I darted toward the exit doors, ready to bolt the second they opened, my phone again pressed to my ear. My mind raced as I calculated how late I was running. "Mom, I missed my stop. I'm late for rehearsal. I need to go. Now!"

"Well, why didn't you tell me?" she retorted, as if she hadn't heard a single thing I'd said to that point. "But before you go, I'll get you the placemat set with the napkins and tea cozy, okay? And a teapot. I saw this adorable white enamel one, I think it's a Le Creuset—"

"Fine, whatever you want." More than anything, I needed to be rid of her. If the price for that was a teapot I'd never use, so be it. "Bye, Mom, I'll see you tonight."

But with my finger a fraction of an inch from ending the call: "I love you, Randall."

As tempted as I was to tap the red circle on the screen anyway, I knew she'd call back right away if I did. You never leave an 'I love you' from Sharon Lipsky unanswered.

"Love you too, Mom." Now I could hang up guilt-free. Hey, at the end of the day, she's still my mother.

On my way off the bus, I took one last look at where Cello Girl had been sitting. She was long gone, of course, along with the rest of the Portland State crowd. I'd meant to catch another glimpse of her, but I'd been in an all-too-familiar spot: on the receiving end of a Sharon Lipsky monologue. Despite the circumstances of our brief encounter, I was grateful for Cello Girl's lovely smile and joyous laugh, and that they'd made my day a bit more bearable.

And I was a little bummed out that I wouldn't be seeing her again. Let's face it—the world needs more Cello Girls.

At something close to a jog, I covered the six blocks to Schnitzer Hall in a very efficient eight minutes. I'm fairly sure I obeyed all the pedestrian signals, though Mr. Chevy Tahoe at Broadway and Taylor had a few choice words for me to the contrary. If you ask me, I think he could have used some of my coping strategies.

I arrived backstage a hot, sweaty, thirsty mess; that iced vanilla latte would've been wonderful right about now. Instead, I took a few glugs of lukewarm, metallic-tasting water from a drinking fountain, unpacked my viola, and hurried onstage to my seat.

With Maestro Clark in full oratory mode, pontificating about an orchestra's obligation to give back to its community, I slid into my place among the violas without catching his eye. But at least one person took notice of my clipped breaths and my sweat-streaked face.

As I sat, my stand partner leaned in toward me. "Randall, sweetie, what on earth happened to you?" she asked, barely above a whisper, in her honeyed, aw-shucks Carolina drawl. The polar opposite of my mom's dental drill of a voice; I could listen to it all day.

Most of the rest of us in the viola section consider Laura Schraeder—petite and nearly sixty, with graying sandy hair—our 'work mom', a title of which she's justifiably proud. Her sweet Southern charm is backed by an impossibly kind and generous heart. A hug from Laura is the perfect antidote to a rough day, even more so if it's accompanied by one of her homemade peanut butter brownies. Not to mention she has the whole nurturing, supportive, empathetic vibe going on. 

And she's never once threatened to buy me a tea cozy.

"Long story," I said with a sigh, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose. "Short version? Mom borrowed my car. Took the bus. Missed my stop. Ran here from Sixth and Alder. Got sweaty."

"Well, good," said Laura, "because I was starting to worry about you." She squeezed my shoulder with a delicate hand. "It's nice to see you, hon."

Eye contact. Smile. Say 'thank you.' Reciprocate. "Thanks, Laura, it's good to see you too." I cocked my head in Maestro Clark's direction. "Did I miss anything? This sounds like the same speech he gave last year."

"Bless his heart, he gives the same speech every year." Laura held back a laugh; as a twenty-plus-year orchestra veteran, she would know. "I heard the brass and percussion folks are playing Buzzword Bingo with it. Now who do you think came up with that idea?"

That little piece of subversion could only have come from the mind of Jeremy Steidel. Leave it to our happy-go-lucky practical joker of a timpanist to make a game out of a speech by our music director. Though we generally liked and admired David Clark, he could definitely get long-winded.

"He should be about done, then?" I asked. "He'll get all fired up, he'll say something about making great music together, we'll give him a standing ovation?"

"Mm hmm. We're almost there."

"Let me finish by saying this," said Maestro Clark, resting his hand over his heart and channeling his most passionate self, right on Laura's cue. He hit all the obligatory notes: our growing donor base. Community outreach. How we were Oregon's orchestra, not just Portland's. Then he brought it home. "We've never had a better slate of guest artists than we do this year. We have some incredible programs that are going to bring down the house. We are going to make some great music together. So are we ready to get this season started?"

Even though I expected every word, I'd have been lying if I said I wasn't stoked. We broke into fervent applause, with some whistles and cheers thrown in for good measure; a few of the first violinists stood, with the rest of us soon following their lead. Maestro Clark smiled warmly, clasping his hands together at his chest and mouthing a 'thank you' before holding up his right hand—he had more to say. The applause died down within a few seconds.

"Thank you. Thank you again," he said, taking on the majestic tone he'd used earlier in his speech, before he'd gone all football coach on us. "Now before we start our rehearsal in earnest, we have several new musicians in the Oregon Symphony again this season, and as usual I'd like to introduce them and have them say a bit about themselves."

Ahh, yes, new member introductions. I remember my moment in this spotlight last year well. "Hi, I'm Randall Lipsky. I grew up in Pound Ridge, New York. I did both my undergrad and my master's at Eastman, and I played in the Westchester Philharmonic for two years. In my free time, I like to... (painfully long pause)... play the viola." 'Does this guy even have a life?', they must have been thinking. So much for making a good first impression.

"So first up," Maestro Clark continued, "joining our second violin section is Aaron Birnbaum. Aaron?" A lanky young man stood to speak.

I opened a blank document on my phone and listened intently to each introduction as I typed away; yes, I was taking notes. This was a concept Kristen called a 'Friend File', where you gather information about anyone you meet, and that becomes the basis for future interactions with that person, where you ask more questions and learn even more about them. The process required some effort and commitment, but it had helped me forge some enduring friendships in my first year in Portland—no easy feat. Who was I to argue with results like that?

Aaron happens to be my middle name, so I wouldn't forget him. Recently engaged. Tall. Skinny. Goatee. Hair in a ponytail.

Kellie, first violin. Married with two daughters and a golden retriever. Shoulder-length platinum-blonde hair. About forty.

Marc "with a 'c'", double bass. Four kids. Restoring a '76 Corvette with his oldest son. Stocky and imposing. Bald as a billiard ball. Glasses.

Jonathan, trumpet. Roughly my age. Handsome, with an athletic build. Plays basketball. Gleaming white teeth. Seriously, I'd kill for a smile like that. 

Maestro Clark turned to face the low strings. "And finally, new to the cello section this year is Colette Zhang. Colette, please tell us a little about yourself."

"Hi everyone, my name is Colette," said a small yet self-assured voice. "I'm so happy to be here in the Oregon Symphony. I come from Hong Kong originally, but I moved to the U.S. three years ago and got my master's at San Francisco Conservatory. I love to go to nightclubs with my friends and go out to eat." She paused for a second or two, as though she was mining the recesses of her mind for one last bit of information to share. 

"And my favorite food is French fries."

That line elicited some friendly chuckles from the orchestra, but I added it to my Friend File document. Loves French fries. You never know when such details will come in handy. 

I looked up so I could register Colette's appearance and make some notes on it. Soft, youthful face. Probing brown eyes. Radiant smile, complete with dimples. Long, lustrous dark brown hair...

Streaked with hot pink!

"Well, well," said Laura, tilting her head toward me and drawing out her words. "Ain't she a doll?"