It looks like he's going to be late. Again. And he'll no doubt show up drunk as well. As usual. And somewhere around the middle of the first act, he'll quietly shove his sheet music onto my stand and mutter, "You take it, okay? I'm not feeling well." And I'll dutifully play, just like a good littler member of the orchestra should, as he quietly lurches his way out of the pit. And then he'll stagger back in somewhere around the middle of Act Four, just before the conclusion, so that when the audience is applauding, it'll be he who suddenly becomes the concertmaster again, standing and beaming and shaking the conductor's hand on another performance well done. Oh. Wait. Tonight's Boheme, which means he'll stagger back in in the middle of Act Three. He's pulled this stunt for... well, at least the last three seasons, I know that much for certain. Prior to that as well — at least that's what the last second chair told me. Not as consistently as he does now — at least back then he actually gave the occasional performance. Now? The orchestra is lucky if his eau de winery doesnt travel any further than the first five rows. I just dont understand. If the conductor is to be believed, he was once an outstanding musician, with a near flawless technique. From the age of sixteen, he was in almost constant demand, with contracts to virtually every major orchestra in North America. Rumour has it that he himself played second chair with all the truly great violinists of the twentieth century, that there are bootleg recordings of a house party on Long Island in which he, Oistrakh, Heifitz, and Perlman amused the crowd with improvisations of "What if Mozart composed The Farmer in the Dell". I dont doubt the recording exists. He knew them all. The man was tantamount to a legend in music circles. Or at least, he used to be. Now his technique is sloppy and graceless: he hits the notes, but not with enthusiasm so much as resignation. it's a remarkable feat for him to even show up. One night, during a particularly grueling performance of Billy Budd, he never even appeared. The first chair was empty all night, and at the conclusion the conductor looked at me in no small confusion, as though uncertain whether he should shake my hand — the second chair's hand — or not. I shook my head; there are some traditions you do not change just because your first chair is out on a bender. He wasnt fired, of course — no one would dare fire an institution — and the next night he was sitting there, all jolly smiles, all "So how'd it go last night?" He never recorded, which always struck me as odd. A man this talented should have released six or seven solo albums at the very least, maybe another dozen with his famous friends. But he never did. He would laugh, "Honestly, how many recordings of Bach's Air on a G String does the world need?" Now, I doubt anyone would touch him. The conductor just motioned for me to move into first chair. It's about time.