He was fifty-two years old and had not taken care of himself for a minute in his entire life. His swollen feet caused him pain in every single step he took. His back would not leave him rest whenever he was seated. His inflamed stomach and constant heart burn were never-ending reminders of a life of excess to which he had happily surrendered all those years ago. Every single one of those three hundred steps that took him to the central gallery of the Opera brought him doubt; why was he here? This was the thirty-seventh time he had taken this path. The last time he would. The opera season was almost over, the company will leave town, likely on its way to present the show in far away countries. His daughter was unlikely to come back. Her voice will probably be discovered and soon she will be booked by a big time producer and will never look back. She will experience moderate success, marry a trumpetist from the orchestra, have two children and will never talk about her growing up. She was leaving easily, as she had nothing left in this place holding her back. By the time he took twenty steps he was sweating and his breath was completely agitated. He had learned, since his first visit, to come with extra time to climb that painful mountain, to refuse the help from the ushers and to avoid eye contact with the tourists who would not offer help but would offer plenty of pity.
His mother died when he was sixteen, and since his father had abandoned them long time before, he was forced to live on the streets. He befriended a Romanian accordion player who reminded him of his own father. They shared the tips as they shared a shipping container down at the docks, it was a place to pass out and escape the cold winters. The Romanian musician offered to teach him how to play, but every time he skillfully refused, changing topics; he never told the musician that his father had taught him how to play and was fairly good at it. His theatrics and his way of presenting attracted people and tips, that was good enough.
