Monday, November 15, 2010

wind in the tree tops

I was left behind at 11. Forsaken. At Summer band, we finished practice and waited for our rides in front of the brownstone school on a side of town that seemed a completely different city. One by one, my fellow band mates slammed trunks holding trumpets, trombones, french horns, while skinny girls in over-sized t-shirts held tiny clarinet and flute alligator cases with both hands, tight on their laps in front seats, waving goodbye to me sitting near the yellow curb at the sidewalk on my gray alto sax case. I waved back and fell over.

Soon they were gone and all was silent. Except, I was drawn by a marvelous sound of rushing water, and looking up saw the green waves against a clear blue sky. I did not panic at first. The Band leader, seeing his #2 chair sax player alone, drove around the block twice like a pedophile casing an elementary school. I assured him nervously that my ride was near, on the way. I waited and did not panic. At the forty-five minute mark I started to shiver as the water falls above grew louder.

Hauling my instrument case with sharp metal edges, I walked across the street, probably resembling a door to door vacuum cleaner salesman, and approached a creepy house that was a splitting image of The Munster's from Thursday nights on CBS, right before Gilligan's Island.
So, I imagined I was stranded on an island, since my sax case would not float anyway, water would just seep into the case and flood into the cushioned open ports of my saxophone, and I was gonna sink, goodbye cruel world.

A pretty blond answered the door, that's Marilyn check, no seven foot bumbling monster. She welcomed me like I was going to stay for dinner, I said no thanks, can I use your phone please? My brother answered the phone and said Mom forgot me and was on her way. He asked me where I was phoning from, and I said The Munsters automatically, softly, so the pretty blond would not hear. There was complete silence on the line and then I heard a click.

She bought me the best fountain Coke an 11 year-old ever had on the way home. The biggest cup, sweetest blackest fuzzing kick in the cloudiest ice. All the way home she said she was sorry, having so much on her mind, so much to do. I had my first adult thought then. I kept thinking this is the last person on Earth that needs to be apologizing to me.


Blogger Cad said...

Another intriguing story. I like the way your mind works...

11/18/2010 2:28 PM  

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