When I was in college my friend Elizabeth’s parents were the most sophisticated people I knew. They were both college graduates, they had season tickets to the Coconut Grove Playhouse and went to New York City on a regular basis to catch an opera at the Met or see a ballet.
One night when Elizabeth and I were hanging out while her parents were getting ready for a trip to New York to see La Boheme, Mr. Ruben very casually asked me what my favorite opera was. Thinking fast, I said in all seriousness, “The Rabbit of Seville,” the iconic Bugs Bunny cartoon. In the long, ensuing silence that followed Mr. and Mrs. Ruben looked at each other, then they looked at Elizabeth and then they all looked at me. Embarrassed, I began to sing: “Whaaaaat, would you want with a waaaaabbit?”
That’s when I realized that the highbrow life was not for me and even though over the years I’ve been to the ballet, to the opera and to the philharmonic, quite honestly I’d rather watch Bugs Bunny. My partner feels the same way; this is why when our friends Kenny and Carlos mentioned that they had two free tickets for the symphony my partner and I said “No,” as one man.
“We have passes for a post-performance reception,” said Kenny. “There’s an open bar.”
“What time should we be there?” asked my partner before I could respond.
The crowd at the Broward Center was old, even by South Florida standards, and when we reached our seats and I found I was sitting next to a man who was older than water; he was there with, impossibly, an even older man and they were both deaf as rocks.
“YOUR FIRST TIME HERE?” yelled my neighbor, clearly not understanding that he was the deaf one, not me.
“Yes, “ I said.
“WHAT?” he said.
The orchestra was assembled and the first-chair violinist came out to thunderous applause. He wore a filthy, thread-bare tuxedo and really nasty shoes and I have no doubt that he still had crumbs from that morning’s Egg McMuffin in his beard. A moment later the conductor came out, a short, squat little man with a wild mane of dark, curly hair.
Soon the music began: a series of notes in search of a melody. I was already bored and the man next to me was not happy. “SHOSHKATOVICH!” he yelled. “I FUCKING HATE SHOSHKATOVICH.”
The fat lady behind me tapped me on the shoulder. “Can you please keep your father quiet?” she said.
“He’s not my father,” I said.
I was able to tune out the music because I was mesmerized by the first-chair violinist. As he played he went through an impressive repertoire of facial tics: He grimaced and pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows and flared his nostrils and shook his wattles and gritted his teeth with such abandon that I quite forgot my boredom.
The orchestra moved to its next piece. “MENDELSOHN!!” shouted my neighbor. “I FUCKING HATE MENDELSOHN!” The fat lady behind me tapped me on the shoulder again. “Will you PLEASE keep your father quiet?” she said.
“He’s not my father,” I said.
My neighbor may have hated Mendelsohn but the conductor certainly did not. He brandished his baton and waved his arms and wiggled his ample backside and bounced up and down with such enthusiasm that I half expected him to self-launch into orbit at any time.
After the enthusiasm of Mendelsohn came something dirgelike from Chopin.
“CHOPIN,” said my neighbor. “I FUCKING HATE CHOPIN!”
Now the fat lady was annoyed; she hit me on the back of the head. “WILL YOU PLEASE KEEP YOUR FATHER QUIET?” she yelled.
“I’M NOT HIS FUCKING FATHER,” said my neighbor, and we high-fived.
We had one more piece before intermission and as the orchestra segued into it I caught my partner checking his watch and I knew exactly what he was thinking — but as the music swelled my ears pricked up with recognition. It was, impossibly, “The Rabbit of Seville.”
The old man next to me was overjoyed. “ROSSINI!” he shouted, nudging me joyfully. “I FUCKING LOVE ROSSINI!”
“ME TOO!” I yelled back. “ME TOO!”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9RWNRhefF1g