Cinderella - Part 3

Cinderella – Part 3

Part 3 of my Cinderella story picks up with NY and his crew leaving Beyonce’s birthday party and headed to another Hollywood hot spot.  NY’s crew consisted of Abercrombie, his black producer friend, an Ashton Kutcher type white guy, a Hispanic version of Fabio who I will call Romeo, the two girls dressed in black, and a few others that escape my memory.  We piled into two vehicles and headed to the Ritz Carlton for drinks in their Jazz bar.  No one in the group was buzzed or obnoxious, and the conversation in the car was light as Dido played softly from the stereo.  We pulled up to the grand entrance as valet drivers in crisp matching uniforms opened the car doors.  Once inside, I followed the group to a table while a middle aged man dressed in a tuxedo crooned mellow Jazz standards from a black baby grand in the corner of the elegant room.

My Cinderella Moments

A few drinks were ordered and after a while, NY said that I should play everyone a song.   Being brave, I said that I didn’t mind but that I did not want to interrupt the house entertainment that was in the middle of his set.  I wasn’t sure if he was joking, testing my ability to perform on the fly, or just wanting to give me an opportunity to be heard.  Before any further discussion, NY excused himself and had a word with the pianist as he concluded a song and the gentleman consented to his request without hesitation and then invited me to his seat behind the piano.   Flipping through my very limited repertoire in my head, I decided quickly on a classical infused blues song I had written called “Rhythm” and began to play the intro that sounded much like the music that plays when you open a ballerina jewelry box.   I was a much better player back then since I had a piano in my loft apartment that I played every day, but I still could not read music very well and only knew the songs that I had written by memory.  I had practiced my songs over and over, dreaming of the day I would play them for a captive audience like this one.  I knew which notes I liked best sung over each chord and I covered my average piano playing with great timing and dynamic vocals that started small, waiting for the “Coup De Grace” high note in the end.  

In my second verse, a well-dressed man I assumed to be the night Manager approached NY’s table and politely informed him that they have a policy that only the staff musicians are allowed to play in the club.  His mannerisms and hand gestures were slightly feminine and he persisted to explain the policy as NY challenged his ruling.   Not wanting to cause any more of a scene, I stopped playing and went back to the table.  The Manager continued to explain that the rule has been strictly enforced due to the drunkards who insist that they can play and then run off the customers with their sloppy songs.  NY motioned us to wait outside as he discussed the matter with him further.  I would give anything to know what was said in that brief exchange.  My heart soared to unfathomable heights knowing how far he went out of his way to defend my right to play that night.  I completely understood the Manager’s reasoning and weather NY was just trying to get his way, or just handling the situation like the born leader he was, I felt for the first time in my life what it was like to have a friend in your corner who had your back.   It felt more soothing and affirming than winning the Nobel Peace Prize, Mrs. America, and the lottery simultaneously.  I was a modern Cinderella who had been magically plucked from the low class suburbs, and placed into a dream world where anything was possible.  After a few minutes, NY’s Hercules frame appeared out of the glow that lit up the exquisite hotel entrance.  He walked towards us from the hotel lobby and said nothing about his conversation.   Instead, he peeled a few bills off a modest stash in his pocket for the valet driver and we all went home. 

Once home, I changed into sweats and brushed my teeth in the guest bathroom.  NY’s bathroom was just down the hall and we chatted from a distance.  Still brushing, I walked over to his bathroom to hear him better and he sternly told me that he required more space to do his night routine.  Embarrassed of his unpredictable boundary, I asked him to let me know of any other things I should be aware of.   With nothing more to add off the top of his head, I left him to his brushing and returned to my quarters.  A few minutes later he called to me once again and I walked to his doorway as he peeled back the covers and got in bed.  He told me once again that his favorite song of mine was “Spin” and asked me to sing it to him.  I shyly discouraged his idea but he kept pushing so I sang a few lines, not really feeling in the moment.  I wished him goodnight and before I could walk away he said dryly, “Aren’t you going to tuck me in?”  I was so underdeveloped sexually from being abused as a child and was not at all comfortable in intimate settings.  I also barely knew him and was more interested in his friendship and respect as a fellow artist and music lover than his body.  Maybe I wasn’t the only one with issues, because after all, he was a very fully grown man asking me for something very maternal and juvenile it seemed for our brief acquaintance.  Overall, I think he was just curious about me and how I would react, much like a cat playing with a mouse.  I responded to his comment by walking over to him and very innocently pecking him on the forehead and resetting the blankets around him.  Though he was a fascinating creature, unlike any I had ever seen or met, I longed to get inside his head and heart, not into his bed.

The Spell Wares Off...

I nestled into the white down blankets and feather bed in the guest room and had unexplainable joy and excitement, wondering what amazing things the next day would unfold.  I had learned early on that no one was going to believe in me and support me except for me, but for the first time in my life, I was not the only one who believed in my talent.  I thought for the first time that maybe I WAS good enough to make it.  NY was not a simple guy and if he liked my music, it must be good!  Though it was late, I found it hard to sleep as I pondered the possibility that all of my dreams could be real and that I was as special as the voice inside my heart whispered to me in my darkest hours.  For that night, I was the unexpected stranger that had appeared out of nowhere at the ball and danced with the Prince.  But just like Cinderella, I feared that my midnight would strike, and I would be found in rags again.  How could I keep this fairytale alive?

To be continued...