My audition landed me in the first chair of the woodwind section. That meant that I was playing along with flutes, clarinets, and oboes. I was the only saxophone. They all sat in a semi-circle facing the trumpets and trombones, and gave me a funny look when I sat down. I didn't see anyone I knew in the orchestra. They were all new faces to me.
"I'd like to introduce you to our newest member," Mr. Leonard said, "This is Junior Okabayashi." He pointed at me, and I sort of bowed a little, blushing. Then everyone did a strange thing where they kind of stomped their feet lightly under their seats. I guess that was the orchestra's way of saying hello. "Well, enough of the formalities," said Mr. Leonard. "Let's get down to work. Open your folders and take out the Winchester March. We'll start with that today."
I fumbled around the music folder in front of me and fished out a sheet of music with "Winchester March" printed at the top. What was I supposed to do next? Mr. Leonard tapped his baton, and everyone straightened up, ready to play. I followed along, pretending I knew what I was doing. It was apparent that we were going to play this song, and I didn't know how to read a note of music.
"Here we go, one, and two, and three, and four," counted Mr. Leonard. On four, the band started up like a car, and I took a deep breath and blew. This time, no flowing notes came out of my saxophone. Just a loud and horrible cow moan.
"Broonnnkkkk!"
Everyone stopped playing, and stared at me in amazement. Then they all broke out laughing. They laughed so hard that it took three or four minutes before Mr. Leonard could quiet them down. I was almost in tears. The joke of the century.
"Quiet, quiet down everbody," Mr. Leonard shouted, banging his baton against his stand. He looked at me, confused. "Junior, what happened? You played so beautifully yesterday. Is everything all right?"
"No sir," I stammered, trying to avoid the looks from the rest of the band. "I've never read music before."
"You're kidding me!" he exclaimed. "I thought you had been playing for years! You mean you've never had a music lesson?"
"No sir."
"Well I'll be...." he said, scratching his head. "Then today is your first lesson, son. You just sit there, and listen to the rest of us. Listen real carefully to the way the parts fit together. We'll have you fixed up in no time." He tapped his baton again, and the group started up. I sat there like a dummy, trying to listen to the way the parts fit together. It seemed to me I could hear a flute twittering around like a bird, and the trombones barked at her like a dog. The clarinets chirped like chipmonks, and the trumpets stampeded in and out of the song like horses. It was a nice march, full of enthusiasm and power, but I couldn't join in. I was just a stupid idiot. I couldn't read music. It was so humiliating.
After class, Mr. Leonard stopped me and handed me some music books. "I want you to look at these tonight," he said. "Memorize everything, and don't worry about the other kids. You'll catch up soon enough." He patted me on the shoulder, and I ran off to my next class. Music was going to be much harder than I expected.
That night, I spent hours and hours poring over the music books. I learned that each black dot had a name, and that certain squiggles meant to stop, and that others meant to go. It was a little like the traffic. Sometimes when you got to the end of the road, you could turn around and go back. It didn't seem too difficult. I imagined that reading music was like reading a treasure map. Each marking was a secret clue to a hidden treasure.
I sat in music class the entire week, holding my saxophone quietly on my lap. I didn't dare to play a note. I just watched the little black dots go by on the music stand, trying to guess which way the traffic was flowing. I learned that some notes were faster than others, and that when you dropped a piano down a coal chute, you'd get A flat minor. I even learned that Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge. These were the names of the lines across the page. I sat there and listened and listened, and each day, Mr. Leonard gave me a private lesson, and some more books to take home. One of the books he gave me had a picture of a saxophone in it with arrows pointing to all the pearly keys. I examined the diagram carefully, and realized that by pressing certain combinations of keys, I could make my own notes. It really was a treasure map. Each marking was a clue! Since I had learned the names of the notes, all I had to do was press the right keys, and I could play music too! This revelation carried me around like a hot air balloon for the rest of the day. I even skipped my usual lunchtime marble game with Larry and Randy, and hung around the band room gazing at my treasure map. Nothing was more important to me now than learning how to play the saxophone.
After school, I ran into Robbie. He was one of my best buddies ever. Robbie was hitting a can around with a stick.
"Hey Junior," he said.
"Hey Robbie," I said back.
"What's that you're dragging along?"
"Oh that's Cleo, my new saxophone."
"What a saxophone?" he asked, studying the case.
"It's a musical instrument. You wanna see?"
"Yeah sure," he said, excited.
We sat down under the school flag, and I opened the case proudly for Robbie to see.
"Oh man, that's neat," he said. "Can I touch it?"
"No way," I said. "You'll break it."
"No I won't."
"Yes you will."
"No I won't. I promise," he pleaded. "Just let me touch it." Then he dug around in his jeans and pulled out a Catfish Hunter baseball card. "I'll give you this if you let me." He waved the card in front of my face.
"Yeah right." I said. "You're lying."
"No really. I'll trade you Catfish Hunter if you let me touch it."
"Really?" I ventured, feeling myself breaking down. That would be a pretty good trade. Besides, Robbie was my best buddy, and Catfish was my all-time favorite pitcher.
Catfish Hunter pitched for the Oakland A's, and sported a big curlicue mustache. Whenever Robbie and I played baseball in my backyard, I'd be Catfish Hunter, and Robbie would be Pete Rose. I'd stand by the birdbath, spit into the rosebushes, and give Robbie the cold evil eye. Catfish always gave the best cold evil eye. Then I'd work the ball furiously into my glove, and take a spiteful look over to first base. We usually used a garbage can lid for first. Once the invisible base runner was secured, I'd windup with my dreaded knuckleball. The strike zone was outlined in chalk on the garage door, and the distance between us was as looming as any major league diamond. Robbie waved his bat over his head, and waited anxiously for the pitch. I let go with all my might, and the knuckleball zoomed towards Robbie. There was a sudden shattering of green felt, as Robbie connected with the tennis ball, and the ball sailed high across the fence, clear over Mrs. Norman's yard, crashing right through Mrs. Peterson's kitchen window.
"The last time I was Catfish Hunter," I said, "I got into trouble. And it was all your fault."
"Oh yeah? It was your fault too," Robbie said. "You were the pitcher."
"Yeah, but you hit it," I argued. I got grounded for two weeks over that incident, and I didn't want any more trouble with Robbie.
"So are we gonna trade or what?" he asked, brushing the matter aside.
"You can touch it for ten seconds," I said, grabbing the card, and let Robbie put his hand inside the case. "But you can't take her out."
"You're a worry wart," he laughed, and grabbed Cleo away from me. Then he jumped back and forth with her, dancing around the flagpole, making stupid tooting noises. He tossed his head this way and that. He puffed his cheeks and bugged his eyes like a frog.
"Look, I can play!" he said, bouncing around.
"Don't!" I pleaded. "You're gonna break it!"
"No I won't. No I won't," he smirked, running faster and faster around the pole. Just then, his foot caught on a crack in the sidewalk, and Robbie tumbled to the ground, sending Cleo flying up in the air. She smashed down onto the pavement, bending like a hose.
"You broke it!" I screamed, running over to pick up my crumpled saxophone.
"No I didn't!" Robbie said defensively.
"Yes you did, you idiot. Look!" I showed him my Cleo all bent up like a pipe cleaner. I started to cry. "What am I gonna do now?"
Robbie didn't wait around long enough to answer. He ran off as fast as he could down the street. So I sat there, dumbfounded, holding Cleo in my arms. I didn't know what to do. Finally, I put her back into the case, and dragged her home, crying all the way.
When I got home, Grandpa asked me what was wrong.
"Why are you crying, Junior?"
"Robbie broke my saxophone," I told him, rubbing my nose.
"Oh no. Not that Robbie kid again." He shook his head,and gave me a sad look. "Don't worry, it'll be fine. Why don't you go downstairs and clean up?"
"Okay," I mumbled, and carried Cleo to my bedroom. I washed my hands and face, and heard Grandpa behind me.
"Your saxophone looks all right to me, Junior," he said. He had opened the case and was examining Cleo under the light. "Are you sure it's broken?" he asked.
"It was all twisted up and bent," I told him. "Robbie dropped it on the ground, and it looked like a pretzel."
"Well, I'm no expert in these things, but I can't see where your saxophone is bent at all." He handed me the saxophone. "Why don't you look for yourself?"
He was right. Nothing was bent or broken! It was like Cleo was brand new. She gleamed like before. Even brighter. Could she have fixed herself somehow? Or maybe I was dreaming?
"Gee, I guess it's okay then," I said, confused.
"You see, there was nothing to worry about," Grandpa smiled. "Why don't you go on and practice for a while? I want to hear something more than those squeaks and squawks you've been making. "
He left me alone in my room, and I re-examined Cleo thoroughly looking for any signs of damage. Very strange. Everything was fine. It was as if nothing had happened at all. I thought I was going nuts. What was happening?
<< Previous Chapter 4 | Chapter 6 Next >>