NUBS

NUBS

by: Michael Orzechowski

Fletcher always played so wonderfully. His hands seemed to glide across the keys with such grace; like two ballerinas, on point, leaping across the plated ivory. There was a sort of magic behind those fingertips – something that drew people in. This was all that Fletcher ever wanted. He approached the bench, bowed to the crowd, the applause growing to almost deafening proportions, then had a seat. At ninety dollars per ticket, Fletcher had managed to sell out yet another theatre with his beautiful talent. The night was full of sound and passion.

Fletcher woke up the next morning, feeling well-rested and aware. He gazed around his Baltimore hotel room and smile. He was grateful. He had worked so hard to be here and now everything was his for the taking. He grabbed a bagel from the tray left for him in his presidential suite and quickly covered it in cream cheese, before taking a bite. Across the room he set his stare on the magnificent black baby grand piano that he had requested be put in the room before his extended stay in the city. He wiped his hands on his pajama pants and smiled.

Delight. Wonderful, marvelous delight. Fletchers continued his sonata for a moment before standing and moving himself over to the window, overlooking the harbor of Baltimore. The ships on the dock made his mouth rise to a grin as well ran one finger down the smooth, clean glass. He was on top of it all. He was a god.

Throwing on a pair of slacks and a shirt, Fletcher decided that we was going to go find lunch out on the town; get a glass of wine and a sandwich of type. He started down the stairs and walked out of the front lobby, onto the street. The loud sounds of the city filled his ears as he peered up to see the skyscrapers surrounding him. He planted his feet firmly, took a deep breath, and set off down Charles Street to find somewhere to eat.

As he walked into the restaurant, he could hear the murmuring of the patrons around him. They knew who he was and they knew what he could do. Fletcher was a very wealthy, powerful man. The hostess grabbed his menu and guided him to his seat. Right as he was motioning to sit, a loud crash was heard from across the room. Fletcher looked up to see a busboy, now on his hands and knees, trying to clean up the broken dishes as quickly as he could.

Without thinking, Fletcher stood back up and jogged over to the young man. Dropping to his knees, he began to clean up the pieces with him. The busboy, pushing his thick, dark hair out of his face moved his eyes to meet Fletchers.

“Sir, you don’t have to do this.”

Fletcher said nothing in response and continued to collect the fragments of glass and plaster.

“Sir, really, I insist. This is my job. I don’t –”

“Don’t worry about it.” Fletcher whispered, cutting him off. “We can all use a hand sometime, right?”

“I guess you’re right.”

The two men stood to their feet. The busboy put the bin, now clinking wildly as the busted pieces rubbed against each other, down on the empty table next to him. He extended his strong, sandy-colored hand to Fletcher.

“It is always good to see people in high places come down to the lowest of the low. Thank you so much.”

Fletcher smiled at the comment and proudly shook the young man’s hand.

“The pleasure was all mine.”

The busboy chuckled at the modest response.

“Must be nice to have the most famous fingers in the world.”

The busboy continued on his path into the kitchen while Fletcher worked his way back to his seat. The waiter came over immediately.

“Well, aren’t you a hero? What can I get you to drink?”

Just a bottle of Cabernet, please.

Fletcher stayed at the restaurant for the remainder of the afternoon; talking to people and staff, drinking, eating and answering questions people had for him about his life, his playing – his world. Looking at his watch, Fletcher realized that had gotten rather late. He paid his bill, thanked the kitchen and the workers in the restaurant, and made his way back to the street.

After walking for about ten minutes or so, Fletcher realized that he must have gotten turned around. Somehow, he wasn’t on Charles Street anymore, but in a sketchier looking neighborhood, deep within the city. He pulled out his cell phone to activate his GPS.

Dead. Go figure.

He slide it back in his pocket, but before he could remove his hand from his slack, he felt something crack him in the back of his head. With a loud ping, the world went black.

When Fletcher woke up, he saw a figure standing above him. He was in a state of dizziness and couldn’t make sense of much. His vision started coming back to him as he stared at the man, standing, straddling over his body. The dark hair and sandy skin was all too familiar to him. The busboy from the restaurant was towering over him, no longer smiling.

“Now I have the most famous fingers in the world.”

Fletcher, still spinning, looked down at his hands. His palms were shining a bright red and where his fingers were, all that was left was nubs.