The trumpet

The Trumpet

By: John Dover

“You’ve been staring at that thing for over an hour, Freddie.”

Freddie finally blinked, the rough denim of his jacket sleeve dabbing away the welcome moisture in his eyes as he returned to the present. “What? I have not.”

“Seems like it. Come on, I want to get to the candy shop before all the good taffy is gone,” Sally pleaded with him. She fought the urge to stamp her feet in frustration and gave a shuffled kick to the ground instead.

Freddie had already turned his attention back to the dark patina of the trumpet that lay in wait on the other side of the antique shop window. From the obscured view through the glass, it looked to be in decent condition. A bit of wear around the valve section, a couple of minor dents that were merely aesthetic blemishes… But what had fascinated him was not the lack of factory markings, but the elaborate, scrawled etchings that wove up and around the bell. The intricate flowers were accented by leaves and the curve of vines.

Though he had not been there for nearly as long as Sally had inferred, he had been staring through the window for many minutes now. His impatient traveling companion would not be sated by further gawking. Freddie sighed. “Fine. But we’re coming back once you get your fix, OK?”

A grin stretched up Sally’s cheeks. “Deal. Now, come on.”

The two twelve-year-olds bolted around the corner and down the boardwalk in search of Sally’s stretchy confections. The sea air was crisp. A gentle salty breeze washed in off the Pacific Northwest coastline. It was a beautiful, transitional autumn day, and the two had the day off from school due to teacher conferences. They were making the most of one of their few moments of freedom before diving back into the academic workload of the 6^th grade. They yearned for that last, rare taste of joy before the weather turned and many of the summer businesses shuttered for the low season.

They raced to the candy shop, bouncing through the light crowd in a ruckus game of tag. They skid to a halt in the doorway. Freddie, having edged out Sally, blocked the door playfully. “I win!”

“You cheated.” She gave him a quick jab to the ribs.

He winced and let her by. “Nuh-uh.”

They were both a little breathless but laughed as they entered the sugared air of the shop. 

The bright lights were enhanced by crisp white walls and gleaming wood floor. Multicolored shapes adorned the massive barrels that were strewn throughout. The taffy puller machine thrummed behind the counter, mesmerizing a tourist family as it relentlessly stretched and massaged the sticky, glossy, banded sugar before relinquishing it to the human confectioner for its final shaping, cutting, and adornment in wax paper.

Sally and Freddie were on the prowl. Being local, they had sampled all the flavors throughout the many summers of their youth, but today they were there for the seasonal curtain call of fresh-squeezed Meyer Lemon.

They wove through the aisles of barrels stuffed with hand wrapped treats, and with each new flavor they passed, Freddie’s thoughts drifted. He was being pulled back to the metallic vision in the window and not paying attention at all to Sally and her excited chatter about Mr. Henson’s threat of a pop quiz when they return on Monday.

He stopped, a wax paper-wrapped taffy held to his face. Sally scowled. “What?” he asked, the question accented by the rhythmic tapping of Sally’s impatient foot.

“I said, they only have about ten Meyer Lemons, should we add some cinnamon to our bag? Jeez, where are you today?”

“I’m right here,” he huffed. “It’s just that I want to get back to that antique store before they close.”

“Why? It’s not like you can buy anything.”

“That’s not the point. I want to know more about that horn. Maybe I can get it on loan until my parents are ready to buy it. I do have band coming up this year.”

“It’s loud, you’ll end up spitting everywhere, and you are terrible at committing.”

“I commit just fine.”

“Baseball, book club, chess club, art class, Cub Scouts… Any of these fleeting obsessions spark a memory?”

“I was just a kid when I tried those out.”

“And what are you now? The great elder of the village?” Sally snorted and returned to the task of choosing what would supplement her Meyer Lemon.

“Whatever. Let’s just get the taffy.”

They filled their small paper bag with a variety and smiled at each other over the victory booty that awaited their already watering mouths. Even still, Freddie was focused on the call of the trumpet. They paid, he swiped a single taffy from the bag, shoved it into his pocket, and rushed them out the door.

“Slow down, I almost dropped my candy, butthead!” Sally was jarred by the rush of speed and having to dodge the closing door as Freddie dashed off towards the antique store. The hour neared five, and he didn’t want to risk the owner closing a couple of minutes early before he got a chance to see the instrument up close.

His instinct was good. As he rounded the corner and neared the door, he saw a gaunt man in shined penny loafers, khakis, and a pale blue sweater vest wielding a small ring of keys. He opened the door to test the lock and was looking up and down the lane to see if any last-minute opportunities were roaming the streets.

“Sir!” Freddie waved his arms hoping to stop time and get the man’s attention.

The shopkeeper stared at the frantic youth fighting to stay upright as he skidded around the corner and sprinted towards him. 

Freddie slid to a halt, tilting forward and propping himself up on the half-open door. “Please, is it possible to look at something before you close up for the day?” Freddie was working to mask his breathlessness. He didn’t realize how fast he had run, but it had taken the wind from him and raised a slick layer of sweat on his brow.

The gentle-faced man looked down at the panting boy, an amused grin pulled across his lips. “How may I help you, son?”

“The instrument in the window. Can I see it?” Freddie swiped his forearm across his brow. 

“Freddie, slow down.” Sally came around the corner clumsily and almost crashed into him.

“Seems you have a shadow, young sir,” the man chuckled under his breath. “Well, if you two can make sure others don’t think they will be able to waylay, then I can allow you to both get a perusal of the store while I go through and get ready to close. Deal?” He looked down, his dark eyes peeking past the rim of his glasses perched just on the end of his nose.

“Deal!” The two chimed in unison.

“OK, then. Welcome to my dusty kingdom.” He pushed his glasses back to their habitual spot and moved from the entrance to bid his guests entry. Freddie and Sally thanked the man and shuffled over the threshold.

The world dimmed and sharpened all at once. The environment of the bright and buoyant candy shop was starkly contrasted by the smell of oiled wood, rod-iron crafts, and aging fabrics emblazoned with intricate needlepoint designs on chairs and hangings. The store was lit by lamps strewn throughout the room: Tiffany lamps; foggy, cream glass shades; and emerald-colored glass dotted the landscape of hand-crafted tools of old cutlery and fine china from decades past. An array of tin toys and porcelain dolls cluttered the shelves in a chaotic order. 

Freddie and Sally moved slowly through the busy aisles. Their awe was visible as they explored the antiques, always keeping their hands at their sides for fear of grazing something and knocking it from its perch. Having purged most of their allowances on taffy, they were in no position to make an unnecessary purchase of a broken antiquity.

They wove up and down through the store through the maze of aisles. The clutter on the shelves and the thin space between the rows allowed the shopkeeper the illusion of more space with less square footage. 

They finally arrived at the front window. Freddie held his breath as they neared the propped-up instrument. It was displayed in between a mannequin showing off a woman’s tan, white, and dark brown mink stole, and a pyramid of train set cars still in their original boxes.

“Kinda ratty, isn’t it?” Sally blurted out, unimpressed with the worn lacquer and dulled brass that had called to her friend.

Freddie nudged her with his elbow. He was in love. He couldn’t blink, breathe, or move. He stood motionless, yearning to feel the weight of the instrument in his hand. Each etched scratch on the bell was a hieroglyph to be translated to unlock the hidden secrets of the trumpet. 

“Do you play?” The smooth, velvet voice of the shopkeeper startled them.

“Not yet. But I start band this year.”

“You should try it out then. You can’t choose your instrument if it doesn’t choose you.”

“I don’t even know how it works. What if I’m bad at it?”

“Everyone is bad at it when they start. The point is to try it and see if it fits.”

The shopkeeper reached over the gawking boy and plucked the trumpet from its roost. Freddie followed its path as it rose above his head and turned to watch the shopkeeper as he cradled the instrument and fiddled with the valves to loosen the oil within. The three buttons gave a satisfying click with each downward stroke. 

Freddie envisioned the rhythmic tap of a conductor’s baton calling the musicians to ready positions. He conjured a concert hall in his mind with a single spot on the stage that beckoned him to share his sound into the cavernous room.

“All you do is, take a big breath, press the mouthpiece to your lips, and blow them apart. Let the instrument do the rest.” The shopkeeper mimed the process. He relaxed and held the trumpet out for Freddie to take.

Freddie’s fingers trembled as he grasped the horn. 

“Good. Now, wrap your left hand around the valves to hold it firm.”

Freddie did as the man instructed. His fingers snaked around the valves, securing the horn firmly in his grip.

“And place your first three fingers of your right hand on top of the valves.”

“These three buttons on top?” Freddie’s fingers settled on the smooth pearls.

The shop keeper grinned. “That’s right. Now just as I said, take a deep breath, put it to your lips, and blow the center of your lips apart.”

Freddie’s mouth went dry. What if nothing came out? Or worse, what if it was the worst sound in the world. Maybe all the glass in the store would shatter and he would have to pay for it all. Or he might drop the trumpet, and then what?

He looked down at the heavy, crafted metal in his hand. His worries melted away and were replaced with the wonder he had felt as he had stared at it through the window. His desire to make it sing washed away his fears. The spotlight on the stage in his head shone bright, waiting for its star soloist to step up. 

Freddie gently bit down on his tongue with his molars to wet his mouth. He instinctually rolled his lips in and out to prepare them. He closed his eyes, exhaled, then took a deep breath as he pressed the cold mouthpiece against his lips. Releasing the wind that was building in his lungs, he felt a most amazing chain reaction...

The wind passed through his teeth and blew his lips apart between where the mouthpiece was pressing them together. The aperture focused the air through the horn as it wove around the metal curves, warming the brass and sending a series of vibrations through the instrument, bringing it to life. Freddie was on stage, the spotlight blinding him, but he didn’t care—he was sending a rich, sonic bath of brassy vocalizations through the auditorium. The sound was amazing, and the crowd he couldn’t see gasped at the beauty. His fingers ran up and down the valves in a percussive rampage that took him through intricate arpeggios and lyrical acrobatics. The horn was more magical than he had ever expected as he sent breath after breath through it, each more mesmerizing than the last.

Outside of Freddie’s mental arena, the shop was filled with powerful blats and squawks of a near-offensive nature. Sally stood by, a look of horror on her face as her friend honked away at the dilapidated trumpet. But the shopkeeper stood stalwart in front of Freddie, beaming pridefully as the boy concocted his joyful racket.

Inside Freddie’s head, he dramatically crescendoed to the opus’s climax, and the audience was already on their feet as the final notes echoed away and became swallowed up by applause. He pulled the horn away with a flourish and stood there breathing hard, a single tear tracing its path down his cheek. Freddie bowed.

“Sounds like you’re a natural,” the shopkeeper said.

Sally, her mouth agape and eyes wide with embarrassment, could not even muster the words to tell him what she had just experienced.

Freddie stood panting and stared down at the trumpet, even more in awe of it now than before. “How much?” He knew he didn’t have the money to buy it, but his curiosity was overwhelming. 

“Well, this is a special instrument. Not just anyone can make it sing. How much do you have?”

Freddie took his right hand and patted at each of his pockets, still balancing the trumpet in his left. He fumbled to locate whatever cash still remained from his allowance. His right side emitted a jingle of coins, and he grasped at a rasp of paper and a few coins, squirming to pull every last bit of it out. He stood in front of the shopkeeper, his pocket outturned, and dejectedly held out the pittance he had procured.

The shopkeeper looked down. He counted a crumpled two-dollar bill, a quarter, two nickels, three pennies, and a smooshed Meyer Lemon taffy.

“I’m sorry. It’s all I have.” Freddie looked up at the shopkeeper. His eyes grew glassy with embarrassment and despair. He clung to the trumpet knowing he was going to have to give it up.

“Well, this trumpet comes with conditions.”

Freddie was puzzled as the shopkeeper began to count out two dollars and eleven cents. “Huh?”

“Huh??” Suzy was taken aback. She looked at the man as if he was crazy.

“You have to come back every Saturday and play me a song. And,” he continued, as he plucked the squished yellow paper from the pile, “you have to bring me a taffy.” He smiled at the boy and winked.

Freddie was speechless. He was still breathing hard from having just performed his first concert and was in disbelief at what had just happened. 

“You mean… I can… I can have it?” He slowly pulled his hand back with the remaining change.

“Well, a trumpet is a big responsibility. You will have to keep it clean, practice, and check in with me each week to make sure you are keeping up your end.”

Freddie gulped. “Y-y-yes, sir.” He hugged the instrument to his chest. 

“One more thing.” The shop keeper reached up to a top shelf above them and plucked a beige travel case that had collected a fair amount of dust over the weeks. He clicked open the metal clasps and held it open. “You’re gonna need a case.”

Freddie studied the green felt interior with the molded divider that was custom-shaped to protect the instrument. The shopkeeper gently placed the trumpet into its snug accommodations, closed it, and clicked the claps back into place before presenting the handle to Freddie. Freddie gripped the faux leather handle, and the case thumped to his side. 

Walking home, Freddie could not stop beaming as he blocked out Sally’s (obviously jealous) ramblings, who could not believe the aural assault she had just withstood.

Freddie just kept his mind on the spotlight in his head, waiting patiently for the next opportunity to visit his auditorium and explore the new world that had just been shown.