I
On a Friday night, some time ago, Mr. Jonathan L. Dawson and Mr. Robert J. Ferguson ate dinner together at the Capital Grille. The two men discussed the local theatrical scene, matters relating to the school at which Mr. Dawson was the principal, and Mr. Ferguson’s family. Mr. Ferguson was finishing a lengthy monologue on the latter when the waiter came to take away their entrees. Mr. Dawson wore a charmed smile on his face.
Mr. Ferguson was a tall and well-built man. A patch of thinning hair sat in the middle of his head, and he was dressed in khakis and a white button down. He was clean shaven, and when he laughed his whole body shook and his face turned a deep red. He was from quite a wealthy family, and as a result of his father regarding what does and does not make a young boy proper and high class, he had taken piano lessons since he was three. As a frequent patron of the opera, ballet, and symphony, Mr. Ferguson considered himself to be a man of the arts. Just that November he had made a large and charitable donation to Chesterford, the school at which Mr. Dawson had spent the better part of his career.
As his companion commended the waiter on the excellent food, and the two brandies, Mr. Dawson thought of the check, and of money—they had eaten well that night. Mr. Dawson was liked by most. He kept his opinions from all but his wife, was amicable with the students, and in talking with those from his professional life, would wrap himself in the teachings, and pedagogy of prior headmasters, hoping to come off as agreeable. Tonight, his mouth took its usual expression of vague amusement, but his eyes were tired, and he longed to go home. He thought about how much this whole rotten dinner would cost, and as he cast his mind back to earlier courses, he wondered whether Mr. Ferguson would pick up the check.
Later that night, after the brandies had been drunk, the topic of Mr. Ferguson’s donation came up. And when the topic was further advanced to the matter of how the school would spend the money, Mr. Ferguson said:
“You know Johnny, I want to make it clear—the school board is free to do with my donation as they please. I’m not looking to have my name on a wall or anything like that. If you, or the school board, deem it should be used for a new batch of school buses, or something of that sort, I will take no offense, none in the slightest, and I will still be exceedingly happy that I can be of service to an institution that I so value and so adore.”
And seeing that his point had been made, Mr. Ferguson added:
“You know how much I love that place, don’t you? Of course… you do too…excellent school.”
Mr. Dawson knew what would happen next, and the predictability of it all repulsed him. And as he stared at Mr. Ferguson’s meaty red face and beady eyes, he suddenly pictured himself saying:
“Yes, well I’m sure the school board already knows this, and will appreciate your continued devotion.”
The thought of this impertinence delighted him, and his mind continued to revel in such scenarios of insubordination. Finally, he imagined himself, in a moment of passion, catapulting up from the chair, saying something vulgar, and marching off, as the loathsome man sputtered and shouted after him. A genuine smile crept onto his face.
But this moment passed. He thought back to the years he spent at the college for education, and he recalled the public school he had taught at afterwards, as he frequently did when he thought of these things, and he felt privileged and grateful. A sense of satisfaction overtook him. Afterall, it was part of the headmaster’s duty to see that the interests of the donors were met. And so, he thanked Mr. Ferguson for his generosity, and said:
“Now that is all well and good, but how would you see it fit to spend the money?”
And Mr. Ferguson, delighted by this response, offhandedly replied that, being a man of the arts, he would probably put it to something artistic in nature, perhaps something pertaining to music, as he had always considered music to be his life’s mistress.
One week later, the school board announced the construction of the Robert J. Ferguson Music Rooms.
II
Although Landry Thompson’s body was in the music rooms, his mind was somewhere else. He barely noticed that his guitar was out of tune, and despite its tangy feel, he didn’t bother to tune it. Its sounds seemed to mesh perfectly with his thoughts. Only the ticking of the clock kept him grounded within the physical world, as he was so completely immersed in memory that without it, when he returned, even time’s passage would have felt unfamiliar.
He was at Berklee. His mind pictured the main building, characterized by its large glass windows, and the sidewalk he stood on, close to the street.
A handful of students stood around a lamppost. They all carried folders, backpacks, and pencils, and a few were already in conversations. He felt eyes on him, and as he scanned his eyes across the group, he was touched by a familiar feeling of nervous excitement. He looked at each of them—their faces, their bags and their folders—and he thought, these people are just like me. At home, when he had imagined himself thinking this, he was put at ease. He had felt a sense of belonging, but now the thought annoyed him, creeping into his skin and pushing up against him. It didn’t go away until the tour guide started talking.
The tour guide had a loud voice and a blurred face that resembled Alan McGinney, the science teacher. He took them into the main building, walked them through hallways and past oak doorways. As they walked, the tour guide told them about classes, teachers, and dormitories, and suddenly a rush of excitement attacked Landry’s gut. He thought of the future—the possibilities! The classes he would take, the ensembles he would be part of… He would practice as much as possible. He could not let it slip away.
Landry sat on an old chair at the entrance of the rooms. He didn’t have class until 1:30, and there were still fifteen minutes until the high schoolers got off for lunch. He had already eaten his sandwich.
He was a big man with a scratchy beard and a squishy face: the years had not been kind to his stature. Every day he wore a pair of faded jeans and a flannel in one of the primary colors. It had seemed to him that in his middle age he had managed to solve the impossible puzzle that is fashion. Until one faculty meeting, he had overheard the young French teacher speaking with Ms. Hubbard. She had come the year prior, and throughout the speakers and the discussion she had remained in the corner of his eye. He had seemed to notice her for the very first time at that faculty meeting. Her long jet black hair and her soft features. As he was leaving, he had seen her and Ms. Hubbard a few steps ahead of him, and he had heard her ask Ms. Hubbard if the “larger music teacher with the facial hair” owned any other shirts besides flannels, because she had never seen him wear anything else. The next morning, he had frantically dug through the closet for one of his father’s old button downs, but his wife had asked him what he was doing. She had told him that she liked his flannels, and that she thought they were cute, and he reluctantly obliged. It didn’t really matter because the music rooms were across the school from the French rooms anyway.
On Fridays, usually after tonal harmony and counterpoint, Landry and Keven Gabriel would drop their stuff off at the dorms and walk down Commonwealth Ave to The Paradise Rock Club. Landry’s mind pictured the club: it was dark, light coming from only the stage, posters were plastered all over the walls. He could most clearly visualize the bathrooms. The faucet was squeaky, the toilet seats uncomfortably low, and crude sketches were scribbled on the walls. The locks on the stall doors were notoriously faulty, and when he went to use the toilet, he would intently stare at the door, dreading someone coming in.
As the club was general admission only, they would usually stand right in the center of the floor, and although he was always on edge, the warmth of the crowd would exhilarate him. When the act started, Kevin would scream, and the chords and notes would wash over him, fully encompassing him, and before the show he would always secretly hope that the band would be bad because when they were good, goosebumps would run up and down his arms, and his thoughts would become unified. He would be tormented for the rest of the night, wondering whether he had that effect on people when he played. After the show they would walk back, and the next day he would hole up in his dorm, fingers running up and down his guitar for hours.
Landry’s memories now seemed unfavorable to him. As his mind wandered, his eyes drifted up to the clock. It was no matter—in five minutes the high schoolers would get off from class, and a group of them would come down here. Then he would be plenty busy. With the open mic coming up he was sure that he’d have to rustle up a few extra guitars and amps from the closet. He figured he’d also be asked to listen to Natasha’s band practice. Alex would need help tuning his guitar, and Noah always wanted to talk to him about Miles Davis or Thelonius Monk. A clique of them ate lunch next to him, and as they talked, he would often find himself interjecting, pointing something out about technique, recounting a story from the past. He could almost hear their irritatingly sardonic voices, and when he looked over to where they would all soon sit, he felt something start to build up inside him.
Oscar Levine had left his guitar leaning up against the wall. He must have forgotten it after the last free period. It was a Fender Stratocaster. The body was purple, and when the light hit it right you could make out a faint rainbow running across its side. It was a truly beautiful instrument—a Christmas present from the boy’s parents, no doubt. Landry could only imagine the sorts of sounds he would have made had he ever gotten the chance to wrap his fingers around a guitar like that. As he remembered how Oscar’s hands had drifted above the frets at the last open mic, the sorts of sounds it had made then, his body began to course with loathing. He nearly choked himself with rage. It infuriated him to think that they would all soon surround him. His fingers came down on the strings of his guitar, and the instrument stuttered and screamed.
By 12:50 a steady stream of students had begun to make its way into the music rooms. With the students came an air of excitement, and the silence, whose sole competitor just moments before had been the slow disciplined clock, was suddenly shattered by a wave of gossip, jokes, and laments. Landry sat motionlessly in his chair, and watched the students pass by. He knew each one of them by name, and some would stop to say hello to him as they passed. However, he still made sure to greet those that didn’t.
Elliot was the first student to arrive. He was a freshman, a lanky boy with orange hair and freckles, and as he approached Landry’s chair he said:
“Mr. Thompson, if you have the time, can I ask you a question about the jazz ensemble auditions?” Landry noticed how the boy seemed to stammer out the words. “I know Noah is already the piano player, but I was wondering if I could still audition, or if you guys maybe had more than one spot…”
Although he already knew the answer, Landry still waited a moment before responding. It was a stupid question. When he did respond, he made as much clear to the boy. They were talking about jazz for Christ’s sake—of course no position is permanent. It wasn’t like Elliot was going to unseat Noah anyways. After the conversation Elliot retreated into one of the rooms, and for the rest of the block, one could faintly hear the sound of his piano tapping out “Autumn Leaves,” and “The Girl from Ipanema” throughout the halls.
As he was still thinking about the question, Landry hardly noticed when Natasha, Alex, and Noah entered the rooms. Landry smelled the tuna on Noah’s sandwich before he saw the boy, for he and Alex were eating their lunches only a few feet away. Natasha sat on the carpet next to them, and she fiddled with the strings of a guitar. Landry found this odd as he knew she didn’t play the instrument. The three teased and joked with each other, and they talked as if he wasn’t there, but Landry could tell by their voices that they were all very much aware of his presence. Natasha said:
“I’m worried about Austin…he’s so bossy, and, I mean… I’m sorry but you’re a better bassist than him Alex, and it’s not even like your main instrument.” Despite the fact that she sang in a lower register, her voice was high pitched, and she spoke with total confidence. “I swear he thinks it’s his song, which it’s not, it’s yours, Noah. I doubt he’s even listened to the band who wrote it…I mean, I’m going to be honest with you Noah, I had no idea who they were before you suggested it…but it’s not like I’m trying to take over the song…Also what’s up with Oscar and his band using 357? I mean 340 also has a drum set so we can still practice there, but I know Mark likes to use it sometimes, and James told me that he was rehearsing today as well.” At this, she turned to Landry. He kept a little slip of paper close to his chair on which he scribbled down who had reserved what room for when. Around the time of the open mic, the rooms filled quickly, and sometimes Landry had to use multiple slips of paper. She said:
“Mr. Thompson, can we have 340 for the next few weeks? Since we’re the closers, I think it’s fair we get to use the room”
Landry had announced the setlist for the school’s annual Open Mic just the previous day. Every year he meticulously crafted the list, making sure that each beginner guitarist, or nervous freshman, was followed by an exciting song, or an experienced player. When it came to the final leg of the show, Landry required perfection. Each song needed to stir up the crowd; every musician had to have paid their dues. This year he had chosen Natasha, Alex, and Noah’s band to be the show’s closer. Naturally they were excited: the open mic was a very big deal at Chesterford.
Landry thought about Natasha’s request. It seemed reasonable enough to him, but what would he say to James, or Mark? He had to be a man about it he supposed. They were his rooms after all; and the closer needed to be perfect. That was music. He told Natasha this, and as she responded to him, he looked at her. She was a conventionally attractive girl, he thought. She had dirty blonde hair that went down to her shoulders, and an intelligent face with light blue eyes. She came down to the rooms almost every free period, sometimes even after school, so Landry spoke to her often. He had noticed how she seemed to have few female friends, though she was at the center of a group of rather awkward spotty boys. Landry figured that they all probably had crushes on her.
After they finished eating their lunches, Natasha, Alex, and Noah disappeared into 340 to practice their song, and Landry slipped back into thought.
He stood on a stage. In his arms he held a jet black guitar, one hand ran up and down the frets lining its neck, while the other clenched a pick, plucking at the strings of its base. Bright lights filled his eyes, through them he could faintly make out a sea of people, pulsing with every motion his fingers made. His heart beat fast, but he wasn’t nervous. In two measures it was the solo. He reared back the guitar…there it was! His fingers began to dance across the instrument, and he felt the notes reverberate in his bones. The lights beat down, and the crowd pulsed and throbbed, while Landry began to fly.