Seven Ben
seven
Ben
All right, that’s time,” Martina called, resting her baton. “See you all tomorrow.”
And with that, she swept off the conductor’s podium and out the stage right door, her long coat flapping dramatically after her.
Martina Thiessen was a tiny German woman with a huge personality (like most conductors). She didn’t walk on or offstage; she swept in and out like a storm, her clothes and silver hair billowing as if a breeze followed her wherever she went.
Ben eyed his standmate, Ruta. She was a tall, plump white woman with the curliest blond hair Ben had ever seen in his life. Ruta eyed him back, her blue eyes twinkling in the stage lights.
“Well, you survived your first rehearsal.”
Ben laughed as he stood, rolling his neck before grabbing his cello and following Ruta out the stage left doors.
Ben had to admit, the Kansas City Philharmonic had a phenomenal venue: Helzberg Hall was a masterpiece architecturally and acoustically. It reminded him of Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles, actually, with its elegantly curving wooden surfaces contrasted with the steel of the pipe organ upstage.
Backstage was less elegant, but still nice: sealed concrete floors, dark blue walls, and endless echoes as Ben and his fellow musicians streamed out of the hall to pack up.
The cellos all had a spot together in the corner, close to the elevator to the choral loft. He rested his cello in its padded case, gave it a quick polish with his cloth, loosened his bow and tucked it in, then latched everything shut.
“You coming to Aspire?” Ruta asked, latching her own case. She stood and slung it over her shoulders, backpack style. Ben hoisted his over his right shoulder; he didn’t like having it all the way on his back, where he couldn’t maneuver it as easily.
“What’s Aspire?”
“This wine bar down the street. We all go most nights.”
Ben cocked his head. He’d been planning on heading straight home, to be honest. He’d been in Kansas City for forty-eight hours at this point, give or take, and he still had a ton of unpacking to do.
Then again, if he ate out, he wouldn’t have to try to unpack his dishes.
Plus, it was literally his first day on the job. His colleagues were asking him out. He needed to make friends. Or at least be friendly.
“That sounds good.”
Ruta gave him a smile. “Perfect.”
Thomas, the principal cello, piped up from Ben’s other side. He was in his fifties, Japanese American, with black hair thinning at the back and a sunny smile.
“They have a parking lot, but if it’s full you can just park on Walnut. Or walk over, it’s not far. Or I can give you a ride.”
“You sure?” Ben was still learning his way around downtown. As far as downtowns went, Kansas City’s wasn’t too bad, but like so many downtowns, it did have an alarming number of one-way streets.
“Positive. I’ve got the minivan tonight. As long as you don’t mind the smell of teenager. No matter how many air fresheners we use, we can never get it out.”
Ben chuckled. “How many do you have?
“Three,” Thomas said with a world-weary sigh. “One in middle school, two in high school.”
“That’s rough.”
“You know it.” Thomas gave him a good-humored smile, though. “Ready?”
“Yup.”
Ben followed Thomas down the blue halls, into the yellow halls that divided Helzberg from MKT, the Muriel Kauffman Theatre, where the ballet and opera performed, and to the elevator that would lead them back up to the security entrance.
The security entrance emptied into the narrow canyon between the two silver humps of the Kauffman Center. The spring night was crisp and a little damp from the rain earlier.
“So how are you liking it here?” Thomas asked as they headed down 16th Street. “It’s got to be weird, joining us mid-season.”
“Everyone’s been welcoming,” Ben said. “But yeah, it is kind of weird.”
Usually, contracts ran for the whole season, or sometimes even multiple seasons, but shit happened, and the opportunity had been too good to pass up.
Even better, Kansas City was more than fifteen hundred miles away from Justin.
Not to mention memories of a certain bald asshole who’d ghosted him.
Ben had spent the last week trying to forget Arya, to no avail.
And he couldn’t even explain why. It was just one night.
One little hookup in the vineyards. A couple hours talking.
Yeah, he’d felt a connection. Yeah, they’d had chemistry.
But he’d been wrong. It had all been one-sided. So fuck that guy.
Kansas City was exactly the fresh start he needed.
After riding in Thomas’s van for all of three blocks, Ben wasn’t sure why he hadn’t just walked. Aspire was literally down 16th Street. Though at least he wouldn’t have to walk back uphill the whole way.
Ben held the door for Thomas, then followed him in. As soon as he stepped inside, he immediately felt at home.
Ben had been to a lot of wine bars in his life—with his family for tastings, but also on his own, for dates and celebrations and sometimes just for a drink—yet this one immediately felt special.
He couldn’t put words to it, the immaculate vibes, the serenity that seemed to vibrate through the whole space like the low droning of a bass. But he felt his shoulders unhitch.
Aspire was perfect.
The walls and booths and counters were all dark wood; kitschy chandeliers hung over the booths and a few tables; a weird lamp made out of wine bottles stood in one corner.
The TVs behind the bar and in the corners were showing North by Northwest on mute, and low, pleasant jazz played over the speakers.
He followed Thomas to a long table where everyone was already gathered. The only seat left was at the head of the table, with Ruta on his right and Thomas on his left.
He wasn’t sure if it was coincidence or hazing.
“We already ordered fries,” Ruta said. “They’re the best in the city.”
She passed over a menu and a huge leather folio, then elbowed Ben in the side. “New guy buys the first bottle of wine. It’s tradition.”
Ben looked from her to Thomas to the other cellists—TJ, Connor, and Preeti—but they all nodded sagely.
“All right.” Ben thumbed through the wine list. It was impressive in both its breadth and depth, with plenty of wines from the Old World and the New World. There were several pages of Napa Valley—including a few vintages of Phoenix Mountain.
Ben always felt a little flicker of pride seeing his family’s wine on lists in restaurants all across the country. He pulled out his phone and snapped a quick picture to send to his parents—later. If his mom knew he was out of rehearsal, it would take her all of thirty seconds to call.
In fact, she had called him, but his phone had been on do not disturb, and her voicemail had only said she was calling to see how he was doing. He’d call her and his dad when he got home.
He slid his phone away and looked around for a server.
“Our server had to run to the champagne room for a big party,” Thomas said, pointing deeper into the restaurant. “It’ll be a minute.”
Ben shrugged. “I’ll go order it from the bar.”
“No orange wine!” TJ, the assistant principal, called after him.
He was a white transmasc a few years older than Ben, with warm brown eyes, short brown hair, and an impeccable gaydar.
He’d clocked Ben as soon as he sat down today, turning in his seat to let Ben know the queer strings had a group text he could add him to.
“Got it.” Ben pushed his chair back in and headed to the bar.
A handsome Black man in a light blue suit stood behind it, polishing a swan-shaped crystal decanter with a soft cloth. He looked up when Ben approached. “Hey there. What can I get you?”
“Do you—” Ben began, but then he caught the flash of a red pin on the man’s lapel. “Wow. Master somm, huh?”
The man flashed Ben a proud smile. “Yup. Passed the December before last.”
Ben whistled. “I… was not expecting to find a master sommelier at a random wine bar in Kansas City.”
The guy cocked a slitted eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
Ben shrugged. “Just surprised, I guess.”
“Kansas City’s full of surprises. I’m David, by the way. You new in town? Just visiting?”
“Ben. I just moved here.”
David smiled. “Well, welcome to Kansas City. You finding your way?”
“More or less,” Ben said. “The folks at the Philharmonic have been helping me.”
“Nice. I thought I spotted you with the cello crowd.”
“Yup. They said I had to order wine for the table. I saw you had some Phoenix Mountain on your list… You still have it?”
Ben had been to enough wine bars to know sometimes it took a while for the lists to get updated.
David’s eyebrows rose. “We do. I’ll be right back.”
He disappeared, leaving Ben to admire the bar.
Directly behind it stood a row of WineStations filled with by-the-glass offerings; wineglasses hung from a rack above them.
To the right, shelves filled with whiskey and gin and vodka and liquor made a rainbow of booze.
A gleaming espresso machine sat tucked under one corner.
“Here we go,” David said, returning with two bottles. “We’ve only got the ’18 and ’19 left.”
“Definitely the ’18,” Ben said. “That was a good year.”
According to his parents (and Justin, ugh), one of the best they’d ever had.
“It was. I got to taste it when I visited the winery a couple years ago. Beautiful property.”
Ben nodded.
“You’ve been?”
Ben waffled on whether to tell David who he was. Would it come across as dickish? Like he was some sort of wine nepo baby?
But not mentioning it felt weirdly deceptive.
“Actually… my family owns it.”
“No shit? That’s awesome. Tell your family I love their wine.”
Ben laughed as David opened the bottle with practiced hands and poured Ben a small taste.
Ben swirled it and sniffed. God, it really was a good year. The wine was inky purple, bursting with the scents of blueberry and pipe tobacco and vanilla. Hints of bay and sage lingered on Ben’s tongue long after he swallowed the taste.
“It’s good,” Ben said. “You want some?”