Off beat

“Darnit!” I exclaimed, exasperated…I just couldn’t get the notes right.

I had been practising for hours on my newly bought guitar and hadn’t mastered the song “Minuet” yet. Was it me or the new guitar I wondered? For me playing a new instrument was like learning to play one for the first time. Your hands and fingers had to introduce themselves to the instrument, you had to learn all of the intricacies of its construction, adjust your movements to the “new-ness” of it. Discover what was special about it, and be comforted by what has stayed the same.

My old guitar had certainly done its time- it was over 30 years old, warped from use and travel, moving from house to house, town to town. I was a traveling musician, going where I was needed when I was needed. Being a single man allowed me to do so. Sometimes I was booked for months at a time at a club; sometimes for just a few nights as the opener for a more popular mainstream act. Right now I was needed here in this town but with the world at a near standstill I had nothing to do but break in my new guitar, or rather let it break me in.

I got up from my stool and stretched. Years of guitar and bad posture made my neck feel constantly tense. And the state of the world added to that tension. I put on a pot of coffee and surveyed the tin- almost empty. I shivered with the thought of having to go to the store. But I was more afraid of going through coffee withdrawal if I didn’t have any to drink tomorrow. Tomorrow I will go to the store.

“Ok,” I said as I clapped my hands, trying to get myself excited for the task at hand..

I grasped the guitar by its shiny new neck and sat on my stool. I was seated in the middle of my living room- from experience I knew that acoustics were best there. Rolling my shoulders back, I surveyed the sheet music and began to play.

Almost instantly I heard a banging on the roof of my apartment. I stopped, frozen, listening. The banging stopped. I re-composed myself and began to play again. A few bars into the piece the banging started again. I slowly became agitated as I began to realise what was happening. The banging was in protest to my playing!

 A mixture of emotions flooded through me. I felt guilty for playing so badly that they would dislike it enough to bang in protestation. I also felt indignant- so what if I was making a little “noise” in the privacy of my own apartment? Guilt won over rebellion and I reluctantly placed the guitar in its stand.

Maybe tomorrow...

The next day I was determined to conquer Minuet. Because I was a musician! And although I refused to acknowledge it, I also wanted to win my neighbour’s approval.

I didn’t know them. I barely knew anyone in the apartment building at all after living there for a few weeks. I preferred it that way- I moved so often that I did not want to build any connection that could soon be severed by a new job and a necessary move to somewhere else. My immediate next door neighbour was a young man who is about my age. When we passed each other in the hall way we would do the obligatory nod and then hurry past each other without a word exchanged. Last night as I sat stewing in annoyance in front of the TV, thinking of my upstairs neighbour’s behaviour, I pictured an old lady sitting in an ancient, ratty, old armchair, watching soap operas on TV,  the volume maxed out. I shook my head as I pictured her hearing my playing, then reaching for her cane and striking the floor.

 I drank the last of my coffee supply and sat down on my stool. Breathing deeply I began to play. Not bad I smiled as I sailed through the first few bars successfully. It sounded beautiful, a little jagged, but I was understanding my instrument a lot better and- Bang bang bang bang.

I cursed and nearly threw down the guitar in frustration. So it wasn’t that I was playing poorly, it was that I was playing at all!

I got up and decided to do a supermarket run. Maybe by the time I got back the old lady would be taking a nap with her 20 cats, I thought meanly.

Donning the attire that was suggested for these difficult times, I stepped out of the apartment and made my way on foot to the supermarket. The streets were a ghost town. Apart from the stragglers like myself heading home or heading out, getting essential supplies. 

Having gotten everything I needed i.e. coffee, I headed back home. As I approached my street I glimpsed my apartment building. I surveyed the windows, trying to figure out which was mine. I found it- there was a small cactus in the window that I was trying to keep alive by ignoring it- I had killed cactuses in the past by over watering them. I then searched above my window to try to catch a glimpse of my crotchety upstairs neighbour. No one.  Just an open window with no one in sight. Then I had a hit of inspiration: maybe I should lock my window, I thought. That would cut down on any sound going upstairs. I felt lighter, inspired by my new plan. I would not let her ruin my practise sessions.

I got home and immediately locked it with a satisfying thud. There, I thought, no more interruptions.

I decided to test out my window theory even before unpacking my grocery bag. I hurriedly grabbed the guitar and started playing Minuet…nothing…..no banging. I struck some wrong chords and still nothing. I smiled in relief. I had won.

The next few days I played and misplayed to my heart’s content, soon forgetting about the circumstances that had led to my kitchen window being closed all of the time. The new guitar and I were almost completely acquainted and I didn’t feel like an amateur anymore fumbling to pay like it was my first time.

On a day without a name, because they all blur together, I was walking by the front door when a piece of folded paper under it caught my attention- I absently wondered how long that had been there. I opened the folded paper to see that it was a handwritten note.

“Dear Downstairs neighbour”,  it read,

“Allow me to introduce myself- My name is Mildred, and I am a retired music teacher. (I had been teaching for 30 years but was forced into retirement because of what’s going on in the world now). I cannot teach my students from my home anymore, and to be honest I am not technologically savvy enough to offer remote online lessons. Anyway, I’m not writing to you for pity. I am writing to say how much I have enjoyed your guitar playing since you have moved in. I have been listening to you every day through the window in my kitchen. What a joy you have brought to me especially in these tough times. 

I noticed however that you were having some difficulty playing “Minuet” and that you were off beat. Do you use a metronome to help your timing?? It’s a device that keeps perfect steady beats. My students have used it in the past to keep tempo and it works. I wasn’t sure if you had one, so I tried to help you to keep beat by tapping my cane on the floor along to your playing. Did you hear me? I certainly hope so. I haven’t heard you play in a while and I hope that’s because you have now mastered the song.

Keep up the good work and the beautiful music,

Your upstairs neighbour,

Mildred, Apartment 6B.”

I thought back to the times I had heard the banging. Now, removing my veil of annoyance, I realized that those bangs were indeed in tempo to the 8^th notes that I had been attempting and failing. I laughed aloud, mostly at myself. How unfortunate that all of this time I had been thinking the worst; and in fact it was the very opposite. I chided myself for all of the unkind thoughts I had of my neighbour when she had had my best interest at heart. I now pictured a woman trying her best to cope, and finding comfort in the music I had been providing. I wondered how many other neighbours that may have been enjoying my playing before I had cut them all off by shutting my window physically and metaphorically.

I placed the note on my music stand, securing it firmly so that I would always be able to see it when playing. I walked over to the kitchen window and flew it wide open; then dragged my stool and music stand to the kitchen, sat on my stool, rolled my shoulders back and began playing.

I could barely hear it, but as I was playing I could faintly hear soft clapping. No doubt that It was coming from the apartment above, on perfect beat, through the open window, from my human metronome.

THE END