Page 2 of Playing for Keeps

The final noteof my sonata rings out against the antique tile. I close my eyes and sink into the vibrations, letting the sound envelope me as the warm cello caresses my shoulder. I open my eyes, a smile tugging the corners of my lips for the first time in months.

The music fades, and I return to awareness…just in time to hear a hiss and a familiar voice with nothing kind to say.

Maybe I wanted to get caught. Maybe I just liked the acoustics of the New Jersey Transit lobby in Penn Station. Maybe I was desperate for a change. Either way, I’m unsurprised when my father halts in his tracks in front of me, kicks my cello case full of coins, and begins belittling me in public.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” His neck is taut, tendons visible above his immaculate collar and bespoke suit. “Begging in public? Like a homeless person?” I can tell he’s trying to keep his voice down, but again, the acoustics here are terrific. It’s interesting that he begins to yell about me being an embarrassment when he is the one making a public scene. Nobody had their phones out recording when I sat in a corner playing quiet, soothing melodies as they rushed to and from their trains. Nobody called security on me.

Dad grabs my arm, and I wrench it out of his grasp, glaring at him. “You have no right to stop me.” Only because of the look in his eyes and concern for my instrument do I bend over and begin to pack up. My father stands, hands on hips, glaring as he breathes through his nose like an enraged bull. Or what I imagine one would look like. I’ve lived in Manhattan my entire life. I don’t exactly spend time at the rodeo. My mother’s voice is always in my head, reinforcing the rules:Our people don’t go to the zoo, Emerson, and we certainly don’t attend sporting events.

But I could, I realize. I graduated from college a few months ago, and I’m supposed to be preparing for the opportunity of my life—the life my father envisioned. I’m meant to audition to play the violin in his orchestra—the New York Symphony. Very few women are chosen. I’ve come to realize that my father is facing increasing pressure from the media to improve the gender ratio in his old boys’ club on stage. I’m expected to play for him, with a smile on my face.

I stand with my cello case, swinging the strap onto my back, and face him. “Dad. Nobody noticed me until you started?—”

He grabs my shoulders and shakes me, hard. “Everyonenoticed you. You are my daughter. You are known, Emerson.” He seethes in front of me, and I realize he is capable of hurting me. I see him staring at the instrument on my back, one he has hated since I acquired it. Refined ladies do not play the cello, in his opinion. I’ve been groomed for the violin. I’ve been trotted around and presented to reporters by his side. A dynastic duo, they call us. Musical genius Chaz Saltzer and his lesser-genius daughter, no name necessary in many of those articles.

I realize that this moment has been building in me for years. I am not happy in this life. I am not happy cramming myself into shapewear for cocktail dresses, appearing demure at fancy parties with donors. I am not happy playing only the style ofmusic demanded by the maestro. And … I don’t have to live this way.

Warmth washes over me as I make a decision. I flip my father the bird and slide into the first train I hear approaching.

It takes me a few minutes to catch my breath. I ignore the calls vibrating the phone in my purse, quickly paying for my ticket with an app when the conductor passes. I deboard at Secaucus Junction just as the Sky Train arrives en route to the airport. This feels like fate.

With my cell ringing insistently against my hip, I continue to ride the wave of good fortune as I ask the airline agent for the next flight I could feasibly catch.

I’m not destitute. I have a college degree, even if it is in violin performance, and I’ve never worked a real job or built any sort of marketable skills. I doubt my parents managed to put a hold on my credit card just yet, and I smile as the stoic agent books me on a flight to Vegas. I’ve never been.

Saltzers do not simply go to Vegas for the weekend. Oh, no.

Until now.

“You’ll need to put that in oversized baggage,” the agent says, pointing at the cello strapped to my back.

I recoil in horror at the thought of my gorgeous instrument banging around the belly of an airplane. She’s not even in her hard case. “I can’t do that,” I insist, tapping my hands on the counter. “I’ll have to buy her a ticket, too.”

The agent’s eyes fly wide at the suggestion.

“Can I not buy her a seat?” I’m sure I’ve heard of people doing this. I’m moments away from a nonstop flight across the country, and it’s not a full one.

She bites her lip, starts typing, and then nods, eyebrows elevated like she’s learned something new. “What, um, should I put for the name?”

And so, Baggage Saltzer and I head through security. Once on the plane, I silence my cell phone, tuck my purse under the seat in front of me, and settle in for a flight into the unknown.

I buckle my seatbelt and reach across the armrest to check on my beloved. Then, I accept a glass of water from the flight attendant and sleep the entire flight.

The first thing I should do is figure out where to stay now that I’ve arrived. Or even if I’m going to stay here. But when I exit the tram at the MGM resort, I notice a sign seeking live musicians. A day of reckoning that began with me busking at the train station, cussed out by my father in public, can now top off with me securing a gig playing background music for people eating a meal in between rounds at the blackjack table.

I’m in heaven.

The acoustics in The Velvet Mirage are divine, and while I’m not quite dressed for glamour, I’m wearing my typical all black, and, as I explain to the manager, a musician’s first job is to disappear into the surroundings.

And that’s what I do. I sit in the corner of the stage surrounded by luxurious red curtains, playing whatever comes to mind in the intimate space with just a few tables, some sofas, and low lights. I start with some classical pieces I’ve memorized for the violin, transposing the music for cello. And then I try out some of the work I was testing at the train station. Mournful minor notes give way to hopeful, uplifting music that climbs and swells out of me. My fingers fly along the fingerboard, and mybow dances as the song seeps out of me. I’ve been dreaming of this piece, feeling it tug at me, unsure where to put it until this moment when it comes to life in this jazz bar.

I can imagine a life like this: making music for money in a gorgeous space. I let the music flow through me, both classical and original compositions. I am calm, even joyous, just making music—and getting paid!

The gig rate for tonight won’t buy me a room here, but I’m not worried about that at the moment.

I’m deep in my element, experimenting with a piece that’s been tickling the back of my mind for weeks. Now that I’ve broken free temporarily, the song comes to me fully formed. It seeps through my calloused fingertips as the staff delivers smoking, ornate cocktails.

It’s all utter perfection until I lock eyes with a man so impossibly attractive I lose my place in the music.

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