Chapter 13

Being a fan of classical music, and a decent tenor voice in his younger days, the old man next returned to the Lowerheights Opera House where he had once gone to see the famed Lowerheights Orchestra and Choir perform one of his favorite oratorio works, The Empty Tomb, which he had memorized in it's entirety.


The pen he had taken was a long and slender baton-like pen with a sharp point on one end and large round handle on the other. It was to be a simple return at the coat desk where he had signed for his coat, previously, but upon seeing the marquee advertising that The Empty Tomb was to be performed again that evening, he couldn't resist purchasing a ticket to attend another performance. 


He scarcely was handed his ticket when a sudden powerful urge to relieve himself seized upon him, and knowing hesitation with diarrhea could be disastrous for one so aged, he swiftly headed to the men's room. 


Rushing in the door, he noticed a gentleman leaving with a piece of toilet paper stuck to his shoe but had not the time to tip him off. 


The Lowerheights Opera restrooms were as beautiful and ornate as the amphitheater itself, for which no expense was spared in the making. From the crimson marble sinks and urinals, to the gold-plated knobs, latches, and border outlining the row of stalls, it made relieving oneself seem as formal as the headline event.


While doing just that in the middle bathroom stall, the old man noticed two things which added concern to the already disarming position one finds himself in a restroom with diarrhea: first, that there was only one square left on the roll in the toilet paper dispenser, and second, that the occupants seated to his left and right began tapping their feet together in time and singing in harmony, the first song from The Empty Tomb oratorio; the left taking the baritone voice and the right, bass.

 At this point, the old man was faced with a choice: either try and make the most of one square of tissue, relying on his limited origami skills, or use it to write a letter requesting assistance with his paperwork from either the baritone or bass, for he had already unsuccessfully tried to get their attention by calling to them.

And so, deciding on the latter, he pulled out the baton-like pen and wrote:


Dear neighbor,
I'm sorry to interrupt your fine singing but I find myself in the embarrassing  predicament of having only this piece of tissue to perform my paperwork. May I borrow, or rather have–for I trust you would not want it returned–more than a few squares from you?


Sincerely,
middleman



And then he slid the note over to the tenor at which point the tenor stopped singing and the baritone followed suit.


After a short time, a hand appeared under the stall wall, but it was empty. The old man realized by the hand gestures that his neighbor was in need of a pen to write his response to the request. And soon after passing the pen, came the pen and return message on two squares:

Dear middleman,
I am sorry to hear of your inconvenient predicament. We are facing a perhaps less embarrassing, but equally if not more disheartening crisis, as well. Our prize tenor who has devoted his life to praising God thru his talent has throat cancer and can no longer sing with us. His replacement has not shown up yet. And as we like to practice in the men's room because of it's reverberant acoustics I must ask, do you happen to sing tenor? If so, perhaps we can come to an arrangement...on paper.


Sincerely,
neighbor

Frustrated by the response, the old man wrote back that he, in fact, once was a decent tenor, and that it would be an honor to sing in the choir, but was not sure how much his aged voice was now worth on paper, yet he felt compelled to comply under his immobilizing circumstances. 


And so, beginning with a foot tap, the old man began to sing the second song in the oratorio at which point the dumping duo became the toilet trio; and they went on to rehearse the rest of the songs; their voices flushing through the reverberant bathroom halls.


It was apparent the old man had passed the audition, hands (and pants) down, for he was ticker-taped generously with rolls from either side at the end of the last song as well as a standing ovation from the other occupants in the restroom whose hands were free. 


After all three had finished their paperwork, flushed, and washed their hands, they greeted each other and then rushed backstage to join the rest of the choir on the risers just as the curtains opened for the performance to begin.

"That's him,"said the left-stall baritone, pointing to another aged man in the audience who seemed to be the only one not applauding,"Nigel Prescott."  


However, after the applause of the audience died down, it was apparent there was something else wrong. For no conductor was present and the old man could hear the show's producer arguing about it with an assistant behind him.

"First we are without a tenor and now this?! I thought you said he was just leaving makeup what do you mean he walked out?!" said the producer.

"He said he wasn't feeling well. Walked out swatting his baton at the stars calling them dastardly fireflies," said the assistant.


"Drunken idiot! What are we to do now?"


Before the old man knew what he was doing, he had climbed down from the riser and was whispering  something in the producer's ear.


"But we have no baton, for God's sake?"said the producer. 


The old man pulled out the baton-like pen and said,"Yes you do. And I suspect it has everything to do with God's sake."

Reluctant, but having few options left, the producer grabbed the old man's pen and took center stage.


"Tonight we would like to pay tribute to a very special member of our choir,"he announced,"A man that has dedicated his life to praising and glorifying God thru music and–up until his voice was taken away–has done just that as our famed tenor soloist..."

"Soloist?!" remarked the old man to his bathroom buddies,"You never said anything about-!"


"Shhh-Would you rather conduct?"
shot back the baritone.


The old man smirked as the producer continued, "But perhaps this man's contribution is not over. For now we would like to ask you Nigel Prescott, to honor us as our guest conductor for tonight's performance."

The surprised man walked to the stage as clapping crowded him on all sides, and, as he did, the old man heard a voice tell him to write a note and hand it to the producer to give to Nigel.


"But I have no paper?" said the old man to the voice.


Then he was compelled to look down at the right shoe of the man standing at his right. It was the one who walked out of the restroom with two squares of toilet paper stuck to his shoe.


"May I have this?" the old man asked stooping down.


Toilet squares granted, he wrote on one piece what came to him. Then he handed it to the producer and whispered in his ear.

By then, Nigel had reached the stage and he whispered with his scratchy voice in the producer's ear,"I've never conducted."


"Here,"said the producer handing him the small piece of toilet paper,"I'm told this note will give you confidence."  


The man read the note from the old man which simply said:


I shall conduct for you. For I am God and my name is The Maestro.

Nigel's head then bowed as if in prayer and then, tears streaming down his face, he made his way to the conductor's podium.


The performance was incredibly moving. For Nigel's simply held on to the baton as it directed the orchestra and choir through each note and lyric on the staff paper. To say it flooded the amphitheater with tears would be an exaggeration, but not much of one. The standing ovation lasted so long some old people had to sit down to take breaks.


And then, the old man, who had sung the tenor solo beautifully, handed the baritone the other square of toilet paper with his address on it and said,"Keep this handy, you may want to use it some day." 


And with that, the old man bid farewell and went on his way...