Trumpet Song

"Wash your face with humor, not anger." - Papa

HELLO, DEAR READER: Several years ago I completed this, my very first story. It won first place in a Chicago-area writing competition, thus fueling my love of writing, particularly quirky characters. Recently, I have turned this story into a short screenplay, which will appear in an upcoming post. Thanks for reading! -J.P. MacKenzie

Trumpet Song

The slow service here at Cal’s Coffee Shop makes me happy. I need lots more time to choose from this menu. Oh wait. I spoke too soon. Miss Perky Face is coming to me right now.

“And what would you like?” asks Miss Perky.

I’m suddenly feeling hot. I haven’t chosen yet. Should it be the hamburger or the taco plate? Which one, which one? I look at her zesty smile and want to scream. And, since she’s here at the table I can’t send her away. I have to order now. That’s the rule. MY rule.

Wait. I notice she’s not wearing a name tag! It comes to me, a very sweet solution! I’ll get Miss Perky Face’s real name... If it has an ‘H’ in it, I’ll order the Hamburger; a ‘T’ and I’ll go with the Taco plate. I chuckle aloud. What an excellent idea! Oh wait. A whispering question just whizzed through my brain, trying to punch a hole into my name idea. It’s saying “What if her name is like yours, NaTHan? What if her name is BerTHa…or, perhaps HeaTHer?” I whisper back, “If there’s BOTH letters, I’ll get one of EACH! Plain and simple!”

“Do – you need more time, perhaps, Sir?” says Perky, interrupting my thought process. I glare at her for a few moments, then let my whole face change into a smile.

“What’s your name?” I ask. She smiles back, raising her eyebrows so high they completely disappear under those blonde bangs.

“It’s… Wanda.” That is not a good name. Not good at all. I take a deep breath.

“Middle name, please?” Now her eyebrows have moved ridiculously close to her eyes. She shifts her face a bit to the left, but keeps looking right at me.

“It’s – it’s Eileen. Why?” She’s making me mad.

“And what,” I’m almost unable to get the words out. “What is your last name?” She swallows hard, now looking distinctly less perky.

“Now why would you need to know that?” She waits for her answer with a puckered-up mouth, like she just tasted a lemon. I give her the look Papa used to call the “demon stare,” then speak slowly, to help her understand.

“I just need to know before I can order, see?” I fold my hands tightly and place them in front of me. “What is your last name, please.”

She replies just as slowly, doing that eyebrow-to-the-eyes trick again. “It’s Ryan. But, I’m just puzzled why you need to know.” Ryan!!, my brain screams. RYAN!!

“You have got to control that temper, Nathan. Not everyone knows those crazy rules of yours."

“Well, quite simply, I cannot eat at this establishment,” I inform her, my voice surprisingly soft. Then my right hand gets in on the action and slaps the dull wooden tabletop. It stings like crazy. “I can’t eat at this lousy place!” Now I’m shouting and everyone is looking at me. I gotta get out of here.

I grab my trumpet and music stand, both waiting so patiently next to me, then rush out, almost bumping into Miss Perky Face. Now I gotta wait until tomorrow to eat. That’s the rule. MY rule.

I report back to the corner, my Friday Afternoon corner. Some music playing will help me to calm down. Miss Perky’s face is in my mind, then right along next to her comes the sweet face of my Papa, speaking like he was still alive. “You have got to control that temper, Nathan. Not everyone knows those crazy rules of yours.” He says ‘rules’ in a silly voice. “Wash your face with humor, Nathan. Not anger.” Things like that he was always telling me.

I can feel I’m wearing a sad face now. Better hurry with the music. I pull out my rusted old music stand. Putting it together takes lots of bending and pulling at to get it just right. I remove the music selections from my pocket. I have just two pieces of music, but they sure are good ones. Classics. I’m never sure which one to play first, but I know exactly what to do. I watch the people rushing by. If I catch the eye of a man-person first, and he returns my smile I’ll start with “Ride the A-Train.” If it’s a woman-person who smiles first, I’ll play “Fly Me to the Moon."

I watch the faces pass me. Nobody looks. Oh, here come those two ladies I see a lot. They’re both looking at me. I give them a big smile.

“Oh, he’s back,” says Miss Red Raincoat. She is making a face that looks nothing like a smile.

“At least he’s not emitting any noises yet,” replies Lady Long-Hair, cupping her hand to her mouth as in a whisper, but speaking quite loudly. “Let’s hurry and get inside!”

Red Raincoat rolls her large brown eyes right up like she’s trying to spot a bug in those curls on her head. “As if we can’t hear him from inside. My window faces this street!” Then she turns those eyes loose on me. They are bullets. “I swear,” she hisses, “I can’t take it. NOBODY can!” They disappear through the door on my right.

A funny feeling comes into my stomach. I look at my horn, then run my hand over its dull curves. This horn sure sang out music, smooth as silk when Papa used to play her. I know I’m no good at reading the music, but I try and trying is all a man can do. Besides, the money can be o.k. Some days anyway. My head moves up, away from the horn, then my eyes follow, looking for that smile to get me started. A fine-looking gentleman tips his hat at me. He is almost smiling! That counts. I put the music for “Ride the A-Train” onto the stand. It’s as soft as tissue and keeps flopping over. I stop playing four or five times to flip it back up again, then give up and just keep hitting the notes I think I need to hit.

Soon I hear the clank of a coin in my cup. My heart does a little dance. Then there are more clanks. People are paying to hear me play! It’s hard not to smile, but I can’t do that until I’ve finished the song. Another rule.

A couple approaches, the woman digging into her mammoth-sized leather handbag. “Oh, don’t do that,” teases her walking companion, Mr. Mighty Muscle. “You’ll only encourage him!”

“Stop it!” snickers Lady Leather Bag. She gives me a dollar, but my heart doesn’t dance this time. Do they think I can’t hear them? I stop playing and watch them walk away. I push the little button that empties the spit from my horn, then pull out the other music to put onto the stand.

The door on my right opens. Out step those two ladies again, Miss Red Raincoat (she’s not wearing it for some reason, but her arms are folded like she’s cold and wishing she were!) and Lady Long Hair. They do not march on past as usual, but stop right in front of me. I play a few more notes, specially loud and clear for them, then stop for the way they’re looking at me. Four lasers, it feels like, two blue and two brown. Red Raincoat speaks first. “We would like to make you an offer on that trumpet.” I don’t understand what she means. I stare at her, waiting for understanding to come to me. She points up to the building behind me. “We, up there,” she says. “The third floor, thirty-two of us. We had a collection to buy that horn. I think you will like what he have here!”

Lady Long Hair holds out an envelope. “Please take this,” she says. “PLEEEASE!” They look at each other strangely, like they can’t decide if they want to smile or not. “Let us relieve you of that trumpet. How long would it take you to make this much?” She opens the crisp white envelope to reveal a heap of bills thicker than yesterday’s cheese sandwich. “Here is $198,” continues Lady Long. “It’s all yours if you give us the horn.”

I scratch my head. My heart is a rapidly beating bongo. Twenty-five years I’ve been alive, and I don’t think I’ve ever held such a stack of money like that in the palm of my hand. It would take a long time to make that, for sure. But wait! I look down at the only thing that really meant beans to Papa. How he loved this horn. But then again… I mean THAT kind of money! I certainly don’t have any rule for this kind of thing.

My eyes won’t stop moving. Suddenly my left hand makes the decision for me and grabs the envelope from Lady Long Hair. She reaches right back for the trumpet. There’s a thick, kind of clouded-up feeling in my chest as I let go. She holds my Papa’s beloved horn in a strange way, using just her thumb and two fingers. Those two ladies look at each other, showing lots of teeth and nodding wildly. “Successssss!” one of them whispers.

They scurry through the door leading back up the stairs to the third floor. But wait—the case! I pull the door open and stick my head inside. “WAIT!” I holler, holding up the trumpet case. “She’ll need this!” Miss Red Raincoat is out of sight, but Lady Long Hair just turns to look, then continues along as if she didn’t even hear me.

I miss the feel of that horn instantly. The crisp white envelope suddenly feels like a hot potato and I wouldn’t mind just tossing it into the gutter. But I don’t. I feel awful and start walking fast to see if I can leave this bad feeling behind me. Each person I pass seems to be right in my way, bumping into me no matter how much I weave through the crowd. I find myself running, running the whole fourteen blocks back home with that empty horn case beating against my thigh, mad at me for what I did. I don’t go sit with Mama, just run straight back to the room she lets me rent real cheap. I throw my body onto the bed. I gotta think.

In no time it’s all clear in my mind: I gotta get Papa’s trumpet back and feel like Nathan again. I’ll go back to those ladies now and explain. They’ll say ‘well okay’ or something like that, then they’ll turn around and trot right up those stairs to get my horn and bring her on back to me. We will all nod with serious faces and do the deed. Then those ladies will go and give everyone on that third floor their money back. ‘Here you go’ Lady Long Hair will say to each person.

But wait. What if they say no about giving me what is really mine anyway? This part is hard to play with in my mind. Just thinking about it makes the anger flit about so fast I have to bury my face in my hands. But what if they DO say no? I look to the ceiling. “What if they say no, Papa?” I close my eyes and listen. His words always come through if I let them.

And I hear his voice…he’s telling me to go to the top shelf of the closet. To the box. “But Papa,” I whisper, “You always told me that I should put that wicked thing away and never use it. That I could do serious damage to someone with it…” But his voice is gone. I have my orders.

I head to the closet, pulling hard on the squeaky door. I push my desk chair right inside and hold on tight to the back as I stand on it. It’s still hard to reach the box at the back of the shelf, but I get onto my toes and do the Big Reach. My hand dives into the box, pushing away all the baseball cards on top. Bingo. I wrap my hand around the cool, smooth steel, and lift it out of the box real carefully. In a minute I’m heading back out with my hands in my pockets, the right one holding tightly to something that probably never should have left my closet. I walk back to my Friday Afternoon corner to wait for those ladies.

They come out the door at 5:01, together of course, and start walking the other way. I jog up to them and grab Miss Red Raincoat on the sleeve. She turns quickly. “Oh, you scared me!” What do you want NOW?” she asks. They both keep walking, so I catch the stride and walk along side of them.

“See, listen up,” I say. I didn’t have any kind of rule in place about selling or not selling anything, especially my Pop’s trumpet.” They look at me, two faces kind of screwed up like there’s a bad smell under both those noses. They’re walking slowly now. I tell them more, “I sold that horn to you and now I feel sad. Real sad. I feel like I sold you my arm or a leg or something.” They look at each other, then stop walking. Lady Long Hair sighs. “I want to buy it back.” I’m talking fast now. “I got the envelope right here, didn’t even buy a cup of coffee.”

We all stop in the middle of the sidewalk and stare at each other for a long moment. My heart is feeling lighter already. Yes, I can see it –- they’re both just about to smile and say yes! I start spreading my mouth into a Thank-you kind of grin.

“Not…a…chance,” says Miss Red Raincoat. Lady Long Hair looks down at her shoes. Red continues. “We’ve put up with that so-called music for five months and will not subject ourselves to it anymore! Use the money for music lessons, Mister. But forget the trumpet. It’s already hanging on the bulletin boar-, oh, never mind! Now leave us alone!”

Something strong starts to stir inside of me. I hear the voice of my Papa but it’s hard to make out just what he’s saying cause it’s like there’s a real storm in there. My head shakes side to side to side as my fingers wrap themselves real tight around the heavy steel cylinder in my pocket. My index finger rests on the switch.

“Don’t make me have to use this!” I shout, wiggling my hand to get the thing out of my pocket. Both ladies look at me with faces paler than the envelope I’m trying to return. Their eyes are huge. I finally get the darned thing out and point the large end at Miss Red Raincoat’s face, my voice sounding very loud and strong. “THIS”, I give it a shake, “IS YOUR FAULT!” They both look at my hand and breathe out like they’d been holding their breath for a week or something. Then Lady Long Hair and Miss Red Raincoat both start laughing, like really hard.

My finger flicks the switch. It is on. I bring the cordless microphone to my mouth. “O.K.” I say, as I give them a show of teeth. “Papa always said that compared to THIS, my trumpeting sounds like a fine, smooth jazz…”

My song begins. “Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars…”

And just like that, with a smile and an off-key melody, humor kicked anger to the curb.