The Labor Day crowd of tourists had thinned out.  Only a few couples, two or three small groups of friends and some solitary souls lingered along the paths and walkways that lined the long row of shops.  A young man sat on the edge of a redwood planter box, playing a guitar and singing.  He was short, stocky, tanned, with a thick crop of shoulder length black hair and a beard that was black, course, full, and sprouted out from the collar of his red hooded sweatshirt like a thicket of nettles.  His name was Ben and his mouth seemed to be tilted in a perpetual sideways smile, hiding his shy nature, his mustache and beard cocked at an angle because of it.  Having graduated high school three years earlier, he had tried going to junior college but had dropped out.  He wasn’t sure what to do next.  

            Eyes closed, he sang seemingly to no one in particular.  Tilting his head, his face reflected an earnestness that wasn’t at all theatrical, innocent in a way, sincere.  His black guitar case lay open in front of him.  Earlier he had carefully put a dollar bill inside the case, precisely in the middle, with a few coins spread over it to hold it down.  It was a trick he had learned from a street musician he had met.  Other bills and more change now covered the inside of the case.  

            The place where he was singing used to be an elementary school.  It was Spanish style, like so many of the buildings in the tiny artist’s town of Los Gatos, which was planted at the base of the foothills; light brown stucco, clay tiles, brickwork and thick unfinished beams of wood.  Converted into a shopping plaza by a local entrepreneur; the former schoolrooms became shops that sold photography, jewelry, books, pottery and sculpture.  It was called Old Town.  Landscaped with brick walkways, patches of brick bordered lawn, long wooden decks and oak trees, it invited strollers and loungers more than any other of the places in town.   

            Near where Ben was singing there was a large wooden log sunk into the ground, standing on its end, surrounded by a low wrought iron fence.  The log was about twelve feet high, without bark, smooth and knotted.  It was being carved by a tall, thin, red haired, emaciated looking sculptor.   His jeans were almost falling off him.  His piece had been untouched for weeks, showing so little progress that both he and it were becoming the joke of the town.  But now he was carving it quietly and calmly from the top of a ladder, the sound of his mallet and chisel mixing with the music.  

            A blond boy sat on a bench nearby listened to Ben’s singing with a bored expression, glancing blankly at the sculpture occasionally as the artist chipped away.  A couple in their forties or fifties stopped to look and listen.  The man had one arm around the woman, each of them holding an ice cream cone.  After a while they looked at each other for a long minute, held hands and smiled as they walked away.  A pretty young girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, glided by wearing a gauzelike short dress and no shoes, dropped a dollar in Ben’s open guitar case, and did a little ballet dance as she continued on.  Ben kept singing, his eyes following her till she disappeared around a corner: 

            "…….from a seedling you were born 

            then growing, breaking through 

            your past was torn away from you 

            growing from the earth 

            through the mystery of your birth 

            sunflower 

 

            “as you learn to trust the ground 

            up above you smell sweet air 

            and other things are growing there 

            roots that yearn and toil 

            gaining strength from the soil 

            sunflower…….” 

 

            Ben fingerpicked the strings of his guitar in a rhythmic pattern that, although intricate and varied, was also repetitious and hypnotic, like the tip tapping of train wheels on a railroad track.  It was a style of guitar playing that had existed for hundreds of years, begun by minstrels and bards in long ago times, simple, rooted in folk music.   In the clear air of the summer dusk it rose up and wound round the oak trees that were planted in the middle of the grassy areas dissected by walkways.  

            His eyes were closed, his eyebrows arched, his forehead wrinkled.  That was another trick that he had learned but this one no one else had to teach him.  He had come to it himself.  Whenever he was overcome with shyness or nervousness, he’d close his eyes, shut out the world and lose himself in the song.  He had long been uncomfortable around people, not knowing exactly what to say or how to act, his shyness debilitating him.   

            When he twelve years old his parents had divorced.  He’d known it was coming for a long time.  Their arguments had been getting less and less covert just before he was told the news.  His mother gathered him and his brother together one day and explained it to them: 

            “Your father won’t be living with us,” she said in a studied, neutral sounding voice. 

            “Why?” Ben had said, being the oldest. 

            “Because daddy doesn’t love mommy anymore,” his mother had said, stifling sobs. 

            Then his younger brother, Rex, started to cry and his mother responded, “That’s okay.  Let it out.  Let’s all have a big cry.  It’ll do us good.” 

           The three of them had cried for what seemed to Ben like hours.  He had felt no emotion.  “This is bound to be better than the way that it’s been,” he had thought to himself as he faked tears to satisfy his mother.  Over time he became the man of the house, a job he never wanted, and a joyless torpor settled over his life then that was only now beginning to dissipate.  

            Sometimes when he was singing he would have such a violent fit of nervousness that he would start to lose track of the chords and words of the song.  That was when he closed his eyes.  He liked to lean into the words of the songs as he was singing, feel the sense of them, and aim them outward, toward the people who were passing by.  His voice echoed off the hard surfaces of the place:  

            “……..behold! the wonder of the sky 

            and the warmth that makes you grow 

            on toward the sun-glow 

            fleeing endless night 

            toward your first rays of light 

            sunflower………” 

 

            It was strange that he would now be singing in front of so many people and that he would like it.  Things had started to change for him when he had met Mrs. Barlow.  She was his English teacher in high school, a slight young woman in her twenties with thin, long brown hair, delicately featured, and almost regal in the way she carried herself.  A newly graduated teacher who had just come to teach in his school, she was excited about her class.  Most of the other teachers were lifers, they’d been at the same school for years, but she was different.  One of Mrs. Barlow’s first assignments was to have her class keep a journal.  They were to write about anything they wanted to and no one but she would ever read them.  Ben took to the journal idea like a natural, pouring out his thoughts and feelings like he had never done before in his life.  

            Then one day, to his amazement, he started writing poetry.  The reason that it was so amazing was that he had never written a single line of poetry before.  He had never really even read much poetry or appreciated it.  But what began as a simple high school writing assignment soon turned into the beginnings of a love affair with words.   That transcendent experience defined his interests and obsessions from then on.  Ben would spend whole days learning new words, studying the dictionary, discovering their music and rhythm.  After a while he learned to play the guitar and, then, to write songs.  That was when he started going out to parks and college campuses, planting himself on the lawn and singing.  

            At first he was humiliated by his ineptitude; how he had to stop in the middle of songs and start over; how he would sing off key so often.  But being outside amid the hubbub of activity, the people milling around and talking, no one seemed to mind.  Most of them weren’t really listening anyway, and gradually he started to improve.  Ben spent more and more time trying to find good places to play.  The best places were where other musicians were.  He learned a lot by asking questions and copying their technique on the guitar.  Now, instead of staying home and being depressed and lonely, he’d drive to his usual hangouts on weekends in the summer and spend the day singing for tips or listening to other musicians. 

            An old gentleman in a beret sat farther down along on the planter box, the same one Ben sang from.   Perched awkwardly, bent over and slightly hunchbacked, he was all dressed in black, smoking a pipe.  Ben had stopped singing and was starting to count up the money that he’d collected in his guitar case but, before he could finish, the old man in the beret came up to him and started a conversation.  

            “That was very good,” the old man said. 

            “Thanks,” said Ben, nervously. 

            “How long have you been playing the guitar?” 

            “Oh, maybe two, three years.” 

            Ben closed the latches, picked up the heavy black case and tried to walk to his car but the old man was standing in his way.  He was always uncomfortable when people came up to talk to him after he sang.  Not because he disliked people necessarily but because he never knew what to say to them.  He would stammer and there would be awkward pauses.  

            The old man leaned closer to Ben.  “I’ve seen you around here before.  Do you live here?” he asked. 

            “No,” said Ben moving away from the old man slightly, “I live in Santa Clara, in the valley,” 

            “Did you write any of those songs?” 

            “Yeah, I wrote the last two,” said Ben, wanting to walk to his car and drive home, but he was pleased that the old man had noticed his songs. 

            “Did you write the one about the sunflower?” 

            “Yeah.” 

            “That was excellent!” the old man said.  And then after a pause he asked, “Have you ever had any singing lessons?” 

            “No,” said Ben stiffening slightly. 

            “Well, have you ever thought of it?” 

            “Not really.” 

            “I give lessons.  You ought to try it sometime.  I could help you.” 

            Ben didn’t know what to think.  He knew that his voice wasn’t very polished, or very strong.  Was the old man saying that his singing was bad?  Ben had always felt that it probably was. 

“How much would it cost?” 

            “Well, the first one would be free.  Then whatever you can afford,” the old man offered.  “What’s your name?” 

            “Ben.  What’s yours?” 

            “Everybody just calls me the Professor.” 

            Ben and the Professor talked some more.  Then Ben said he had to go, shook hands with the Professor and walked to his car.  He told the Professor that he would think about it.  

            Ben came often to Old Town.  He traveled all the way from his cottage in Santa Clara on weekends.  Sometimes there would be art exhibits and craft displays along the walkways and he’d sing for tips to the crowds that came.  He was getting less and less nervous about it as time went on.  He noticed the Professor sometimes, listening from a bench or talking with someone.  One day after he had finished singing for an unusually large holiday crowd he saw the old man walking toward him.  

            “Hello Professor.” 

            “Well, hello young man!” the Professor said tipping his beret. 

            “I’ve been thinking about those singing lessons,” 

            “Yes….. and……?” said the old man 

            “Maybe I could try one and see what it’s like,” said Ben, his throat suddenly dry. 

            The Professor looked him in the eye and smiled.  

            “That’s great,” he said, “Want to get started right now?” 

            “Sure, I guess,” said Ben. 

            “Well, then, come with me,” said the Professor. 

            He led Ben over to what used to be the auditorium of the school but was now a theater.  A drama group performed there and concerts were given from time to time.  The Professor led him around and behind it.  They moved slowly, the Professor not able to walk as fast as Ben.  He took out a key and unlocked a door.  After going up stairs, stumbling around in the dark for awhile and wondering where it was he was leading him it became clear to Ben that the door led backstage.  When the Professor turned on a light switch they walked around piles of stored scenery and through rows of curtains until they came to an upright piano.  That piano had seen better days.  Ben liked being backstage in the theater.  It was cave-like, dark, filled with props and dismantled sets.  He felt at home there. 

            The professor began to teach Ben.  He taught him how to open his throat, sing from his diaphragm, and hit various intervals.  The Professor had him make funny sounds, high pitched whining sounds that were supposed to help him relax his throat, showing Ben what notes he wanted him to sing by playing them on the worn, dusty piano.  Sometimes when he wanted to get Ben to hit a certain note he would try to demonstrate it himself, but his voice was thin, raspy, an old man’s voice, and he had trouble hitting the high notes. 

            One day Ben found himself yawning in the middle of a scale.  “Sorry,” he said, groggy from a late night of reading. 

            “No, that’s good!  When you yawn it helps you to open your throat in the right way.  Go ahead. Try again!”  

            The Professor played the same note on the piano and Ben could tell the difference as he sang using the same open, relaxed way his throat felt when he yawned. 

“Yes, that’s right,” exclaimed the professor, his eyes bright with encouragement.   The professor liked it very much when Ben would yawn. 

            “Sing this note,” the professor said as his wrinkled hands played the piano key.  Ben sang the note that the Professor played.  His voice suddenly sounded fuller, richer than it had before. 

            “Good!  Now, some scales.” 

            They met once a week for a half hour lesson but it usually always lasted an hour.  Whenever Ben would try to pay the Professor he always refused, knowing that Ben didn’t have any money.  

            The Professor liked teaching young men and women who were just starting out.  It made him feel useful again.  When he had first moved to Los Gatos he hadn’t known what he would do with himself.  He had just retired, moving there to be closer to his family.  It didn’t take long for him to discover that Los Gatos was filled with artistic people.  New galleries and music venues were opening up all the time.  Here was a place where people were actually doing their art, making a living out of it.  As he settled in to his new life he would occasionally go out to listen to music in a coffeehouse or a bar and sometimes he would hear a singer who showed promise.  He’d go up to them after their set and talk.  Over time he had gotten to know a lot of the musicians in town and started to teach some of them.  Word spread and soon he was pretty busy giving lessons.  He didn’t make much money from it but it filled his time and gave him a sense of purpose. 

            One day when the theater was being used by the theater group for a rehearsal the professor asked Ben to meet him at his house.  It was the first time Ben had ever been there.  The professor lived across the street from the high school, amid a collection of run down cottages that were probably, at one time, summer cottages for some vacationers from the valley.  Now they were home to all kinds of musicians and artists.  He had a small room just up the dirt driveway.  Ben felt self-conscious as he knocked on the door. 

            “Come in.” 

            It was a studio apartment with a bed, a trunk, a desk, a dresser and two chairs.   Ben’s first impression was shock at how small it was.  He didn’t know what he had expected, something slightly roomy no doubt, and less austere.  He felt a little uncomfortable.  The Professor, sensing that, put him at ease by getting right to the lesson.  Taking an electronic keyboard that he kept in his room to use for voice lessons, he put it in the only place available in his cramped apartment.  Setting it up on the foot of the bed, he led Ben through the usual exercises.  He would vary them to keep them fresh, but he had five or six that he used all the time.  Ben sat in a high backed chair while the Professor stood at the foot of the bed playing notes on the keyboard.  Whenever Ben sang a note that was flat the professor would raise his eyebrows and make his eyes big to get him to bend the note higher.  He craned his neck up, too, as if he were doing the singing.  Ben had always had a problem with being flat, but the Professor was helping him to learn how to stay on key. 

            “Sing this,” the professor would say as he played an interval.  Then he would play various scales up and down the keyboard, having him sing them using vowel sounds.  

            "Use your diaphragm!” he would say, “Let me hear good round strong vowels.  That’s it!  Now, let’s try some octaves.” 

            The Professor paused before he started playing.  “Oh, I’ve been meaning to tell you something.  I notice that you close your eyes a lot when you’re performing.  Maybe a little too much.  If you open your eyes and look at the people when you’re singing that will draw them in.  It’ll help them to feel a part of what you’re doing,” said the Professor. 

            They went through the usual exercises with the Professor making suggestions about tone and pitch. 

            “Your voice is getting stronger!  Do you feel it?” 

            “Yes,” Ben said, surprised. 

            “Have you ever thought of auditioning somewhere?  I heard they were hiring at the Wine Cellar.” 

            Ben had been thinking of trying to get a singing job for a while.  

            “How long would I sing for?” he said warily. 

            “It’s usually from eight till eleven or so.  I guess you’d need to do about three forty-five minute sets of music but you could repeat one of them.” 

            “I dunno,” Ben said hesitating. 

            “Go ahead.  What do you have to lose?  The manager’s name is Steve.  Tell him I sent you.” 

            After the lesson, as the Professor was putting away the keyboard, he asked Ben to wait a minute.  

            “I want to walk back into town with you.”  

            Moving to the dresser, the professor took off the shirt he was wearing in order to put on his usual black turtleneck.  Underneath he was wearing only a t-shirt, the type of t-shirt that old men wear, made from white fabric, with thin straps exposing the armpits and neckline.  And for the first time Ben saw why the professor appeared to be hunched over all the time.  There was a cavity in his chest where he had obviously had surgery.  His torso was misshapen, the curve of his chest delicate and hollow looking, the skin draped over the cavity like a taut drumhead, the bones of his rib cage protruding out.  

            “Professor, did you have an operation?” said Ben pointing to the Professor’s chest. 

            “Yes, a long time ago.  I had a lung removed.  I got sick and they had to operate.” 

            “Is that why you can’t sing anymore?” 

            “Yes.” 

            “But you used to sing, didn’t you?” 

            “I studied opera in Italy.  My teacher was the most popular singer in all of Milan!” 

            Ben asked him all the questions that had been on his mind since the day they had met, the questions that he had been too shy to ask, and the professor patiently answered them.  He told Ben all about his life in Italy.  He had traveled from America to study opera there.  He told Ben about the girl that he loved in Milan, showed him a picture; a beautiful Italian girl with big, mysterious, dark eyes.  The professor said that when he got sick, she left him.   He had gotten pneumonia, a bad case, and was in bed for months, getting worse and worse, until they operated on him.  Ben could see the pain in his eyes as he told the story.  The Professor showed him a picture of the school he had studied in and some of his fellow students.  Afterwards, Ben and the Professor walked to Old Town. 

            “Professor, thanks for the lesson.  Are you sure I can’t pay you anything?” 

            “No.  If you ever make it big, you can remember me then, but right now I’m doing alright.” 

            The next morning, when Ben woke up he thought about his conversation with the Professor the day before, about the life he had in Italy and his sickness, but what he couldn’t get out of his mind was what the Professor had said about the Wine Cellar.  All he could think about was auditioning there.  It seemed like it was time he finally tried to do something with his music.  He called the Wine Cellar to see when Steve, the manager, arrived and that evening he drove to Los Gatos.  Walking into the Wine Cellar, he asked a waiter if he could talk to Steve.  The waiter disappeared around a partition and a tall young man emerged from behind it, walked up to Ben and held out his hand. 

            “Hi, I’m Steve.  I’m the manager.  What can I do for you?” 

            “My name’s Ben.  The Professor told me to come and talk to you.  He said that you needed someone to play music.” 

            The manager looked Ben over, “Yeah, what kind of music do you do?” 

            “It’s acoustic, folky, some covers and some originals, a lot of different things.” 

            Steve seemed slightly interested.  “When can you come and audition?” 

            “Whenever it’s best for you.” 

            “How about Tuesday night?  We don’t have music on Tuesdays but I’ve been thinking we might start.  That would be a good night to hear what you’ve got.” 

            Ben felt awkward, unsure if this was a good idea after all.  “Okay.” 

            “Then we’ll see you this Tuesday about eight o’clock.  How’s that sound?” 

            “Do I need to bring any equipment?” 

            “Just your guitar.  See you then,” Steve said as he shook Ben’s hand. 

            “Oh, and tell the Professor Hi for me,” Steve said with a wink. 

            “Sure,” Ben smiled as he turned to leave. 

            This would be his first audition.   Tuesday afternoon he got ready for his performance, changed his guitar strings, polished his guitar and washed his jeans.  He practiced.  Ben always kept the guitar close by so he could pick it up whenever he felt the urge.  Sometimes he’d pick up the guitar and it seemed like his fingers moved effortlessly over the strings.  When that happened it was as if he had no limitations, he could play whatever he wanted to play, and ideas came easily and fast. The fingerboard was filled with endless possibilities.  He would discover new chords and new ways of playing.  It was like flying.   

            Other times his fingers were stiff and the steel strings hurt.  Nothing came easily.  If he persevered during those times he found his playing wouldn’t get any easier but somehow he would be building his finger strength, and he would progress so that the next time he picked up the guitar his playing flowed even more.  If he pushed through the hard times he’d grow as a guitar player and the stiff, difficult times would happen less often.  Now the Professor was helping him do the same thing with his singing. 

            Ben gathered up his things, loaded them in to the car and drove to Old Town.  The Wine Cellar was just a few feet from where Ben had sat on the planter boxes and sung to the tourists.  It was underneath the theater where the Professor had first taught him, a curved brick stairway leading down to the entrance.  He walked down the stairs, through the thick, wooden door, and into a narrow hallway.  It took a while for the Ben’s eyes to adjust to the dim light inside.  It was a small place, consisting of three narrow, rectangular rooms, separated by archways.  There were tables arranged on the floor along the length of each room, with booths along the back wall of the last room on a raised platform.  It was shadowy, intimate, with large timbers lining the ceiling overhead, and a display of wines on one wall in the farthest room.  

            There weren’t very many people there, only an older man drinking alone and a couple sitting at a side table bent toward each other, whispering.  The stage was at the end of the first narrow room, barely large enough for two microphone stands and a stool.  Ben climbed up on the stage, opened his guitar case, took out his guitar, and tuned it.  A waiter came by. 

            “Want anything to drink?” the waiter said. 

            “Some water?” said Ben. 

            “Sure thing.” 

            By the time Ben was ready to start more people had come in but it was still a small crowd.  Ben had chosen his best songs for the audition, the ones he felt most comfortable singing.  He knew that he would be nervous so he picked the easiest one to do first.  A set list was taped to the top of his guitar so he didn’t have to fumble to find the next song.  Singing with his eyes open, scanning the room and strumming his guitar, he did pretty well, he thought.  Occasionally small explosions of applause rose up from the waiters and a few of the customers, and they seemed sincere.  He found himself giving little introductions to the songs, feeling more relaxed than he ever had before, and, somehow, the manager liked him, saying he could start the next weekend.  He couldn’t believe it. 

            After his first job at the Wine Cellar, Ben started to perform a lot.  He even started to gather a following.  He played gigs at places all over the valley, not just in Los Gatos.  And he started writing more songs.   Almost half of the songs he sang were his own.  Passionately consumed with writing, he’d lose himself for hours trying out new chord progressions, new melodies and rearranging words.  Other people seemed to like his songs, too.  His singing was more fluid now. It had a power that hadn’t been there before.  He was reading more: Whitman, Lao Tzu, Hesse, Yeats, transcendentalists like Thoreau and Emerson, people like Joseph Campbell and Carl Jung, and it started affecting his writing.  Poems and songs were pouring out of him. 

            He lived for the moments of timeless, rapt attention he would spend on his songs and poems and for the flashes of revelation that came when they would finally come together.  The magic of it consumed him yet it was so transitory.  Most of his life was without that magic, just mundane and ordinary.  He would try to work himself up to a point where the creativity would flow but he found he couldn’t force it.  What seemed to work best was to let it sneak up on him when he least expected it.  He was learning so much, making so many connections in art and literature and life.  The road of discovery he was on seemed endless. 

            He was walking through Old Town one afternoon, putting up posters for a concert he was giving, when he saw the Professor talking to a young couple.  The Professor looked tired, frailer than Ben had remembered him being.  Ben hadn’t had a lesson with him for a long time.  With all the music opportunities he was having he was just too busy.  There were the weddings he was singing at, the concerts he was planning, and he was starting to record demos to try and sell his original songs.  He thought of saying hello to the Professor but he decided not to.  That part of his life was in the past now; it was time for him to move on. 

            The professor had seen the poster at Old Town and thought that it would be a good opportunity to see how Ben was doing.  Walking to the bus stop, and taking the bus to the local junior college where the concert was going to be, he thought about the shy young man that he had first met singing for tips on the sidewalk at Old Town..  Smiling to himself, he remembered how self conscious he was and how much trouble he had staying on pitch.  He remembered the lessons backstage in the theater and how Ben had started to slowly make progress. 

            The college auditorium was on a knoll in the middle of the campus among tall oak trees and large granite rocks.  There was a line when the Professor arrived.  He stood in line, bought his ticket and walked into the lobby where groups of people were talking and laughing.  A table was set up along a wall with tapes and poetry books for sale.  Walking down the aisle, he sat in a seat toward the back.  There was a pretty good crowd.  The Professor was surprised that Ben had gotten so well known in such a short time.  After a while the house lights dimmed, a young man introduced Ben, and he came on stage. 

            Ben performed the first set solo, just him and his guitar.  His singing was good, but he had fallen into some bad            habits, the Professor thought.  The crowd was enthusiastic and Ben seemed comfortable, even telling a joke here and there.  The Professor liked the new songs.  After the break Ben came out with his backup band.  There was a piano, a bass, and another guitar.  The other band member’s playing complimented Ben’s guitar work tastefully and beautifully.   

            After the concert was over the Professor thought about going up to Ben, who was sitting on the edge of the stage talking to a small group of people, but he didn’t.  He walked out the long glass doors, walked down the front steps and sat down on a bench.  Walking to the bus stop, he waited for the next bus.  

            Arriving at Old Town he walked toward one of the benches.  Sitting in the moonlight, a little out of breath, he daydreamed.  Memories washed over him.  In his long life he had experienced so many achingly beautiful and profound moments yet he had come to so few conclusions, so few questions had been resolved.  In front of him was the sculpture that the artist had been working on for so long.  There was a small plaque on a stake stuck in the ground at the base of it that read “An Unfinished Piece”.  The glint of moonlight catching its smooth surface, there was only a hint of marks made by the sculptor.  Lines and ridges from his chisel had only changed the very top.  The rest of the log was bare, virgin wood.  

The Professor lit his pipe and stared at the stars.