I never learned to play a musical instrument. I had friends that played instruments. It wasn't so much that I was jealous of their ability. I was more in awe and filled with admiration for what they could do. Okay, okay... maybe I was a little jealous.
Some of my friends were forced to take piano lessons, sitting for endless hours at that huge piece of furniture in their quiet living room while some Aunt Bee look-alike tutor who probably took lessons from Beethoven himself, sternly expounded on proper finger positioning. (Oh, don't even!) Others voluntarily sought instruction on the much-cooler guitar, envisioning themselves the next George Harrison — much to the chagrin of their parents and their parents' wallet. Then, there were those who got free music lessons and a free instrument, all while legitimately being excused from class. These lucky kids were members of my elementary school orchestra. And I wanted in!
The kids in the orchestra had a certain elitist air about them. They carried those ominous black cases at all times — on the bus, through the halls, in the lunchroom. The cases were of various sizes. Some were like a second, protective shield for the instrument within, like the distinctive shape of a violin case. Others yielded only a partial clue as to the identity of the musical gear inside. A plain oblong case was pretty mysterious until you saw the large flared bell-like extension at one end, obviously betraying the trombone contained in its interior. The kids themselves were set apart from the rest of their classmates. They frequently used unfamiliar terms discussed at their sequestered practices and laughed at in-jokes understood only by those who were able to decipher sheet music and produce a pleasing (or sometimes not-so-pleasing) sound from a stringed or reeded inanimate object. All that was fascinating — but I was more interested in just playing a musical instrument and skipping class.
I knew full well that my parents weren't going to spring for a guitar or piano or any musical instrument, for that matter. But, a free instrument and free lessons were just their style. So, the day my teacher announced that Mr. Simmons, the resident music teacher and orchestra leader, would be holding open enrollment to join the orchestra, I paid extra close attention. She explained that a note from a parent was all that would be required for permission to miss some class time for — what was apparently — an audition. The prospect of playing a musical instrument was all I could think about for the rest of the day. That and recess and lunch.
As soon as I arrived home that day, I ran to my mom as excited as I've ever been. I blurted out all about music lessons and joining the orchestra and getting my own instrument. I asked my mom for a note for Mr. Simmons and stood close by as she wrote one out in her lovely, distinctive handwriting on her small, rose-embellished stationery. "Please allow Josh to play the..." she began. Then her pen came to a halt.
"What do you want to play?," my mom turned to me and asked.
"The clarinet.," I replied. I don't know why. I had no real affinity for the clarinet. I didn't know or admire any one who played the clarinet. It just popped into my head.
My mom didn't question. She didn't even bat an eye. She just completed the note, folded it in half and placed it in my outstretched hand. I immediately put it carefully into my schoolbag lest I forget the next morning while I was rushing through my breakfast.
"Sit." he said and, instinctively, everyone quickly and silently selected one of the wooden chairs arranged around his outer office. He pointed to one of my classmates — a girl in a plaid dress and a matching flouncy ribbon in her hair. She followed him into his inner office and the door closed behind them. We heard nothing except the shuffling of our own feet on the floor or a soft squeak when some shifted in their chair. Soon, the door opened and the girl bounded out — a big smile on her face and a small, faux lizard case in her hand. A case that I recognized as one used to hold a disassembled flute. A boy with freckles and a crewcut was summoned next. When he emerged from Mr. Simmons' office a few moments later, he was holding a large-format, scholastic-looking booklet in his hand and sporting a pair of long, blond wood drumsticks in his back pocket. Mr. Simmons stood in the doorway and pointed right at me. I rose from my chair and entered his office.
The room was stacked with sheet music in messy piles, books with shiny covers and decorated with stylized drawings of various musical instruments and fragmented examples of brass, stringed and woodwind instruments tucked into corners — dingy and in need of repair. And everything was coated in dust. It seemed the only light in the room was a thin shaft of sunbeam coming through the glass of a painted-shut window. Mr. Simmons was seated at his desk, his chin resting on the fisted end of his bent arm. He squinted at me.
"Pincus... right?" he said, waiting for confirmation. I nodded in the affirmative.
"Okay," he continued, "I'm going to sing two notes. You tell me which is higher."
Again, I nodded.
He opened his mouth and emitted two sustained AHHHHHs that both sounded the same to me. I looked at him. He looked at me.
"Well?," he demanded.
"Um... the first one?," I managed to say. I was guessing.
Mr. Simmons closed his eyes, shook his head and frowned. "No!," he bellowed. Then he said, "We'll try another." I swear to God, he sang the two exact notes one more time. So, suspecting that this frustrated Leonard Bernstein was trying to pull a fast one, I thought I'd outsmart him.
"Second one.," I answered proudly, my chest confidently puffed out.
"You are tone deaf!," he hollered at me — hollered! "Get out of here!" He extended a stubby finger in the general direction of the door. This was the 1960s and faculty addressing the student body in this manner was not only acceptable, but it was commonplace. I hung my head and sheepishly slunk my way out of his office and out of my life as a concert musician.
A few months ago, I joined a Facebook group made up of people who attended my elementary school. I reconnected with a woman who I knew from high school, but only slightly remember from before that. Although I am a year older than she, we did attend the same elementary school and even had some of the same teachers. We got to chatting and reminiscing. I asked if she remembered the music teacher and I refreshed her memory by relating the story I just told. She actually help me remember the teacher's name, which I had somehow blocked form my memory. Then, it occurred to me that the incident took place over fifty years ago and I remember it vividly, as if it happened yesterday.
I suppose it's time to let it go. Now if I only had some musical accompaniment to play me out.
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