Just Throw In the Towel

Chapter 1

The university band room was old and looked like it hadn’t had a proper renovation in decades. The floor was a dark green linoleum, cracked and uneven in some parts. There was a blackboard, slightly warped around the edges and covered in chalk dust, which spanned almost the entirety of the back wall, an old, light-brown piano in the far corner and a mess of high school classroom-style chairs scattered haphazardly. The room was illuminated by cold, white fluorescent lamps that hung from the ceiling. On the side of the room directly across the long blackboard was a small door that led into the band logistics area where spare instruments were kept, much of them woodwind instruments (and most had leaks, rendering them practically unusable). The janitor probably only came in to polish the floors once every week and would leave everything else. The time is 1:42 in the afternoon and low murmuring coupled with shuffling footsteps can be heard as students prepare for their next class. It’s winter and the heaters aren’t on.

When he stepped in and saw the new figure in the room, he didn’t really think too much of her.

Wow, he thought. What a nerd. If her glasses were any thicker, the bridge of her nose probably would have caved in from all the weight. She was the “new” foreign exchange student. “New” in the sense that her sister (whom he really had the hots for) invited her to spend a semester for music at the university.

What? Is there something on my face? He wondered. She kept on looking at him. He noticed, but thought nothing of it.

Although, he did think she dressed pretty interestingly. All the more so that she wasn’t from San Francisco. She had dark auburn hair fashioned into a long ponytail, wore a black turtleneck and a black skirt with black leggings all underneath a bright red overcoat. And cowboy boots.

All she needs is longer coattails and a red, floppy fedora and she could be the real-life incarnation of Carmen Sandiego. With ultra thick glasses. He giggled on the inside.

She sat on a makeshift stool in the band room (the university, while internationally recognized, wasn’t really making waves with its old, decrepit facilities) across from the spot where he typically stood. It was a jazz improvisation class; a good portion of the period was spent playing and improvising (the fun part) while the last hour was a farce of a music theory class with the professor drilling basic chord prefixes as the class struggled to stay awake.

Seriously, any grade-schooler with experience playing chords on a piano could have aced the class if they wanted to.

The boy probably could have as well, if only he could get it into his thick skull to spend some time practicing basic musical notation.

Not wanting to seem too rude, the boy walks up to her.

“Hello,” he greeted her politely, as the people in class shuffled and tuned their instruments. She looked up and met his eyes, “hi,” she said meekly.

She played the violin and carried her own amp. It was pretty unusual to have someone experienced with such an instrument in a jazz environment, but what did it matter to him; he was too busy trying to catch her older sister’s attention. At the same time, trying not to draw too much attention to himself.

He took out his alto saxophone and started practicing some scales as he warmed up his embouchure. Starting from C, he continued upwards. He remembered all the drills and good practice techniques from his former sax teachers and put them to use. He felt his lower lip begin to ache as he continued to warm up. This going to be a rough class, he thought.

His mind began to wander.

Today’s going to be the day, he thought. I’m finally going to improvise like a real professional and the class will notice and Ella’s totally going to dig me for it. He had always felt like he could improvise somewhat well, but there was always something missing. Some days, he could follow along and make coherent solos as the song continued, but other days he felt completely lost. And his bandmates could hear it.

As for songs with standard jazz chord changes, he envied the other players with their almost innate sense of timing and second-nature improvising. He was never a great sight reader, but never took that weakness seriously. In fact, he never worked on it at all; stubborn as he naturally was. What did he care that others could read a page of music in under three minutes? At least, for all intents and purposes of college band, it was all the same songs that they would repeat up until performance day at the end of the semester. A solid three to four hours every week. All he needed to do was remember which points in the solo he could play certain notes and he would be fine. He had a better feel for improvisation than the other band members anyway.

“Hello! Hello!” the professor chimes as he walks in. An eclectic man in his late 40’s, Mr. Harding Jr. was a shadow of the bandleader his father was. Although conducting the university’s stage band and jazz improv group for the last twenty years or so, many students under him chafed and complained about his inconsistent leadership and preference to replace current section players with older, more experienced players (most of whom were experienced professionals in their own right, already teaching or playing in seasoned bands). In fact, many players were in brighter spirits when his father, Mr. Harding (The Senior, has he was affectionately called) came in to say hello and check in with the rehearsal progress.

Harding Jr. proceeds to the backroom to do some paperwork.

The boy passes Harding Jr. the slightest of glances as he takes his mouth off his saxophone mouthpiece and stops practicing (it was considered unprofessional etiquette to practice while not told to play, in the local music scene). He gives a weak wave and walks to the nearest chair to take a break.

Classroom chatter continues, but most of the students take their place on the bandstand and ready themselves to rehearse. He feels the familiar “buzzing” feeling that courses through parts of his face after he practices his saxophone scales, brings his hand up to his face and begins to massage his temples. He steals quick glances at Ella, still at the piano and noodling nonchalantly at some jazz piano ideas.

God, she’s so pretty, he thought. Her hair was light brown and shoulder length. A smile would crack her no-nonsense exterior every once in a while when Andy, the bass player would start mouthing off about some random chord substitution. She was shapely, but tomboyish. Sometimes, she’d come into class wearing a faux leather jacket or boots or something and he’d take note.

Of course he was too shy to mention anything. He was 19; a spoiled mama’s boy in his life outside of college and a complete novice when it came to flirtation. Really, when it came to having a life outside of music, he was at a major loss and had no idea how things worked in the real world.

After a few more minutes of silently ogling her, a familiar creak from the door of band logistics area cuts through the low, classroom buzz and Mr. Harding Jr. comes out.

The class could now begin.

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“-AYIN’ CLOSE TA FO-”

(Jesus Christ! Turn it down!!!)

The boy quickly reaches for the volume knob on the instrument console and twists it counterclockwise. He was so tired he didn’t notice his hand brush up against the plastic knob while he was starting the car earlier. Damn, he almost said out loud. He was tuned in to “National Public Radio”, or "NPR", a favorite radio station.

The car was running now and he turned the heat up. There would be no drinking in the car… tonight. Could you heat up a little faster? I’m freezing my guts off right now.

“...as San Francisco’s rent prices in the Haight-Ashbury are expected to climb,” the radio, now very softly, reported. He could barely hear it, but made out what he could. “Coming up next, why do pe-” Why. Why does it matter, so much, what’s happening with people in the city that you had to nearly blow out my eardrums as I started my car? He lets out a wheezing giggle but doesn’t seem to remember to close his mouth, now left partly open, after laughing at his own joke.

Without blinking, he places his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose and massages it a little. Pauses. He looks in his rear view mirror.

He places his left hand on the 10 o’clock position on the steering wheel and moves his other hand from his nose to the stickshift. And then slowly moves it back to the bulge in his right pocket.