Chapter 1

If you’re a percussionist in an orchestra, unless you play tympani, you could go long portions of a movement and even longer portions of a rehearsal with nothing to do. It isn’t uncommon to count a hundred or more measures of silence before just one cymbal crash, a single triangle tinkle, or a brief xylophone riff. I ‘m not sure, but I suspect composers are just plain sadistic to write something like that. Maybe they had a nephew who wasn’t too energetic but needed a job.

I remember counting one hundred and eighty measures of silence, only to have the conductor stop the orchestra at measure one-seventy-two, correct something in the brass section, and then start again at measure one-twenty. I sighed so loudly, Jim, another percussionist, looked over at me and rolled his eyes.

It must be nice to play in the string section. They play just about every beat and had some incredible sections to show off their abilities. Even the woodwinds and brass had good sections to play, but percussionists? Unless it’s a military piece or something written after nineteen-fifty, you’re just decoration. You have to do something to make yourself look important. We make one tap on the triangle look like an art form.

Actually, the Russians love percussion, and there are always good parts to play: church bells, cannons, horses, thunder. You name it, they probably write it. The Asians like tuned woodblocks and bells, so there is always something to sink your teeth into there, too.

So, what do you do during those long quiet sessions? You think, observe, dream, and fantasize. Anything to take up the time because you have to stand there and look like you’re paying attention.

Watching the other musicians is boring. Because you’re behind everyone, all you see are the violinists’ left shoulders and the backs of everyone’s head.

If you are far enough toward stage right, you get to see most of the fronts of the cellists and bass players. When they move, sometimes, you get to see even more…like the red-headed cello player who sits second on stand two.

She was right in my line of vision. At one concert, she’d worn a rather low-cut blouse. When she leaned to her right with her right arm extended to her bow’s full length, we had a good look at her cleavage.

I thought, Lean right, lean right…

When the oboist stood to play her solo, I almost shouted, “Sit down! You’re blocking my view!”

When the concert ended, I packed up my instruments and hurried backstage to see what I could see. By the time I got there, she’d added a scarf and jacket to her ensemble. Oh, well, maybe next concert.

* * * *

I could also see the basses from my vantage point.

There was a cute new bass player this year. She had short, curly, dark brown hair with a purple streak going back over her left ear and a very pretty face. She wasn’t tall for a bassist, but looked strong enough to handle it. She also had on the most beautiful amethyst-colored jacket I’d ever seen. It wasn’t bright but soft and relaxing. It matched her hair. It was gorgeous. She scanned the orchestra one time and caught me looking at her. I smiled; she smiled back. Then she turned to the bassist next to her who’d asked a question. That still didn’t stop me from looking and dreaming.

She drove an SUV to rehearsal, of course, so there’d be enough room for her instrument. I held back, waiting for her to get to the stairs. Maybe I could help her, but she hefted her bass up the handicapped ramp and through the self-opening handicapped door. That was smart! I hadn’t even thought of that.

That evening after rehearsal, I saw her loading her bass into her car and stopped to say hello.

“Good rehearsal,” I said.

“Yes, it was,” she replied. “But I’ll never get the Shamenski right. I think you have to have hands the size of baseball mitts to play it right.”

“Yes, we’re very busy during that one, too. It’s very intricate.”

“How many measures does that drum roll go?” she asked. “It seems to go on forever.”

“It’s something like thirty measures. My hands get tired.”

We both chuckled at that.

“Good thing it’s a drum roll!” she said. “Can you imagine holding a trumpet note that long?”

I laughed

“Say, are you hungry? I’m famished. Want to go get something to eat?”

“Sure,” I replied. “I’m a little hungry, too.” I couldn’t come right out and tell her what I was really hungry for: her! “Where?”

“I know just the place. Follow me.”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

We both got into our cars.