regret

That nagging feeling that having done one little thing differently might have made a world of difference. Time seems to intensify rather than dull the pain. I've tried assuaging it by reminding myself that there are people in this world who sold all their Amazon stock in the year 2001, but in vain. It says a lot about me that my greatest regret in life is not asking the organist Paul Jacobs, the first organist to have won a Grammy, for a picture after his recital in Seattle this January.

It was a splendid evening at St. Mark's Cathedral. The great Flentrop organ was in top form, and Maestro Jacobs gave a dazzling recital, prefacing each piece with an informal witty introduction. Then for his encore, as if aware that I was in the audience, he played the fugue from Bach's Passacaglia and Fugue, which has been my all-time favorite musical composition only since I was fifteen. At the end of the recital there was a reception in the vestibule, where Paul Jacobs graciously received people and stood for pictures. I waited patiently for my turn and then in rather a flustered manner delivered myself of an off-the-cuff encomium as I shook his hand. I said things like "It was such a privilege to have heard you", which I sincerely meant, but I may have leant a little too heavily on linguistic extravagance, because Paul Jacobs asked me my named and if I was a musician. He probably thought such depth of emotion could only be stirred in a fellow musician. It was with some embarrassment that I disabused him of this notion, though I hastened to add that I played the piano. "The organ is very similar to the piano," he remarked. "It's like three pianos," I joked. Paul Jacobs and several onlookers laughed. I decided to quit while I was ahead and bade Paul Jacobs goodbye. "I hope our paths cross again," he said warmly. I wondered then if I might ask him for a picture but distinctly remember thinking it would cheapen our noble conversation. And so I walked out into the evening without asking for a picture or once turning back, feeling for all of six seconds that I was above those simple fools who had posed earlier for selfies with a famous man without the slightest appreciation for how great a musical feat they had witnessed that evening.

Then the regret set in. I felt like Johnny English as I quitted the cathedral. I was well dressed that day, and it was a good hair day, to boot. I hadn't changed my Facebook profile picture in going on five years. Could there be a more splendid way of reminding friends that I was alive than by posting a picture with the great Paul Jacobs? Alas, that was not to be. Now, months later, the regret is consuming me. It would have been so simple to have asked the question. I'm sure Paul Jacobs would have been most obliging, and I'm sure some smiling churchgoer would have been more than willing to take our picture. In fact, analyzing the scene in my head, as I have done many, many times since that evening, I feel like Paul Jacobs may have betrayed just the slightest hint of surprise that I should have said all that and then left without asking for a picture. What a fool I have been! Now who knows when I might next get a chance to change my Facebook profile picture? I am seriously considering stalking Paul Jacobs and showing up at whatever city he's playing in next and doing it right this time. I have the vacation days. I might just show up in LA or Boston and go, "Oh, Paul Jacobs, how lovely to see you! You might remember me from Seattle! Now, how about a picture to celebrate our fortuitous reunion?" Argh!