The Crusader
Gale slouched outside the tall glass building and tugged at the collar of his shirt that squeezed his large, pale neck. As he adjusted his tie in the reflection of the windowpane, he couldn’t help but pause and look at himself. Had I really gained this much weight? A gentle breeze caressed the sides of his tweed jacket, threatening to reveal his midsection. Gale hastily buttoned the jacket and looked around to ensure that no one was watching. Men with suitcases and places to be walked past him, never giving him so much as a glance. No one ever looked at Gale, and this gave him a strange sense of comfort. As he brushed his short hair with his hands and parted it in the middle, he looked through the reflection in the window and saw a young woman sitting at a desk and staring into his eyes with a pitying smile. Gale forced a disingenuous grin, hunched over, and looked at the floor as he walked into the looming building of the Peabody Conservatory at Johns Hopkins University.
No one watched Gale as he shuffled towards the office door that read DR. Tobias Faustus. He tried to wipe the sweat from his brow but found that his hands were just as sweaty as his forehead. He knocked sheepishly three times.
“Come right in!” He heard the professor sing. Gale slowly opened the door with his gaze upon the patterned rug. As he closed the door behind him, he saw the old, lanky professor behind his desk standing and looking out the window.
“Gale.” The professor greeted without turning around. “Please, sit down and be comfortable.”
Gale obeyed the first demand. The professor turned around, looked into his eyes, and smiled like a predator. “It seems like only yesterday that your brother was in this very office.” He looked at Gale’s small shoulders and protruding stomach and felt more powerful than he ever had before.
“Yes, professor.” Gale responded. His eyes switched between the floor and the desk in front of him. Upon the desk was pages of sheet music marked with red scribbles. The professor stood up straighter as he paced behind the desk. “You and he are not so different, you know.”
Gale’s eyes widened as he met the professor’s gaze for the first time. It was the best compliment he’d ever received. “Really professor? You think so?”
“If I did not know it, Gale, I certainly would not say it.” He smiled but Gale didn’t know why. “Harold had potential, yes, but he was simply too stubborn. Tell me… what is your brother doing these days?”
“Well, he just released an album.” A crack of enthusiasm slipped passed Gales’ lips. “He’s touring the country right now and-”
“Pish posh, Gale.” The professor interrupted. “My God, it almost sounds as if you think that is impressive!” Gale’s eyes dropped to the floor again and he clutched his tie. “No, professor. Of course I don’t.”
“Good, Gale.” The professor sat down at the desk. “If my suspicions are correct, and I suspect they are, then you shall be destined for much more than your hard-headed brother.”
“Yes, professor.” Gale obeyed.
“But that’s simply not going to happen with work like this.” The professor placed a spidery hand on the sheet music sprawled across the desk and looked down at the pages with a scowl. “I mean, The Crusader Concerto? My God, Gale. I have perfectly good reasons to fail you over this. Who do you think you are?”
Gale thought of the men with suitcases who never looked at him. He thought of his reflection in the windowpane. “I am nobody, professor. Nobody at all.”
“That is for certain.” The professor began shuffling through the sheet music and pointing at each of the red scribbles. “Yet, you are changing key signatures in thirds, you have these derisory thirteenth chords, the bass part is all over the place, and do not even get me started on the percussion… And, my God, thirteen-eighth time, really? How this appears to me, Gale, is that you are trying to rewrite the past.”
“No, professor, I wouldn’t dare.” Gale shifted in his seat as his stomach churned.
“I would surely hope not!” The professor leaned in and paused. “But you have potential, Gale, yes. You just need someone to tame you. I am going to offer to you what I once offered your obdurate brother.” He pushed the sheet music towards Gale. “Accept these changes and you will graduate. The score will be published under my name, but you will have a full-time job writing for the symphony under these conditions.”
Gale looked up as his hair fell beside his eyes and his stomach rose into his throat.
“Is this not what you want, Gale?” The professor smirked and leaned back. “Is this not the reason that you went to school? You can have it all, Gale. Right here. Right now.”
Gale looked at the sheet music before him and followed the red scribbles. It was as if the life in the music had been choked out. Gale adjusted the collar of his shirt. “But I want to write my own music?”
“Your music?” The professor scoffed. “Does the world really need more rugged individualists striving for their own selfish ends? Tell me, Gale: does the artist’s work truly belong to them? Or does it belong to the audience?”
“I don’t know.” Gale was never taught about this in the classroom. “What did Harold do?”
“Pah, Gale.” The professor chuckled. “Your brother tore up his own music in front of my face and stormed out without a word. Now look at where he is: without a degree and a second-rate proponent of so-called rock music. Worst mistake of his life. You are better than that, Gale.”
Gale clutched his tie and felt the collar on his neck tighten. Beads of sweat created a layer of mist on his forehead. He glanced behind the professor and caught his reflection in the window. The face of an overgrown infant gazed back at him silhouetted by a cityscape of more glass. He stood up and shook the professor’s frail hand.
“Best decision of your life, Gale.” The professor smiled.
Gale left the Peabody Conservatory as a new graduate, the wind blowing against his buttoned tweed jacket. He felt like he had accomplished nothing, and he knew that he never would.
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