Itzhack and Me(Cary Allen Stone) Itzhak & Me


While boosting cars and committing various misdemeanor crimes as a teenager I had no time to become refined in the arts. Loud rock’n roll with some rhythm and blues filled my ears and I could recite all of the great rock lyrics from the sixties. When I turned eighteen, I would be adjudicated as an adult so the crimes stopped but the music and attitude continued. Since then, I have had many adventures, some were fun, some were satisfying and some were dangerous.

But like all who grow older, my life settled into a job, a family, following the rules and making my middle-class life a happy one. That was followed in my mid-forties by what was becoming the standard––a separation followed by divorce. The house became divided. My kids had disappeared with their friends and I had become the invisible man. The wife and I had nothing left in common so we went our separate ways to live our lives.

For a recently divorced man, the next step is tragically flawed. You connect with the first woman who acknowledges your existence. You’re relieved to find anyone who can see the invisible man. And, you believe you are in love. Life becomes a positive rather than a negative because you are totally willing to surrender yourself completely. But disaster strikes soon afterward as you try to live through the pains of another failed relationship. You fall apart but you are better at it.

Then, a special woman enters your life. You find the woman that will comfort you, heal you and will never give up on you, if you’re lucky. The brunette with the deep blue eyes and heart of gold has been with me now for many years. She is from a good family and has had a great education. She is an avid reader and knows nothing about boosting a car. She is refined in the arts, played the violin and has opened my eyes to a variety of refinements that I never paid much attention to. I explained rock and roll to her and we attended several concerts by the classic heroes of rock. I was approaching my late fifties.

We have been to theatrical plays, art museums and have travelled. Our home is a happy place without anger or conflict. One day, she saw an advertisement stating that Itzhak Perlman was performing at the Atlanta Symphony Hall. She told me how she had seen him several times and that she always enjoyed his performances. I thought it would be a good time to raise my refinement level so I surprised her with front row, center seating.

The night of the event I was dressed in my best suit and she was stunning on my arm. Gentlemen, and ladies, took notice as we entered the auditorium and were ushered to our seats. I looked up at the stage and saw a grand piano, one chair, and one of those music stands. The house lights were full bright. The crowd was making the usual low conversational sounds. I felt completely out of place.

As the usher stepped aside to let us turn toward our seats I made several comments to the woman. I told her this was my first time attending a concert like this. She said I would enjoy it and want to see many more. I asked her why there were no amplifiers or video screens. She just stared at me. I was a long way from my youth. We made our way to our seats and settled in. I looked to my right and there were a number of very serious faces looking at their programs, academic types as if there would be a pop quiz after the show. It looked pretty much like the same crowd all around us. Fortunately for me, I was with the most beautiful woman in the world.

After an unreasonable amount of time, the house lights dimmed but the stage lights remained bright. All conversations in the auditorium went silent. A young Asian gentleman with a very serious look dressed in a tuxedo walked onto the stage from the left. A young Asian woman in a sedate dress followed behind him. She looked serious as well but with a touch of fear. The gentleman sat on the bench at the grand piano. The woman took her seat on the chair slightly to the left and behind him. I couldn’t see where they had placed any of the concerts pyrotechnics.

The young man shifted sheets of music in front of him but that was pretty much all he did until he sat rigid. Then nothing happened for what seemed several minutes. I asked my soul mate if she was having a good time. Six ladies to my right made shushing noises. I thought I might take a swat from a program. I smiled back showing them that I was non-violent.

Finally, from behind the curtains to the left came Itzhak Perlman. He was riding on a motorized scooter because of an ailment. He drove to the music stand, shuffled the music sheets, sat back and prepared his violin. The gentleman at the piano became more rigid than I thought was possible. The young woman stared harder at the piano man. A bow was raised into the air. A chin was passionately placed against the base of the violin. Itzhak was ready to let it rip. And rip he did with the accompaniment of the piano man.

At one point, I finally realized the significance of the young woman. She sat perfectly still with her hands folded on her lap until it was time to flip the music sheets for the piano man to the next page. She repeated this until the end of the concert. Sit still. Rise and turn page. Sit still. Very Asian. Piano man knew his way around the keyboard. I looked at my lady and saw her mesmerized by The Itzhak Perlman Trio. I simply wondered if they knew Stairway to Heaven.

The sound, because of the acoustics in the symphony hall, was amazing. Hum, guess that’s why he didn’t amp the instruments. During brief breaks in the music, the audience applauded. Itzhak would glare at the audience. I learned later that applauding was not the appropriate behavior at such concerts. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who lacked that sophisticated knowledge. I looked at the shushing ladies to my right who did not look back this time. I also knew holding a lighter up or a fist with my index and baby fingers extended would find me escorted to the exit.

During the performance I asked my lady some technical questions wishing to understand and grow as a person. What I didn’t know was that the acoustics worked toward the stage like they did emanating from the stage. I learned a valuable lesson. Just sit quiet, and don’t shush. She whispered the answers into my ear. My first question was, “Is that all the young woman does, flip the pages?” I wondered how much she got paid for that. I wondered if you needed a degree from an accredited university or if she could get certified at a technical school. I made a comment that the piano man looked constipated. That one made my lady giggle.

Then the music stopped. Itzhak put his violin in his lap, backed up the scooter and disappeared to behind the curtains from whence he came. I thought it was the shortest concert I had ever been to. I asked if it was over and was told no. I thought after his glaring at the audience for applauding he might have called it a night. There wasn’t a sound in the auditorium during his absence except from my hungry stomach.

An instant later, out come Itzhak again. He repeated the routine at the music stand. The piano man went rigid. I thought I saw the woman on the chair take a deep breath. That’s when I committed an egregious mistake. As Itzhak set his music on the stand, bowed up, and chinned his violin I asked my lady if he talks. She shushed me. I commented that I thought he should have said something nice, like, “Good evening and thank you for coming.” Maybe tell a joke to lighten everyone up especially the girl on the chair who was about to snap one of her small bones. Then play.

My lady whispered, “He never speaks. He never spoke at any of the performances I’ve been to. That’s how this works.” The ladies to my right and some behind me shushed me again. Itzhak patiently paused until all of us were silent and then he began to play. There is no doubt in my mind that he is a master of his craft. He played beautifully. What I also didn’t understand was why he needed sheet music. He had played all of the same songs millions of times. Even Billy Idol remembers the lyrics. I contemplated before asking my lady about it.

Itzhak again glared when the audience applauded. I didn’t applaud that time so I wasn’t feeling I was in any danger. He continued and the piano man became even more intense. The woman of the chair almost caught a backhand between notes when she fumbled the page. I took out my cell phone prepared to dial 911. She made it back to the chair before the swat could be inflicted.

During another pause in the music, the first time when the audience held back on the applause, my voice in the front row became easily identifiable. I had repeated my curiosity to my lady about why he doesn’t talk and I ended the statement with, “I think it’s rude.” Itzhak stared ahead which, for him, during the entire time was straight at the right wall of the stage. I think I saw him take a deep breath. I wasn’t sure if he was angry or afraid for the woman taking a swat from the piano man. He waited until the silence returned and began to bow.

After that set, he again adjusted his sheet music although I would have thought he would have his own girl doing that. He placed his violin into his lap, grabbed the handlebars and motored off to behind the left side curtains again. By now even the audience was afraid. A wave of tension rolled from the back of the auditorium up and over our front row and onto the stage. The piano man went rigid as a Michelangelo statue. The woman of the chair had her head down probably thinking about what was to become of her after the concert. I did notice she kept a side glance in case the swat came.

For a third time, within a concert hall of silence, Itzhak returned. But this time it was different. He didn’t go straight to the music stand. He didn’t gently place the violin under his chin. He didn’t pop a wheelie with his motorized ride. He drove to the edge of the stage, six feet from us. The audience was stunned. The piano man crunched his eyebrows together. The woman of the chair raised her head slightly. My lady looked at me with wide eyes. I looked into Itzhak’s eyes. And then an amazing thing happened. Itzhak spoke.

As he spoke, I found him more and more engaging. He told us stories about the music and why he loved the music so. He spoke about his violin. It’s been a while but I think he might have even smiled, albeit one like you’d see on Dick Cheney. He spoke with passion about his work. He wouldn’t look at me but I stayed locked on his eyes. While he is recognized worldwide as a master, a tribute well deserved, I got to see his humanity.

And with a simple turn of the handlebars, he was back at the music stand, bowed up and ready, violin caressed by his chin. You could hear the swerving heads throughout the auditorium. The ladies to my right didn’t shush me again. The pianist relaxed. The woman of the chair sighed and didn’t miss a page while Itzhak floated off into his own world and began to serenade us once again. My lady was smiling at me and rested her head on my shoulder. Itzhak smiled at me as he turned back to his music. And I let refinement spill over me.

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