Keeping the Rhythm

Whether or not we learn daf yomi, we’re all climbers, struggling one day at a time to achieve our goals

Mutti was a large, tall, imposing gentleman, but behind that tough-looking exterior, he possessed a sweet and kind heart. He was also very private and dignified, a man of few words. I got to know Mutti through music — occasionally we worked an event together, because I played the keyboard and accordion and he played the guitar.

We’d play at weddings, bar mitzvahs, Melaveh Malkahs, or dinners, usually ending at eleven thirty or twelve thirty at night, or sometimes even at 1 a.m. After long hours of playing lively music together, most band members need time to decompress, and back then the frum musicians on the simchah circuit had developed a semi-formal ritual: pack up the instruments, check work calendars, engage in a little light banter, and then make plans to meet our fellow late-night performers at a nearby restaurant, pizza joint, or coffee shop for some socializing and relaxed conversation before finally heading home.

The routine worked well for all of us, but not Mutti. As soon as the last note sounded, he’d immediately stash his guitar in its case, toss on his jacket, and make a beeline for the exit. I’d often invite him, as he was departing the hall, to join us for a bite, but the response was always a definite no.

One evening, after quite a few years of this, I got curious. Mutti was an enigmatic fellow and I knew he wouldn’t give me any easy answers, so I blocked his path and demanded to know why he was always in such a rush to leave.