorite platitude: I tell you this not to hurt you, but to help you.

When the people writing my ticket out of the ghetto with their pens and checkbooks would ask me how I ended up living alone right after high school with no family and no support but for their pens and checkbooks immersing me in music and books and secondary education and groceries, my answer was the acceptable, tragic narrative of my entire family being killed by a drunk driver on their way home from church. Would I be as talented and as marketable if they knew my father had been the one driving drunk and, yep, high at the wheel? With his family in the car after introducing his Baptist preacher employer to more fresh penis? People lose their families to neglect, abandonment, disease, misfortune or some combination of it all every day. They can’t even dream of being assigned a foundation accountant who hands out concert tour per diems and accepts scanned receipts by email (”Don’t lose the originals, Cami. Never lose the originals.”)

Mothers die or disappear, fathers die or were never around in the first place. Raluca was probably raised by monkeys in a Romanian asbestos factory, or so Google would tell me if I ever bothered to search up her biography. She clawed her way into a respectable post-hardship life without ever knowing if a per diem was a fish, a fabric or some kind of salty snack. After performing private concertinas for three American presidents and waking up one day as an old woman, she scoffed at people who, like me, were being miraculously rescued by the guilt-driven generosity of others.

She brushed off any chance of a retort with a wave of her hand. Drunk, dead, murderous daddies and mommies singing off-key with laughing children being not even close to the point, that adagio was waiting. Picking up her baton, Raluca took her seat beside mine.

“Start again.”



  1. “Hysterical giggles from me and my sisters would rise over each sour note as she faked and flung poor Garfunkel’s harmony against my little brother’s falsetto whenever we were making dinner or riding in the car or just sitting around having us a good time.”

    I love all of this. You’re The Cheese for a reason, lady. Thank you for drugging yourself up and writing at my request. I’d say it was a good gut instinct.

    • Thank you for the push, favorite friend!

  2. wow – well, i’d say this is a book in the making… so much going on, so rich in story and detail. wow, again. thanks for a great read. :)

    • Alisa, you know I don’t pursue major projects requiring sticktuitiveness and effort. But thanks for forgetting that for a second.

  3. Wow. I don’t even know how to feel about Raluca. I’m always sympathetic to people who have been through trauma that my life finds unimaginable – like growing up in war-torn countries or having a day-to-day struggle for a sane environment. And I also feel like I get where she’s coming from – and what she’s trying to do.

    This story is like a lesson of that “be kind, everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” Loved it.

    And, as an aside, in looking up the quotation, I found this really cool blog:

  4. Love this voice! Seriously love.

    • Thanks, Kiki. That means a lot.

  5. I love the reflecting backstory being interrupted by Raluca’s words. It’s part of your style and it gently startles the reader out of the past and into the now., where Cami has to start again.

    • With the shorter stories, it’s sometimes better to weave the back stories in and out rather than spending extra time setting the scene. It helps me keep control of the narrative. Thank you for encouraging me.

  6. So.

    Seriously, so good. So much there, so many characters with back story, so much empathy.


  7. I love the way you string together words that fit so perfectly. Each one is handpicked to describe that which it intends to, but done so in a manner that does not feel like you’ve labored over each one. Everything is creative and unique. You don’t hear most people talking or writing this way, and yet it comes off as so natural.

    I’m very envious.

  8. As the mama of a young musician whose performance-of-a-life is looming in oh shit ten more days, I felt more and more worried for Cami as the story went on. Because Raluca is right: she must empty her mind of everything but her mind-sucking art! Wonderful structure, favorite line “keep the plate,” and love the irony of using “Start again” as the ending. You should ignore us all a little more in favor of writing, truly.

  9. This is seriously awesome! I have no idea how you can get so much into so few words. Please post more often!

  10. All I could think by the time I got halfway through was that I hope you continue this story. I want to know about the audition. I want to know where Cami ends up. I’d say that made this story very successful :)

    Loved it!

  11. (i read this the other day but am just now getting around to comment, sorry.)

    i love this. so much. sooo much story here. my favorite is the last line.

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