by Marilyn Carvin

It was raining in Toluca Lake.  The media was making a big deal about Burbank Blvd. being closed.

“It’s supposed to close when it rains, Stupid!” I shouted at the radio.  “It goes through a flood control basin!”

I pushed the button.  Some rapper was making mysogenous noises. I pushed again. Violins were running over a field, probably covered with heather, or maybe daisies? I tried to remember what the selection was. Don’t often listen to the classical station, but I’d lost my iPod and  this was better than the other crap. In fact, it was perfect for driving on Ventura Blvd. at rush hour in the rain,  red brake lights reflecting off other cars, building lights bouncing off everything.   Sometimes classical is annoying, but this was OK. The swish, swish of the window wipers were somehow in sync with the music. I liked it. It was somehow soothing.

I needed  soothing. My paycheck was not going to cover my debts this month. Going to school and working at Blockbuster had been fine for a while, but my old Civic had needed a new timing belt.  And then there was the dentist thing. Welcome to adulthood, I thought.

I started humming to the cello solo. What was that children’s story I used to listen to when I was little? The cello was the prince. Oh yeh, “The Story of Celeste” . . . “The loneliest tune in the city.”  I laughed. I couldn’t remember what instrument had played Celeste. Xylophone? And the piccolo was the mean Miss What’s-Her-Name who locked Celeste in the closet.  But a mouse ate a hole in the door and let her out, so she could go to the ball, where, of course, the prince chose her for his own melody. The prince — a full, warm, soothing cello.