The Count's Concert

An illustrious Count, Wictor Oblodowsky, agrees to conduct Beethoven's 9th Symphony in a Baltimore gym.

He's hesitant at first. He'd only been to America once before, and it was a favor for a friend. The oboist in his orchestra kindly loaned him the first season of The Wire, but the Count never watched it, as he'd never gotten around to buying a DVD player. After an uneventful flight and some trouble getting the timpani through customs, the weary orchestra checks into their hotel. The performance of Beethoven's Ninth is the next afternoon, so they all rest and tune their instruments to the humid Baltimore atmosphere. "SANDY!" a voice bellows in the hall of the Holiday Inn. "SANDY, HELP ME!" Sandy, the assistant to the Count, runs into the hallway and sees Count Oblodowsky on his knees, shreds of paper in his hand. See, during the routine inspection of baggage by the TSA, some rough bag handler had torn the musical score of Beethoven's Ninth in half. The Count, nearly inconsolable, begs Sandy and some helpful trombonists to mend it. They end up having to sew the whole thing up with pieces of string. The Count finds he can still flip the pages easily, and everyone goes to bed; jumpy but satisfied. They show up at the gym. Sweet Jesus, what a dump. I mean, it's big enough. But the acoustics are dreadful. And to top it off, the ventilation system is on the fritz, meaning there is this dreadful screeching of fans and vents overhead. The Count is assured that the ventilation system will be turned off for the duration of the performance. They tune up again and go out for some famous Baltimore crab. Have you ever traveled to a foreign land, felt weary and sad, and then suddenly something makes it all worthwhile? That happened to Count Oblodowsky on the waterfront. He'd never had crab before, and the little crustaceans were so tender and sweet that he just couldn't stop. "Maybe America is OK after all!" the Count whispered to Sandy, holding his tenth crab in his baton hand. The bass section laughed along, not eating, but passing something back and forth between them. Replete and nourished, our orchestra heads back to the venue. It's all looking up. The vent is turned off, they put some baffles around the stage to stop the dreadful echoing, an excited crowd is milling around. Even the ramshackle torn score covered in string and twine was a humorous memory, and it stood proudly on Oblodowsky's podium. Final tuning. Bells up. This is gonna be great. But the Count's eye falls upon empty chairs in his orchestra. First and second bassoon. They're not there. Ray and Sven. Suddenly, the Count realizes they weren't at the crab restaurant. He hisses to Sandy, "Where are Ray and Sven??" Sandy goes ashen. Ray and Sven, as quiet and innocuous as their bassoons, just got completely forgotten. They were still at the airport, for all we know. "Doesn't matter, doesn't matter!" the Count whispered. "We do it anyway!" He taps his baton. Flicks a little piece of string away from the torn score and begins. Is there nothing more satisfying than that sigh of relief from a crowd of people? People who hear a piece of classical music like The Ninth and realize, "Hey! I've heard this before! This is gonna be OK." Beethoven's Ninth begins without incident. And then it all goes pear-shaped. With his non-baton hand, Oblodowsky clutches at his abdomen. Why on earth did he eat all that crab? It feels like his stomach is going to burst; he's never felt so full and uncomfortable in his life. And to make things worse, things seemed to be slowing down. No matter how he waved, he could not pick up the tempo. "Why?!" he yelled to himself. And then he saw it. The entire double bass section. Weaving on their instruments. He mouthed to Sandy, *what is going on Sandy.* Sandy makes the international "drinky drinky" gesture, and then he knows. He sees the empty 1.5 liter bottle of Jim Beam by their feet. THAT'S what they were passing back and forth during lunch! Utterly wasted. Two of his orchestra are gone, and now this. If he could just... just make it... Beads of sweat on his brow. They're nearly done, Oblodowsky is nearing the bottom of the page, they just might make it... *SCREEEEEEEEEEEEECH!!!!!!!!!!!!!* Like a thousand rusty cans being played on a thousand dusty Victrolas, the ventilation system kicks in. Battered tin fans squeak and squeal and belch smoke, the audience clutches their ears. So close. It was the bottom of the Ninth. The Count was full. The score was tied. Two men were out and the basses were loaded. And the fans? The fans were going *wild.*