He sat at the café table just across from the Carlyle, drinking a cup of coffee and having his morning’s bagel. He breathed the early April air that Saturday and watched the pedestrians walk down 76th Street toward Central Park. Waists were lower this year, he noticed on the Gibson girls walking by – and men’s collars were higher. Ever since Teddy Roosevelt had become president, fashion had zoomed forward. But it hardly mattered to a nineteen-year old pianist just finishing up his Carnegie Hall recital.
Last week Mrs. Houlihan sent him up to New York with a long list of instructions and he’d done exactly as she wanted. Stay with my friend, Julia Doherty. Arrive with a bouquet of roses. Take her to dinner at the Carlyle one night. Practice your program at Carnegie Hall an hour each day before the performance. Do not practice your program on the morning of the big day, just do scales and arpeggios. Breathe while you play, roll your shoulders before the performance, don’t think about the audience. The list went on.
This afternoon he’d take the train back to Philadelphia and give Mrs. Houlihan a full report about his recital. He’d show her the review in the Times. He smiled at the review – all good, all full of promise, they’d said about his playing. So he enjoyed the crisp Spring day, nothing to do except wait six hours for the train. And then the man walked by, blond hair, sharp eyebrows, chiseled chin, eyes that penetrated him and made his insides go all squooshy. And then a change came upon him. He didn’t know why. His penis had never gotten hard and ricocheted up his shorts when a man had looked at him. But a man had never looked at him in this way.
Mrs. Houlihan hadn’t given him any instructions for this, but Brian Larney knew exactly what to do. Without actually knowing it.
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