Volcanic Music

“It’s mine, and you can’t have it,” he says, looking like a child despite his thinning hair, and his neck wrinkles.

I look from the selection in the vending machine, to the crackerjack box in his hand, and I have serious concerns about this guy. We have only known each other two or three days. I‘ve been doing double time on my short legs to keep up with his long ones all morning long. I’m used to that, of course, in the marching band . . . but still.

People warned me that Naples would be confusing. One guy even told me, “At least there’s vending machines.” There isn’t anything I want from that machine, though - even if I had time for it.

He leaves the vending machine and walks fast enough that he’ll probably choke on his next cracker jack. I plan to fake it that I don’t know the Heimlich maneuver if he needs help.

I worked like a madman trying to get the creases perfect in my white Navy uniform. I only had five minutes. Of course, everyone else thinks good enough really is good enough. Not when you’re a musician, though. At least, my kind of musician. We are perfect.

For all his expertise in his area, my sponsor has certainly not maintained his perfection. He’s middle-aged, slightly paunchy, and always wears a worried expression with his rumpled uniform. He’s looking at retirement. Wondering what to do with himself, his family, his life. 

I always had an image of something like a father figure for a sponsor. Not this one, though. He is rushing me through the orientation process as if a war nips at our heels. As my dislike for him turns in to loathing, the only way I can keep any kind of mental stability is to call him by his first name – at least in my head. I ought to be calling him “Chief” at all times. He doesn’t deserve that - in the thoughts of this petty officer, though.

It’s the day before we are going to switch to our blue uniforms. I can smell it in the air that we are going to need warmer uniforms soon. Naples might be a confusing city. So much is different from my other duty stations, but the weather does not lie. New smells and the quality of the breeze is a universal language no matter what place on the globe the Navy takes me to. 

This afternoon, wearing the whites — like the kid on the crackerjack box — is just fine. Ignoring me almost totally, Bill takes one step much bigger than the others. I have no idea why. Then it is too late. A small disaster knocks the wind right out of me. As if nothing has happened, the man in front of me keeps going. He hasn’t slowed down a bit or looked around all day. I lie on my back wondering what in the world is wrong with him. Did he not see me fall down? That’s how I end up gazing at this demandingly blue sky.

Bill glances over his shoulder, and then bursts out laughing.

I am trying my hardest to start breathing again, wondering if all the vertebrae are in the right places.

Even if he does offer me a hand - which he won’t - I won’t take it.

My joints are not all that creaky today, and the rest of me is held together by sheer adrenaline. I get up, relieved that everything is still in working order. As I squat, turning my back to him, and jump up, Bill starts laughing even harder.

You don’t have to be all that bright to know what makes him laugh like an ape. I am feeling moisture in the center of my back, and I know that the crap I slipped on a few moments before now clings to the back of my crisp white uniform. 

This is going to be one of the best stories Bill tells at the bar - probably for the rest of his life. It is one of the few times I have seen his face that it looks fully happy. Not worried. Not preoccupied. Not judgmental. Pure delight. He makes no move to wipe anything off me.

“You’ve got crap on your back!” He says, wiping his eyes. This officially makes him MCPOO - master chief petty officer of the obvious. Literally.

I’m always thinking two steps ahead about how to fix the problem. This is no exception.

“Well,“ I say, “I’ll get back to my room to clean up. Where do you want me to meet you so I can see the last few places?”

“If you leave. I don’t have any more time. Come with me right now, and get the last of your signatures for your paperwork.”

In Louisiana, when we had an issue with somebody, we fist up right away, and fight our way through to a conclusion everybody can be satisfied with. That’s just not how the Navy works. Hitting a senior officer, is going to put you in the brig somewhere. Bill is the senior chief, and the assistant director of our band. I swallow hard. 

The manila envelope everyone has to carry for the first few days in a new post stayed mostly intact as I fell. I now clutch it to me, wondering if I should use it to get the road muffins off my back. 

He steps off quickly, without another word.

I follow. Of course, the smell comes right along with me. It gives me and several other people the feeling we have our own case of the Hershey squirts. I am angry enough to feel exactly like a volcano that hasn’t exploded in a long time. I’ll just have to see if I can keep it together spending time with this man.

Agnano is the bottom of the crater where the US put its Navy base. The recreation area for US servicemen is in the bottom of another nearby crater. Vesuvius looms over everything, but at least it is far enough away we will get a little warning if it gets frisky. Can I change my mood today by thinking of the horses I hear at the race track? Maybe I hear the African animals at the zoo or the kids at the amusement park. There’s some thing so much more immediate going on with my own outfit, though. Really, all I can concentrate on is the crusty feeling developing like an itch on my uniform. The swath of filth in the center of my back makes what should have been a pleasant afternoon so much colder than I want. 

At every the office we visit, I’m getting through lines faster than ever before, but Bill is gesturing to my back for every clerk that stamps or signs a paper for me. When I do a salute and about face as I leave the room, anything from a deep guffaw to a discrete titter follows me, along with my new smell, out the door and to the next office.

When his back is turned (which is most of the time) I stay busy attempting with my laser vision to light Bill’s ears on fire.

For many months, I have no contact with Bill beyond practices and performances. That’s how it should be. I remind myself he’s going away soon – his PCS season is almost here.

We’ve come through the winter. We wore our blue uniforms, of course. Why couldn’t my encounter with the fecal matter been a day later? I ask that a lot. 

Winter had some miserable moments. Our instruments would get slippery with the spit collecting on the inside or the sea spray on the outside. We push through shipboard performances, whether it was for military dignitaries or local leaders. Looking perfect could be challenging on days aboard a ship when the wind would gust about us sloppily, and anybody (except a senior officer) would know that Naples has much better days for ceremonies.

One morning, more beautiful than any I’ve yet seen, because it’s the first real spring day, things can’t help but change. High clouds whisper in the sky like messages of hope. A breeze blows . . . which at the bottom of a volcano is always welcome. I wake up feeling even more energized than when I was a child. As I exit my room, and travel to the practice area, my eyes nearly ingore small piles of dog crap. Nearly. One of them is particularly beautiful. It’s almost as though it is calling to me. Fresh. A little bit wet.

One of the most fussy tuba players I have ever known had a plastic case for his own personal mouthpiece. After all the ribbing he took for it, particularly from me and the other trumpet players, he has left it behind. He’s on to his next duty station, leaving behind that case. The director asked me to get rid of the case last night. So why do I have it with me today? 

It’s almost like fate has intervened.

That case is exactly the right size to fit a lovely nature nugget like the one I’m looking at. If there’s one thing I will say for my uniform, it’s that the cut allows a skinny guy like me to have an extra few things in his pocket. The case and the dog crap are never really even noticeable. The dark blue uniforms are better for concealment of a thing like this, and I Have a spring in my step - which is much more than just the season - on my way to the practice room.

The high-ranking officer we are performing to send off today, along with a bunch of other people, will soon be on airplanes with their PCS. We play our best for them. Partly because of the weather, but partly because there are two of our fellow musicians among that number. Bill is in the group.

A beautiful ceremony. A beautiful day. A beautiful surprise in my pocket. Can things get any better?

The commander brings everybody inside for snacks. It’s the middle of the workday, so we all get sodas or a veggie tray with ranch dip. The amazing weather, and the opportunity to be rid of that senior chief is making me slightly drunk Even though the strongest thing to drink would be that variety of sodas.

Passing through the kitchen on my way to put away my instrument, I see Bill with a buddy. He was just invited to take the day off, and head to the bar. 

“Not now,” Bill says, wiping the forearm of his uniform across his forehead, and leaving his hat, like an invitation, on the table. “I have to take a dump.”

“Then you’ll catch up?” 

“We’ll see,” says Bill. He rushes toward restroom.

“Oh yes, sir.“ I say softly, “you will definitely see… Something.” 

Like a small miracle, the plastic case emerges from my pocket. The scented surprise is still nearly perfect. I open the case and watch in fascination. The poop plops cleanly into the center of the senior chief’s upturned hat. I exit the room with the goofiest smirk on my face. I will wipe it off before I see anybody.

I have no more use for the case, which I was supposed to get rid of anyway. The tuba mouthpiece cover is discreetly tucked beneath a pile of paper plates in the overflowing bag just outside the door. I don’t even have to see how this story turns out. When Bill returns from the bathroom, is he going to put on his hat, or not? Either way, his last few moments in Naples are going to be . . . memorable. He will never use this  moment as a story for the bar. 

My mood is carefree like the clouds drifting above me. My smile (for anybody who knows my history with Bill) really should match the beautiful day. Not anymore, though. I am a professional musician, and we don’t let our emotions show. 

Bill’s intention was to make it in the New York jazz scene, and become one of the greats. Years passed. I became a senior chief, myself, and even climbed a couple ranks beyond. I really didn’t think I would see that man again. Until today.

I’m attending a wedding for one of my wife’s relatives. We are back in Agnano. The Navy base relocated, in two directions, a long time ago. Plenty of space in Gricignano, and the convenience of our own air base right next to the commercial airport. Even for the sentimental fools like myself, it just made sense. I married an Italian beauty, settled down in Naples and got over any sentiment. Tumbleweeds blow across empty sidewalks in the old American base, but this section of Italy is accustomed to  major upheavals.

Drinks punctuate everything around here. If you want to celebrate: drinks. If you want to meet friends at the end of a long day: drinks, of course. If you have to wait for something: drinks. Today is no different. Predictably, the wedding party is delayed. We get drinks while we wait.

The race track holds weddings now. During the daytime, horses zip with their light carts around the track, but when the sun sets on weekends, something magical happens. Brides linger over pictures, wanting everything to be perfect. Grooms hang in there, looking as perfect as they can until they get drunk. Then, well, who knows?

At the end of the bar, an American has had too much to drink, and his laugh barks loudly at his too-young companion. He is much too tall, a little more paunchy, a little more wrinkled. Actually, a lot more wrinkled. He is telling the same old stories from a long time ago when he was leaving Agnano, and I was just coming in. Has he seen me? Is he ignoring me? I certainly hope so.

His companion is curvy in the Neapolitan, Sophia Loren way. She is blonde, obviously by choice, but who cares? In her clingy red dress, with plenty showing in front, the only thing keeping her from appearing to be a hooker is the fact that she wears a businesslike jacket. She comes close to us in the middle of the bar with a wad of euros, and leans so that most of the people at the bar get a good show, paying for the last few drinks. In her husky voice, she thanks the bartender, and swishes her way back to Bill.

She drops her pocketbook almost at my feet. It must be the Louisiana in me, But I retrieve it and had it to her with respectful, “Here you are, ma’am.” The way she takes it back, without connecting exactly, shows she may have had as much to drink as Bill has. She thinks me in that same husky voice, and that’s why Bill is now looking straight at me.

The disappointment never shows on my face. Time to be a grown-up, though. How I hate it.

I guide my wife, with her classic style and her confident walk, down to the end of the bar where Bill sways with his companion.

“Honey,“ he says, “I used to know this guy. The first time I lived in Naples. He was a rockin’y trumpet player, and I was the leader of the band.“ I grit my teeth so that nobody can see because the highest he ever climbed was Assistant Director.

She shakes my hand in a floppy, disorganized way. 

I say, “I’ve been living in Naples for the last 20 years. This is my wife.”

Turning to Bill I say, “Last we were together, you were in a big hurry to get back to New York and make your mark in the jazz scene. How did it go?”

His eyes shift, looking for something far away to focus on. He rests hopefully on my wife’s dress, but she never shows too much in front, so he focuses instead on the exit sign. “Well, things don’t turn out exactly as people hope, do they? Besides, I missed Naples too much.”

He wraps a clumsy arm around his companions shoulders, “I guess we both got it right about the wonders of Italian wives.”

“I guess so,“ my mind is still in a mildly violent place. I glance at the lovely woman next to me, and my wife’s presence keeps me grounded.

“Honey,” he says, looking at his blonde, “I could tell you so many stories about this guy…”

The wedding couple for our party is finally called. We will be leaving Bill and his wife, hopefully forever.

I brace for another telling of the same story.

Then with a quick glance at my wife, he says, “I guess when I was younger I may have been sort of a jerk.”

I shake his hand, as we leave. “That may have been going around.”