Tonight was the final concert for a chorus I play for. Before the concert, the conductor winked and indicated the bottle of liqueur she'd slipped into my bag. After the concert, the choir members presented me with a box of chocolates and an enormous bunch of red and white roses.
It was a pretty casual concert - dress code all-black with just a hint of bling. On this side of town, a few blocks east of the theater district, people don't immediately take me for a performer. Lone passersby shot me looks of envy; happy couples nodded and all-but-cooed (gross) in knowing comprehension. Two teenage girls on the subway kept pointing and eyeing my humongous bouquet until I finally assured them:
"Oh, this isn't from a boy, it's from a performance."
"Do you dance?" asked one of the girls.
I explained I was a pianist. "But it's fun to pretend they're from a boy. And the keep the riff-raff away while I'm shopping." And, wouldn't you know it, all three of us mimed holding the flowers out like a cruxifix.
Who says there are no perks to being a musician?