The Collector

            “How much do you want for the “She Loves You” sheet on the wall?”  I looked up from the cash register where I had been entering payments and saw a distinguished gentleman pointing to the piece of music.  I told him it was not for sale, that all the sheets on the walls were my personal collection and hanging for everyone’s enjoyment.  “I’ll give you twenty dollars for it,” the man persisted. 

Twenty dollars.  I thought about how important that sum of money had been to me after moving to a small New York City apartment after going there to follow my dreams of designing lighting and sets for Broadway.  Everything was so expensive there, and within a month I had no more money.  Meals consisted only of cereal, or occasionally hot dogs and beans.  The apartment had no heat, but an electric blanket kept me warm at night, and the gas stove warmed some of the rooms.  Even though I was working for two theatres, the pay was quickly used for rent and utilities.  But one day I opened my mail and found a card from my parents.  It was an Easter card, with a note saying how proud they were, and that they knew I would “make it big on Broadway someday”.  Inside, there was a twenty-dollar bill.  It meant that I would be able to have some good meals for a few days.  It gave me hope.  I was ashamed of myself for dismissing the rest of my parents’ words so quickly once I saw the money, and after that hesitation, continued reading.  “We miss you and love you, and hope you will be able to visit us soon.  Love, Mom and Dad”. 

“You drive a hard bargain.  I really would like that sheet for my collection.  Look, it has thumbtack holes in it and this girl’s name written on it in pen—Susan Orsini.  You know that affects the value.  The most I will give you is fifty dollars.  That’s my final offer.”  I told him that the sheet had personal value to me, and that I didn’t wish to part with it.  I told him that I didn’t think everything in the world should be for sale.  Some things just shouldn’t have a price tag attached, that not everything had a price.  I was becoming angry. 

It was Sue’s name on the sheet that gave it value to me.  She used to listen to me play the piano in the practice room at Catholic University.  Usually she wanted only to hear me play music I composed, but I kept trying to get her to experience new things in her life, so I told her that the next time she came she had to bring in something else for me to play.  So she brought an old piece of music her mother gave her—“She Loves Me” by the Beatles.  To make sure I knew it was hers, she wrote her name on it, right there in the practice room on my piano bench.  As the school years passed we both forgot about the music sheet.  She had taken my advice to “get out and see the world”, and at one of my cast parties had met her fiancé.  But a drunk driver ended both of their lives before their wedding.  I was in a play practice when her sister told me that Sue said to “tell Steve that it’s not his fault—she was never happier.”

The piece of music was buried in a pile of music for many years, significance, value, and existence forgotten.  It only surfaced a few years ago when decorating the new store.  I knew it had value to collectors, but chose to mount it on the wall anyway.  It had always bothered me that so many people were only concerned about monetary value instead of enjoyment.  Cabbage Patch dolls, unused in the original box, Beanie Babies with tags attached, and the like, their true function forgotten—to bring enjoyment and happiness to children—were now being sold only for their collectability value.  It was my intention, my mission never to sell anything to someone for such misuse.

When it was clear that I was not going to sell the music, the man quickly left the store, without even saying “Goodbye”.  A few days later someone called on the phone asking for “The Tap Dance Kid” Broadway vocal selections music book.  They said it was out of print, but they really wanted to sing one of the songs for an audition, so they hoped I might have a copy.  We did, but only one copy.  There would be no copy for me to keep.  I thought about telling them that we were sold out, but knew that I would be a hypocrite if I “talked the talk” but didn’t “walk the walk”.  I sold it to them and sent it away.  A few months later I saw the book sitting in my office and asked Cheryl why it was there.  She told me that someone had bought it from us, used it, and realized that since it was out of print that maybe someone else would want it.  They had sent it back to me. 

Their simple act of kindness and thoughtfulness for others had touched me, as never before in a way I can’t explain.  But the next person who came in the store to buy a Broadway book was surprised when I told them there would be no charge, that it was a gift from a little girl named Susan.