Sad Violin

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• May 4, 2025

A string trio plays in a mostly empty room, save for an elderly couple and an even more elderly pair of women, plus a bartender in the back. There’s a lovely display of untouched food the bartender stares at with longing. It goes on like this for almost an hour.

It’s not a full bar, but it has enough to make popular cocktails. Still, I’ve only poured two orange juices and made one Aperol spritz. On occasion, I’ll bar-tend certain events in the city to pull in extra cash. On occasion, I do all sorts of things to pull in extra cash. These events are usually for what most of the country would consider elites. Though I’m unsure they’d consider themselves that. Without question, they have money, favor the arts, and for what it’s worth, have always been very kind to me.

This particular event was a memorial, for whom, I will leave unnamed, out of respect. But let’s just say, a memorial where there are two open bars, one downstairs in the courtyard, and another upstairs with a little string concert (where I worked), plus a display of food that would put Martha Stewart to shame, isn’t for just anyone. This person was a famed New Yorker with a very recognizable name.

These gigs are relatively painless and decent money for the time/work involved, and when I get there, I’m completely fine but I do go there kicking and screaming in my own mind. It’s not that I think I’m better than such work, or above it. I mean, clearly, I’m not. But there is something so frustrating about technically writing jokes part time for what is the #1 rated late night show and having to pick up numerous side hustles to survive. Once there, I’m able to shelve my attitude, or at least hide it under my cynicism. If you’ve ever worked with me or if I’ve worked for you, you can attest that I’m a hard worker with a very “let’s get this shit done and go home” mindset.

Despite edging on my 36th birthday, people think I’m still in my 20s. Besides any vanity reasons that this is a good thing, I let it slide, as I deplore knowing how close I am to 40 with a feeling of accomplishing so little. And even when the logical part of my brain can make a case that merely existing in a bohemian lifestyle isn’t nothing, as writers, specifically creative ones/screenwriters/etc have about a 1% success rate, the word “loser” echoes from ear to ear.

At least I’m grateful to have this live entertainment while I’m at a bar with no patrons. How I love a violin. “This next piece, is Mozart”, the cello player says to the five people in the room. I was tempted to yell, “never heard of him!” to lighten to the mood, but I figured I’d be the only one who found it funny.

It’s a truly beautiful day, so it’s no wonder everyone is outside in the courtyard. My bar is almost as dead as the deceased, which is almost as dead as my career. But this isn’t about me!

Halfway through the event, people come upstairs where a string of speeches would be made about the deceased. To their credit, most of the speeches were concise and extremely heartfelt. Hell, even I teared up at one or two of them. This person was so dearly loved— a generous soul, witty humor, creative mind, eccentric and just. They touched a lot of people’s lives. I suppose that’s all that matters in the end.

When the speeches came to a close, they encouraged people to eat and drink. I got a little rush to the bar, but mostly what I served was water. The people here were so old, I wasn’t uncertain someone would croak onsite and we’d continue the memorial for another invitee of the Grim Reaper. Ah, life.

The food director, who I’ve worked with before, is absolutely one of the loveliest women I’ve ever met. She’s part of the reason I even said yes to this gig. Besides being an enormously talented cook with a delicate eye to detail, she’s a humble, soft spoken leader with a maternal tenderness that just makes you not only want to do your best, but also give her a hug. Often, the people running (or paying) for these types of things fall into a stressed frenzy as they want everything to be as perfect as possible. This is human, if nothing else. But sometimes also annoying for the help, who know what they’re doing and know it’s all going to work out. I suppose being irritating is also one of the most human traits. They are forgiven.

On my way home, I lamented to a friend that my back felt as geriatric as the crowd from running up and down stairs countless times. He said, “I wonder what people will say about me when I die. I hope at least one or two people will say I was their favorite friend or Uncle or something.”

“I hope people say I was funny.”

The streets of New York City teem with people. Drinking at outside tables. Women wearing dresses that show off their bodies. Men remembering why they love summer. And life goes on, just like that. As it will after us. All this beauty and sorrow. Is it all just nonsense, I wonder and lament? All of it? Is it just nonsense? Then I remember, that’s what I liked about life in the first place.