I’m not even going to bother explaining this, it’s a story. Enjoy.
For a time, I went to a different school. My father had found it a simple transition, since he had always worked at the school anyway. Now all he needed to do was drive to one destination, and he had accounted for both his transportation needs and mine.
Naturally, I had different feelings on the matter. I was a little taken aback by the size of the classroom: it had more than twice the number of students to which I had become accustomed, and that classroom did not even hold the entire grade. It was also a confusing ordeal, to walk between classes at this new school. I even missed the uniforms that my old school had required us to wear.
You could say that I was an oddball back then. I have not altered that characteristic over the years. I did not really mind my perplexing personality, as long as I could be successful in school, and as long as I had friends.
The first friend I made in these foreign surroundings was a fellow named
Tyler. Looking back on it now, I cannot really understand why we were friends. We were opposites in almost every way. He preferred being relaxed and laid back, while I chose a regulated, tenser lifestyle. I was a proponent of academics (and I strove to maintain the point), while he was content with wandering through life at a pace totally his own.
In that school district, music was a mandatory class, not just a suggestion. Almost everyone in my hour was struggling to recall names of various notes and where in the clef they belonged. Perhaps I knew a little too much about music, because the teacher (in admirable attempt to get the oil to the squeaky wheel) finally put me aside after a few rounds of read-the-note. She sat me down in front of a computer with music creation tools, and instructed me to compose anything. I caught Tyler’s eye. He shrugged, his expression of amusement.
Now I was, regardless of how much I hated to admit it, as stumped as anyone. The faint smell of static electricity wafted from the startled screen. I could hear the inside of the computer now, gears crunching together as I attempted to utilise the program. “It” seemed to take my every command as a sarcastic joke, backtracking two steps for every inch of progress I made. In frustration, I eventually cried “uncle” and went to observe the rest of my class.
The hour wrapped up, though none too soon. There was only one more period that day, after which I could run (some things never change) to my father’s classroom and use computers in a way I did understand – through games.
A surprise awaited me, however. When I arrived at my father’s classroom, the door was closed and locked. My piano book bag sat at the foot of the door, waiting patiently. I picked it up from the ground and headed to the place I hoped had musical instruments.
Here it is another piano just like any other one and my books in a bag just dump them out and grab the first one put it on the piano open straighten look read put my hands to the keys and play.
I have absolutely no idea what I was playing at the time, mostly because it really didn’t matter. Beautiful and simple music echoed around the small room, bouncing from every wall and occasionally crawling out, unnoticed, through a small crack under the door.
A janitor must have heard me, for he opened the door, allowing a whoosh of air into the room. I turned to meet the newcomer.
“That’s excellent work,” said he. “How long have you been playing?”
“It’s only been a year – not even.”
I’m about to say more, but he interrupts. “It’s a rare thing in this school to hear the sound of a piano. It’s been maybe even five or six years since someone last taught that instrument. The school board said that it was just severely difficult to maintain, and consumed too much space.”
“My parents’ friends always told me that the piano was too large an instrument for me to carry around, too,” I replied. “But I found that wherever I go, there’s already a piano there, waiting to be played.”
“Good point.” He smiled. “Who taught you that mindset?”
“Say what?”
“I mean, who’s your piano teacher?”“
Oh, he’s Mr. Lueptow, but you probably wouldn’t know him because he’s from…”
“Lueptow, you say? Then he’s the same person that used to teach piano here!”We talked there a little longer, lingering on the connection that had brought us together. All too soon, it was time for him to get back to work. Before he left, thought, his last statement caught me off-guard: “Never stop playing the piano. You’ll be glad you put forth the effort someday.”
I remember his statement as I sit here now, breathing the aroma of coffee. I relax my grip on the Styrofoam cup in my hand and turn my attention to the voices around me. All the sounds of chatter are indistinct and woven together; indecipherable by all except the people engaged in conversation. It is a small church but a social one. A person or two have already come up to me, said “Thank you, thank you,” or, “Excellent job.” And what could I say in response? I nod, smile, and tell them that it’s what I enjoy to do.
Now someone else distinguishes their voice from the jumble. “That was good work, but I was expecting you to play some more classical music, just like when you biked here last time.” One or two more murmur in quiet agreement. I take another sip of coffee: strong, sweet warmth flows through my body.
I remember Tyler. After the year I met him, I never saw him again. I remembered the computer game that I played that year. I’ve moved on since then, becoming a programmer instead of a gamer. As for my school, I did not even attend it the next year. Now there is only one thing that remains from my memories that has stood the test of time.I arise and stroll to the embattled old piano.And I play.
Posted by Robert 
Posted by Robert 
Posted by Robert 
