The low B-flat on the sax resonated with the empty rafters above, vibrated the retracted metal garage door over his head.
Down the short driveway the garage opened out onto Pershing Avenue, the street Eddy lived on but was not named after. Lawnmowers could be heard in the distance in the well-order, tree-lined, curving subdivision.
Aaron Walker strolled in the open back door, set down his trumpet case. “We’re going to need some chairs, O.J.,” he announced, turned, and went back into the house.
Kitchen chairs in a garage, Eddy thought. The space was so antiseptic, a gurney could be wheeled in and an appendectomy performed.
Aaron’s father was an ophthalmologist, after all; that’s how Mr. Walker could afford the best professional instruments for five kids, and lessons with the best teachers, Eddy thought. While Eddy’s working mom could barely afford a used student model tenor sax.
Larry set two cushioned chairs onto the clean concrete of the open garage.
“So whad’ja think of that crazy Master Class instructor, O.J.? What’s up with their goofy uniforms?”
“He was pretty amazing on that guitar,” said Eddy. “I wish I were that fluent on the saxophone. Maybe they’re all in some kind of organization that dispatches them to schools, like the Salvation Army.”
“You’re coming along, O.J.,” said Aaron, as he set up a folding music stand from his trumpet case and set out sheet music. “You’ve only been playing it since February. Sax is supposed to be easier than bass clarinet.”
“I haven’t found the easy part yet,” said Eddy.
Eddy, a fair-haired white teen, had been answering to O.J. since Jennings Junior High School, when the burly band director nicknamed him. The name belonged to a former running back in the NFL, an African-American, who’d turned into a sports commentator, TV pitchman, and minor Hollywood star. It was bad enough growing up being teased for having the same last name as the street he lived on, but now, going into his senior year of high school, stuck with such an absurd nickname …
“You know, even Matt Iverson and Pete Lavigne are calling me O.J. now, because of you guys,” said Eddy.
“That’s ‘cause they like you,” said Aaron. “I’m telling you, you’re a shoo-in for jazz band this year. Greg Colton isn’t even attending the arts camp this summer.”
No, but he’ll be attending Interlochen music camp, Eddy noted, for two whole weeks, something Eddy’s mom could never afford.
“And neither is Eric Martin, O.J., and he’s the one you have to worry about. Greg was second tenor last year, and Mr. Richards will probably make his first tenor this year; Eric’s your competition for the second tenor spot.”
Aaron was fair-haired like Eddy, but shorter and with a jaw that was somehow oversized for his face. Aaron pulled out his sleek, silvery Bach Stradivarius trumpet, inserted the mouthpiece, and began the slow, methodical warmup prescribed by his teacher, third chair in the Detroit Symphony Orchestra. This was Aaron’s home trumpet, O.J. noted; his good trumpet, the trumpet he took to lessons and to school only for concerts. Aaron’s regular trumpet, which still sounded good, was a more muted brass. That one he left at school, in a band room locker; that was the instrument Aaron played in the hapless first period symphonic band.
By contrast, O.J. had to haul his bass clarinet with him back and forth to school on the bus if he wanted to take it home to practice. That was until he quit the band to join choir in his junior year. Then he had the inspiration to learn saxophone and try out for jazz band; he would also have to transport his tenor to and from school for evening rehearsals. A second instrument to leave at school was out of the question, unless it would be one of the crappy school horns Mr. Richards had in storage.
“Do you think Mr. Richards will even let me in jazz band, since I’m not in symphonic band anymore? It’s supposed to be a requirement.”
“We’re working on that,” said Aaron. “Me and Matt are co-directors this year, and we have some discretion. Lenny and Marc aren’t in symphonic band either.”
“Yeah, but they’re guitar and bass,” observed O.J. “They don’t play brass or woodwind instruments.”
Jazz band, as everyone knew, was more or less student-directed; the band director, Neal H. Richards, was on hand for Thursday evening rehearsals, but usually in his office getting crocked on a bottle he had tucked away in a filing cabinet. He wasn’t in much better condition for first period symphonic band; in fact, he usually appeared to have slept overnight on his office sofa in his polyester leisure suit.
Symphonic band was at Robert Louis Stevenson Senior High School was a tremendous letdown after Jennings Junior High School. The burly band director at Jennings, Joe Vondracek, inspired all the students, like Aaron and Eddy, to get the best instruments they could afford and to study privately with the best teachers. Eddy’s mom coughed up the dough for a decent bass clarinet, and Eddy put in a surprising amount of practice hours. Mr. Vondracek took the band from a dependable second-place finisher in state competitions to straight ones in the triple-A high school division, punching up since Jennings was only a double-A junior high school.
But at Stevenson, several talented instrumentalists, not only from Jennings but the other two junior high schools that fed into the senior high school, refused to join the symphonic band, even though it would be an easy A on their report card. This included students who continued to study privately and planned to go on to study music in college. Instead, they took choir and music theory with Mr. Ryerson, and skipped symphonic band altogether, so as to avoid picking up any bad habits.
Nick Paluzzi, a cornetist who graduated two years ago and already sat in the tenth chair in the Boston Symphony, was one such holdout. Nick could sightread chicken scratchings from a sheet of paper and make it sound like Bach, Beethoven, or Brahms; Eddy had seen this himself.
This depressing situation with the Stevenson Symphonic Band was all because Neal H. Richards could barely hold a baton during first period.
“Is there any chance Mr. Richards won’t be back?” asked Eddy rhetorically. “It’s too bad Mr. Vondracek went to Franklin High School instead of Stevenson; we missed our shot.”
Aaron took the mouthpiece of his trumpet from his lips, wiped it on his T-shirt. “I don’t think so. The parents tried to stage an intervention with the administration last school year, and it didn’t work. Richards has been a member of the union too long. He promised to reform, and it took for a while. A few weeks last spring, O.J., after you dropped band, we actually sounded pretty good. He even shaved and wore a blazer his wife sewed for him in the mornings. But then he fell off the wagon before school let out for summer. You see the shape he’s in now; he’s at summer arts camp, and he’ll probably be back in the fall.”
Eddy could hear Aaron’s brother Paul, warming up on his alto sax, inside the house.
“How do think Mr. Richards found such a great guitarist to teach the master class this morning?”
“I don’t know; he must know some pretty good musicians when he’s sober. How was your art session?”
“That lady’s really good, too. We got a lot done on the hallway mural.”
Aaron’s brother Paul strolled into the open garage with his alto strapped around his neck and a Manhasset music stand in hand.
“Okay, O.J., what do you want to run through?” asked Paul. Paul was shorter than his brother Aaron, with thick, nerdy glasses and darker, curly hair. “We can just play half-note chords while you solo over something.”
“How ‘bout ‘Road Time Shuffle’?” said Larry. “That has an open solo for the second tenor.”
Eddy liked the song, but was going to miss the scream trumpet charts that had inspired him to join jazz band.
“I guess we won’t be doing ‘MacArthur Park’ or ‘Gonna Fly Now’ this year,” said Eddy.
“Not with those classically-trained lips,” said Paul. “Aaron’s private instructor isn’t going to let him go anywhere near a double-high C. And Matt Iverson’s such a snobby jazz purist, he doesn’t even consider Maynard Ferguson fusion to be jazz at all.”
“Then ‘Road Time Shuffle’ it is.”
In the office of Vice Principal Victoria Bryant, there was still consternation.
“I got our visiting artists squared away,” reported Student Activities Director Ernie Penn Pierson. “They’re lodged in a motel down the street. I even took them shopping for some street clothes; they promised to ditch those paramilitary uniforms tomorrow.”
“Good,” said Victoria. “I just got off the phone with the board of education president. She and a few representatives will be dropping my later in the week.”
“Camp should be humming by then,” said Ernie.
“Yes,” said Victoria, with some hesitation. “Look, Ernie, I don’t mean to look a gift horse in the mouth. These visiting artist friends of yours were an answer to our prayers dropped down from heaven. But how well do you know them?”
“Well, said Ernie, grasping for words. He realized he hadn’t even memorized their names yet. “They’re all highly qualified in their respective fields. You saw for yourself—the guitarist, the ceramicist, and how about that hallway mural. Your summer arts camp is going to be a smashing success, Vice Principal Bryant.”
“The school board is going to want to verify their background checks, Ernie. You’ve conducted background checks ahead of time, haven’t you?”
“Background checks?” said Ernie, his eyes widening. “Background checks. Yes, background checks. I have the paperwork in my office. I mean, I have to fill out the paperwork; it’s in my office. I was just going to finish that up this evening before calling it a night.”
“Just make sure we have something to show the school board president in two days,” said Victoria. Parents don’t want their kids being taught by people from outer space.”
Ernie walked back to his Student Activities Director office, which was done a long hallway, past the machine shop classroom near the choir and band rooms, away from the main principal’s offices.
“Background checks, background checks,” he muttered to himself as he reached for his keys to unlock his office door. He tried recalling the names of the visiting artists: Munro, Dallas, Hoskins, Merino, Jamaica or Jordyn or something, and an Asian name—Hatori? Himari? Himari Hatori; that’s it. Ernie prided himself on being a people person, and good with names, able to memorize hundreds of students’ first names every school year. Why was this so much trouble.
He thought of their odd manner when he took some of them shopping; they didn’t even have wallets, let alone cash of any sort; only palm-sized walkie talkies. Ernie had had to charge their purchases of clothing and food with his own credit card.
“I’ll have to ask for their resumés tomorrow,” said Ernie, sitting down at his desk. “Resumés. Resumés? Who’m I kidding? I doubt if they have backgrounds to check. Maybe they are from outer space.”
He put his keys back into his pocket, decided not to enter his office. He walked the rest of the way down the long hallway, past an unfolding mural of Robert Louis Stevenson and a montage of scenes from his literary works, out to the parking lot to his car.
“I’ll find out who these visiting artists really are tomorrow,” he said to himself. “I’ll worry about it then.”
Next: Green Dolphin Street
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