Something I wrote for a writing class last semester:
"Creeeek."
The old piano bench, full of books and sheet music under the seat, complains about the weight shift as I plop down. "Thud," says the clunky, brown box when I press and release a tarnished pedal. I lightly run my fingers across the keys, occasionally feeling a slight indent -- little chips in the off-white surfaces. With great care, I play a chord, an arpeggio; all quite out of tune. Now I begin to play a fast-paced song from memory, closing my eyes...
The keys of the beautiful grand piano play so easily under my fingers, like tickling the air. Perfectly tuned, the strings beneath the open lid create a brilliant sound, such that I can almost taste my music. The pedals move up and down as if without assistance from my feet. As the fast Toccata gradually increases in volume, rising to a dramatic climax, I can sense the excitement of the small audience seated in pews to my right. The church, where I have played once annually for years now, is filled wall to wall with magnificent sound. At last, as the final chord of my last recital performance lingers in the air, I open my eyes again.
Light applause still ringing in my ear, I look around. I am still in the relatively small computer room in the basement, surrounded by bland, white wallpaper, short carpet, and old toys. I turn to my left, next to the brown, buck-toothed table my family calls a piano, to see another love of my life: my two-tone blue drum set. "I'm already in a musical mood," I say to myself. "Oh, why not."
I sink into my generic drum stool, sticks in hand. I play around with my wrists and feet for a moment, tapping almost random drums and cymbals ever so tenderly. Starting very softly, I ease into a jazzy rhythm, letting the style fill my body and mind. This is my happy place.
Looking past the director in his concert tux, I glance through the audience. I can see my family, my friends. They all know this is my tune; of course I told them my big solo would be in this number. The CHS Golden Blues Jazz Band builds up to something everyone knows is coming. My heart races, and here it is: the band stops for me. All my nerves evaporate; this is my stage now. I let loose, pouring my heart out down my arms and through my hands, into my lucky taped sticks. I build up the beat, and the audience cheers me on. While my right hand keeps going, with my left I flourish the fedora from my head, into the air and back down. Unfortunately, I have to end this at some point. I build up one last time, and cue the band to enter again.
"Brrring!"
Oh, yeah, I'm still at home. Better get the phone.
