Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

The swiftness and ease with which Perry Oliver has accomplished these preparations give him a high he has never experienced before, possibly the peak point of fulfillment, causing him to wonder if and fear that the performance itself is destined to be a letdown. Worrying in the wood frame of his window, he tantalizes himself with varying mental pictures of its outcome.

Howard hands Perry Oliver a list of songs, a meager sampling of Tom’s repertoire, nicely and brightly inked out. Only this limited sequence of selections — every concert must tell a story, beginning, middle, and end — that he has worked out for Tom’s concert tomorrow night, including three encore pieces, should Tom need them. Perry Oliver raises the sheet to his face, muttering lines. The hall empty of people with the exception of Howard, Perry Oliver, Seven, and Tom. A single rehearsal because Perry Oliver wants it such. Isn’t this simply a way for him to manage his panic, to try to clear up gaps in his understanding of the “Blind Tom Exhibition,” notice what’s missing? An opportunity for him to shop among a host of possible mistakes, mischances of mouth and body, miscalculations of time and energy? “The Manager of the Performance” curious to see if he has what it takes to carry him through a long evening. Who is aiding whom? Perry Oliver does an excellent job of pretending he knows what he is doing, no hesitation whatsoever. Indeed, he is showing presence of mind in asking Howard to be here now, exactly twenty-four hours before the scheduled concert, a single rehearsal. Reminding himself of his own power.

Howard answers whatever questions Perry Oliver puts to him, fresh anger and regret in his voice, trying his best to mask his feelings, and doing a lousy job of it. He is a man like any other. (If a prince be outraged, can his being a prince keep him from looking red and looking pale and grinding his teeth like a madman?) But Perry Oliver is the one who will benefit from his hard work with Tom. All Perry Oliver will have to do is call out the title of each song. And now, ladies and gentlemen, Blind Tom will play for you … Howard has received triple his lesson fee to come here today. The sight of Tom onstage had on first appearance aroused the exciting thought that Perry Oliver would ask him, Howard, to guide the audience through the performance. A dream that refused to leave him even as he began tuning the piano. He regrets that he won’t be the one to introduce Tom to the public, to the world. (The planting and the cultivation are over. There remains but the harvest.) Perry Oliver has promised him free entry to the performance. No offense, he has already decided that he won’t be in attendance, come what may. To listen would be already too late. But he likes the preparation, a chance to be wrapped up in the calm that comes over Tom whenever the boy is before a piano.

How’s it going today, Tom?

Tom frowns.

Rhythm, tone, pitch — what can Perry Oliver say about these things with any intelligence or authority? The sole reason the Music Professor is here. Seven sits in the first row, a stand-in for the audience, watching and listening. Cheering and clapping. Extending the pause between songs with standing ovations. Tom seems distracted by Perry Oliver’s voice, the way he speaks the song titles, how the words come out of his mouth. And his playing seems slow and instinctive. Nevertheless, it all goes smoothly, if Howard is to be believed.

Seven helps Tom down from the stage. Leans close and puts his mouth near the fleshy shell of Tom’s ear. Nicely done, he says.

Tom rises earlier than usual the next morning and finds his way into the kitchen, seated at the table, head tilted at an angle, shoes laced and tied. Hands stalking the wood. Shoes turning circles above the floor. Seven goes over to him, sleep still clinging web-like to the corners of his eyes. Tom, he says. Are you feeling froggy today?

Tom says nothing.

Then hop.

Tom hops.

The road as bright as daylight in the unearthly glow.

Tom, are we all set about what you will play tonight?

Play what the day recommends, Tom says.

They got a late start, departed five minutes later than Perry Oliver had planned, Seven preoccupied with his newspaper at the table. Perry Oliver snatched it from his hands, startling the fingers, upsetting the Paul Morphy hat. Now he tosses the crumpled pages out the surrey window, white bats flapping against the dark.

Roam through the night in silence, the air sharp and clear, a felt exuberance although the streets are largely empty. They are following stars, leaving black earth under their wheels. The heavy scent of orchards and fields. Hibernian Hall rising out of the ground with a cold dingy glitter. Hurry inside. Don’t keep us waiting.

Backstage, he hears voices, footsteps, doors opening and closing. How many of them are there? More than a hundred tickets purchased in advance, but it is conceivable that many more people will be in attendance. He watches a parade of types into the hall, some entering to the right, others to the left, white-gloved nigger ushers rushing back and forth, opening all the sturdy doors. He has no idea how many people the hall can actually seat, but the sight of all these well-dressed people, their admiration for Tom, fills him with a sense of disbelief, the promise of music and spectacle, something supernatural, drawing them out of their homes this evening.

He performs a rapid calculation and decides there must be four hundred or more ticket holders in the auditorium, only a handful of empty seats remaining. Why not have Seven run a head count? He can trust him to perform this matter. Simply hang back and wait, expectant. Stirrings, footsteps, murmurs, sighs, a hubbub of voices, little by little all the small and varied sounds of anticipation building up to the “Blind Tom Exhibition.”

He has made all this happen, gathered all of these people in one place. Shocked to see the harmonious conciliation between his plans — his words: what he says, what he thinks, what he writes — and reality. One thing to imagine, another to witness it in actuality. Any number Seven brings him will be miraculous. Seven seems gratified, confirmed in his mission, even when he is lost from sight somewhere out there in those rambling currents of attendees.

Before he knows it (on an impulse) he finds himself walking out onto the stage. He doesn’t think it necessary to ease into this all-changing moment. The chattering voices quiet down to a hush, but language is just what he needs now. Word defines the thing attached to it. Take the phrase bare stage and its many associations. He is what is bare. And so are they. Stripped down and innocent. The gaze is innocence itself aspiring to see the world in all its nakedness. The houselights go down, leaving nothing for the brain to watch but the musician (moving or still), nothing for the brain to hear but unblemished sound. Nothing stands between spectator and performer. Nothing can protect you (us) from direct confrontation. This erasure of solitude. The real advantage of this bare exchange lies in its flexibility. The spectrum of chance and possibility. No man-made script that can fully predict the outcome, that allows for easy escape. What is there. What we expect to be there. What could be there.

He looks up dazed into the span of air and ceiling that hangs above the stage. Looks out at all those he assumes are looking at him. Scrutinizing the silence. He has come to see faces, but he can’t see anything for a number of seconds, a good minute or two, only glare, intense black streaks and gray shadows, so he stands dizzily where he is and waits for faces to appear, trying to regain his composure, too full for more, too astonished to speak. The only thing he can perceive for sure is Seven standing in the wings, large amounts of excitation pressing upon him, ready to bring Tom center stage anytime (once) the word is given. Is this an expression of surprise he notices on Tom’s face? Knowledge? Acceptance? Tom aware, ready to assume his destiny. Blind Tom starts here.