The Brotherhood of The Black Rats

1.5 The Mesmers

5| The Mesmers

It had been some time since the widow Goldman had taken the subway home after a Broadway show. Not since the passing of her husband in fact. The Late Mr. Goldman had been shrewd with the money he made in his Wall Street dealings and could not justify the expense of a cab ride from the theater district back to their townhouse on the Upper East Side when there was a perfectly good transit system in place for a fraction of the cost. It was one of the less endearing qualities about the man Mrs. Goldman had spent thirty-six years of her life with.

Now, as the after theater crowd of commuters slowly thinned out, The 6 Train made its way up Lexington Avenue with one nostalgic old Jewish woman wrapped in a brown mink coat among its many colorful passengers, eager to be on their way.  The train car’s bright fluorescent lighting was murder on the old widow’s eyes. She kept rubbing her temples as the breaks screeched to a halt every ten blocks along its underground route. She did not have the constitution or the tolerance for noise that she once had. Her hands had grown soft with age, every other finger bore a decadent ring that Mr. Goldman had given her all those years ago when the pair of them had toasted playwrights and producers on opening night galas and after parties, on nights not unlike this one. Old age was funny that way. Back then, the Goldman’s patronage had given their names permanent places on the lists at Sardie’s and Carmine’s. Usher’s and theater staff from every big theater in the city knew who they were and where they liked to sit. Fourth row, orchestra, center, it didn't matter.  If they could have had their names stitched in the seats they would have. Tonight, however, she had sat sixth row, rear left mezzanine, or as the Bolivian tourists seated next to her had called it, “the nose bleed section.” Not that it had mattered much; the play had been terrible anyways.  

Mrs. Goldman did not enjoy the sights and sounds of the late night 6 Train either. A man with no shoes passed her by jingling the contents of a simple Styrofoam cup in his hand as he begged for spare change or food if anyone had it. He was one of many on the train that evening. A trio of youthful and limber break dancers got on the train at Grand Central and rode all the way to 59th Street, dancing to the static, scratchy noise of a busted CD player and the disquieted rhythm that it produced along the way. Mr. Goldman had made it a habit of never catering to panhandlers, and Mrs. Goldman had remained ever loyal to her husband’s tradition to this day.

She softly sighed to herself when the train pulled into the 86th Street station. Eager to put the evening’s journey behind her, she rose from her seat and made her exit as quickly as her frail figure would allow. Once on the platform, the car doors slide shut behind her. The shirking echo of the train pulling away from the station sent a spasm of pain down her spine, causing her to wince from the dreadful noise.  Yet underneath the scrapping metal hollers, she heard something else, something really quite wonderful, in fact. 

As the horrific echo faded into the distant darkness, she heard the music more clearly. It was coming from up ahead of her near the staircase that lead to the city streets above. The familiar melody seemed to grab a hold of her as if to beckon her forward from the edge of the tracks into its embrace. It was a pair of violins, masterfully in sync with each other, as the overture from Fiddler on the Roof drowned out the sounds of the world around them.  

Much to the surprise and delight of Mrs. Goldman, the players at work were two twin boys in their late teens. They were much too young to display the skill in musicianship they were playing at, yet here they were right in front of her. The prodigal Twins were a welcome surprise to the old widow. She stood entranced by their simple concert for quite some time. 

 As if unable to stop herself, she dug through her small leather handbag for her wallet. Thinking to only drop a dollar or two into the paltry tip jar the boys had in front them, something in the music seemed to persuade her to give more. A five-dollar bill, then a ten-dollar bill – she passed over them to lay her feeble withered fingers on a fifty she kept folded over behind a photo of the time she and her husband had taken a cruise to Bermuda. 

Glancing at the tip jar, she found it empty, despite the small crowd that had gathered around the pair. The music really had her hooked. Its tender tune filled her with a longing to give as much as she possibly could and more. She stepped forward, dropping the fifty dollar bill into the jar, then with no thought at all, she dropped a hundred dollar bill behind it, and then a second one after that, and then the ten, and then the five. She even went so far as to empty her change purse of its contents to the gracious nods of the two musicians before her.  She’d spent nearly that on her seat at the theater tonight and would do so again tomorrow and the night after that. What was it to offer patronage to the artists at work nearly at her doorstep. Neighbors be damned, these boys were welcomed at her station any time. 

Her heart filled, and pockets empty, the music seemed to let go of her then. It willed her to move forward, delighted by the evening’s strange turn of events. A long, soft smile formed across the corners of her mouth as she closed her eyes to take in the crescendo of the boys’s music one final time. Content, she made her way to the stairs, slowly ambling up them to the sound of the fading music at her back and out into the crisp night that  waited above ground. 

The boys continued to play for sometime after that. When a tuxedo clad man in his thirties passed by with his wife in an elaborate blue ball gown, they heard Beethoven’s Symphony Number Seven and also took pity on the sight of the empty jar in front of such gifted artists. When a rowdy pack of Rangers fans crossed their paths, they heard a pair of dueling fiddles and could not help but take pause to celebrate, also filling the empty tip jar in the process. When a pack of eager socialites came down the stairs to find the boys in the middle of a classical rendition of their favorite top 40 club song on their way downtown, they were elated, and when one of the brothers actually stopped to serenade them, they were outright floored.  

Each person heard the song they wanted to hear most as they passed through the grimy subterranean train station at 86th and Lexington. Those with income to dispose of disposed of it. Whatever they could afford to give, they gave, complied by the sight of the empty tip jar and the enchanting sound of the twin violin players. Thus did the charm work, and thus were the Brothers Cadbury able to delight and fleece the denizens of Manhattan’s Upper East Side, without having as much as taken a single music lesson in their entire lives. 

The fat black rat came to them when foot traffic reached a low. To any Mundane onlookers it was simply another of the infectious vermin that plagued the city tunnels, save a little bigger and a little bolder than normal. To the Brothers Cadbury, it was a message, and one that they could simply not refuse. 

“What do you think it means?” asked one to the other. 

“Only one way to find out,” the other answered, as they began packing away their enchanted instruments. 

“Well then, at least I don’t have to endure any more of your singing,” one stated with a hearty laugh and smile. 

“Oh please,” said the other in defense. “As if you weren’t caught in the spell with the rest of them.” 

With that, one of the brothers moved to lift the nearly over flowing tip jar at their feet. “Who needs spells when you’ve got cash. Now give me a hand with this, would you.”