Level-headed, he also knew his looks were not god-like, but he wasn’t repulsive either. Due to his lank jet hair framing his long soulful face with full lips below mellow more-gray-than-blue-gray eyes, a lover had once compared him to a young Anthony Zerbe. Vron never saw the resemblance, but he took it as a compliment nevertheless. He was loyal, pleasant, reliable, and pretty good in bed, but none of that was getting any exercise because he couldn’t find anyone to exercise it on. Worse, upon discovering how much he enjoyed his own company, not to mention the company of his right hand, he was becoming a recluse.
And into his peaceful, if somewhat lonely existence, had bounded the brash, young Harold Wyse. They had met at Vron’s friend Marcin’s choir practice. Vron and Marcin had been at music school together and, because they’d never been lovers, they’d remained very good friends. Marcin was choir director for one of the larger Protestant congregations in town and although it was not the most exciting or creative job in the world, musically it suited Marcin down to the ground. In the privacy of his own home and in all the concerts he could find, Marcin listened to nothing but the atonal masterpieces of the mid-20th century and whatever was new and exciting in atonal music. This so wore him out that he could only stand the hymns and simple harmonies of accepted and very conservative church music in his professional career. He usually invaded Vron’s lair with deeply weird music arranged for two pianos and demanded Vron sight-read these horrors with him.
On one particular evening Marcin arrived without a portfolio of music under his arm, but with a look of grim determination. He accused Vron of being a tenor.
“Guilty as charged,” Vron said dourly. “What of it?”
“I need you!” Marcin clutched at Vron’s threadbare t-shirt.
“And I always need you, Marcin, but what’s being a tenor got to do with it?”
It turned out that Marcin’s choir was down to one tenor and that this was a desperate and intolerable situation for the choirmaster.
“I don’t see how two tenors are going to help you, Marcin; who’s going to hear us over your screeching soprano section?” Vron teased.
“You’re not the only one I’m recruiting,” Marcin said darkly. “And it would only be for a month until school starts and my usual tenor section is back from vacation. I can also kidnap a few young tenors from the conservatory then, may God help them.”
Vron said he was very flattered, but he was very busy, and-
“I can’t take no for an answer,” Marcin said. “I’ll play soft rock until you agree.” He sat at one of the grands and played “Don’t Go Changing” over and over, and with certain Webernian improvements, until Vron caved in like rotten fruit. “Excellent!” Marcin played a IV-I “Amen” cadence and leapt to his feet. “We rehearse on Thursday nights from seven to nine and perform on Sundays at eleven. I’ve got your music in the car. I’ll go get it.”
It took Vron the rest of the night and playing Satie’s “Gymnopédies” over and over to get “Don’t Go Changing” out of his head.