I should've gone to my backup school
He smiled when we were 20 feet apart, so I did, too. In retrospect, I should have stuck out my tongue, but I did not yet identify him as a charming, brilliant misogynist with a relentless cock.
Ridiculously early for my appointment, I cruised aimlessly through the bowels of The Conservatory. Surely, there were some parts of the building where you could glimpse the outdoors, but not from this floor or the one above me. Corridor after corridor of minuscule rooms, god knows how they wedged the pianos in, with padded walls, allegedly in the name of soundproofing, lockable from either side, allegedly in the name of privacy. So many practice studios resembling rubber rooms should have been my clue to run in the opposite direction, but, in those days, I rarely flinched.
BTW, this is my first video, and it’s a little raw, but let me know if you like the concept. Now, back to the story…
The building was a beehive of industrious musicians, blowing, pounding, or sawing away on an instrument or screeching their lungs out. Creatively named Basement 2, the long hallway, littered with nothing but practice rooms, was deserted, a testimony to how seldom people emerged from their cells. I had just entered one end of the corridor when someone, who looked as if he was coming from a GQ shoot, appeared miles away, well, maybe not miles, but way at the other end.
From his thick, dark mane and mustache to his naturally tanned face, from his square-shouldered loosely woven jacket to the fine fabric of his tailored slacks, shades of brown anchored by Italian loafers never looked so good. He swaggered; I improved my posture. He held my gaze as he approached, so where the hell was I supposed to look? At my feet? At the recessed fluorescent ceiling lights?
He smiled when we were maybe 20 feet apart, so I also did. What the heck? In retrospect, I should have stuck out my tongue, but I did not yet identify him as a charming, brilliant misogynist with a heart of stone and a relentless cock. We exchanged cordial hellos as we passed, and that was that.
Five minutes later, in a lounge of vending machines and industrial seating, I ran into someone I knew from undergrad, and, standing quickly, trying to make short work of this enthusiastic trombonist, I noticed someone across the room. Mr. GQ towered over a jeune fille, an inch or two inside her bubble. As she looked up adoringly, we didn’t yet call it mansplaining, he spoke with authority, gesticulating with the hand that wasn’t holding his coffee, but he was looking above her, at me. After finishing our conversations, we left the area by opposite exits.
I freshened up in the Ladies, checking makeup and earrings, feeling confident in the tailored pantsuit I spent my last dime on in London, and I headed to the office of the Head of the Choral Department for an interview that I hoped would land me a place on the podium to become the second woman to get a DMA in Conducting from here. I was ready. The next hour would set the tone for the next four years.
I knocked on the door, which was opened by none other than Mr. GQ himself, who said, “Hello, Janice. I think we’ve met.”
The next four years were laden with minefields, but I made it through and, despite Mr. GQ’s final admonition of “Janice, I have to get the guys jobs first because they have families to feed,” I did manage to snag a tenure-track position. In the for-what-it’s-worth-department, and we all know that’s not much because it’s no one’s business, but on the other hand, it’s worth something, so, for what it’s worth, I never slept with him.
Here I am, sometime between 1978 and 1983, on tour with The University of LaVerne Chamber Singers. I’m the one on the far right with my knee propped atop the thigh of a tenor, pretending to hitchhike. Our dresses were bright red, and we referred to ourselves as Killer Tomatoes in honor of the 1978 movie.
Had I been mentored differently, who knows, I probably would have stayed in the music field. However, I only used my degree for a few years before I entered an EF Hutton training program and became a financial advisor. I retired at age 71, and then I became a writer. Of my three careers, writing is my favorite, so thanks for reading, and please consider sharing Stories by Janus.
P.S. Mark your calendars if you live in SoCal: on Thursday, March 28 at 6:30 p.m., I’ll be privileged to perform some of my stories and offer a few writing prompts as part of Claremont Heritage’s Muriel O’Brien series. More info to follow.