Music Above the Water

I shouldn’t be here.

I want to be here.

My mind’s bouncing back and forth, and I want to stop worrying or thinking at all, so I look at the sheet music again. For a moment or two, all I can see are white dashes and black curly blurs. Then, it comes into focus. I feel my chest rising and pounding rhythmically, almost like my body was following the tempo of the music. It didn’t stop the pressure in my head, but it was enough for me to focus. The blurs became words, and I could make out the small tic-tac-toe games and random letter “b”s sprinkled on the pages. And then I look at the black bar again. I’m at that bar, and so is everyone else until the saxophone solo’s over. We’re all counting under our breaths, or through the smallest taps of out shoes, waiting for the time to come when each of us plays next.

I look up at him. His forehead’s shining, and if you look closely enough, you can see beads of sweat forming in the back of his neck, dribbling onto the white collared shirt. His whole face is tomato red, and his eyes were squeezing so hard, I thought he was on the verge of crying. Everything about him says he’s on the verge of breaking down. Even his body’s curled slightly, like holding the brass instrument was too much for him. Like six years’ worth of dedicated musical pressure had finally broken him down. But the only sign that he’s pushing onward is the shrill sound emanating from his sax. It differed so much from the rest of the ensemble- when everyone else had a chance to play, pitches flew everywhere. They stapled random shrieks, bends, and whines and called it their "improv". But not him. Music bled from his brass, flowing and bending as smooth as a river. He’s gonna be great, I tell myself for the umpteenth time that morning. And I’m gonna be known as the guy who couldn’t follow through. If anyone remembers me at all. Will anyone remember me after him? Will anyone pick me out?

It builds up again, and this time I forget my parents had to work in the afternoon, so I’m desperately looking around the drops of smiling white faces for a splash of brown before I remember. I need something to comfort me, something to reassure me that everything would be alright. No, that I would be alright. And this time, it couldn’t be the music. The music was my enemy today. The stone wall I had to jump over, the wild horse I needed to tame. The colors in the audience are incomprehensibly blending together, and I can’t look up anymore.

I belong here.

I don’t belong here.

I’m still sitting on the aged black plastic chair, looking down, and at the same time I’m in my sophomore year, asking the new band director if I can play jazz. He turns and gives me a sympathetic smile, asking me what instrument I can play, but I look at his eyes for one second and see that he already knows the answer. You don’t mean that sorry thing, they said. I stammer, “I- I was thinking I could…play the clarinet…”

Nothing about his face changes. Either he really knew the answer, or he was trying his hardest not to laugh. He heaves a dramatic sigh, and tells me that in case they needed one, the core pianist can play the clarinet. I notice he put all the emotion he could in that sigh, like he tried to sigh me and my brief hope away. I mutter a few words of thanks, and awkwardly walk back to my instrument case. With each step I take, I hear a building collapsing in on itself. Thunder cracking the sky open. A lone rifle firing in the night. A cymbal falling hard on linoleum. Forget it, I tell myself. Stop feeling pathetic. You’ve gone this long without jazz. Why do you want to play now? I drown myself in these thoughts, never wanting to see the surface again, and somehow in that ocean, I can hear Benny Goodman playing his solo above the water.

My fingers turn whiter as I grip my clarinet tightly. I look up again and notice we’re halfway through his solo. I’m still not ready to play. I’ve become so weak; I can’t even fake a smile on my face. If I can’t fake it…breathe. Just breathe. It’s so easy to say, a magical drug-free mantra to dissipate the invisible hand squeezing my throat and empty the mind, but it’s hard to think at all. My breathing feels louder. I need to inhale all the oxygen in the field to calm down, and somehow that’s not enough.

Junior year. The PA system’s electronic ring echoes, and I’m packing up, thankful that I could miss my history class with a legitimate excuse. The band director walks up to me, and I immediately notice that I’m not in the best angle to be looking at him. So I say a quick hello before immediately looking back down. He’ll ask me to look at something else to play for the spring concert, I think. I almost feel guilty—the quartet I was given a few weeks ago was still lying somewhere in my room, gathering dust like every song the band’s played this year. He talks about something and my mind immediately drifts away to my county competition, and the solo I couldn’t get quite right, no matter how slowly I fingered the keys. Then, I hear the word jazz and my attention snaps back to the present. My mind’s buffering, and I realize he asked me to sit in with the ensemble later that week. A professional clarinetist from New Orleans will be playing with in the concert, and for some reason or other he thinks I should go. He doesn’t say anything else, and for a moment my head breaks the surface tension of the water. Only for a moment.

My chair’s on the far end of the first row, and there’s a large gap between me and the other players. The clarinetist’s standing, waiting for the sound of piano keys. After a moment, he raises the dark red wood to his lips, and plays. Immediately, I fall in love. He’s nothing like Benny Goodman, nothing like the static recordings I put on repeat, and still I hear the same passion for jazz echoing in the dark auditorium. The stage lights are brighter. No, it’s like some darkness smothered them before he blew it away. Without realizing it, I lean forward and my back straightens. My eyes and ears want to take in more. I don’t think of anything else. I can’t think of anything else. We’re the only ones onstage, just me and this small god.

When practice ends, I stay behind with the excuse that I want to help the ensemble pack up the chairs and store away the music stands. I’m not ready to leave the stage yet, not until he leaves. I have questions, and I want to think of more questions. I want to know how he’s able to play like that, where the music really came from. Every time I stack a chair, I glance at him, hoping the director would wrap up his conversation. After a while, he does, and I thankfully take a step towards the clarinetist.

I immediately fall back in the ocean. I can hear him and Benny, singing without their voices, but I’m struggling to swim up. He’ll laugh at you for wanting to play like him. Why do you even try? You’re not dedicated in concert band. How will this be any different? You’re a hypocrite. You said you hated jazz for years, and now you want to do an improv? Who the fuck do you think you are? I can’t look at him anymore, and awkwardly stumble away. Exit, stage left.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

How many breaths has it been? How many seconds, how many measures have passed? I’m lost, but I can still hear the saxophone, and I trust him. What else can I do? I still feel my feet softly click against the wooden floor mat, and now I’m wondering if the sound’s meant for someone else to depend on. It’s how I cheat thinking for myself, and maybe I’m not the only one who does. But what if that’s all I’ll be doing? Cheating, weaving my way through obstacles, blending in the crowd, being a small support character in someone else’s life story? How does an NPC become a hero?

How am I going to play?

I’m back to two weeks ago. It’s our final practice of the year—the final practice of my senior year, and I’m up. My hands are sweating so much, they slip over the old plastic and metal keys. My jaw’s quivering, and I can hear it in the notes I’m straining to hold out. I can’t hold my clarinet over the stand; something’s pulling it towards the ground. I can’t even look at the director. My hands are pushing my voice against the pressure of the ocean, and I’m trying to swim up at the same time. I have a story I want to tell, but I don’t know if it’s mine or a story someone else wrote and I’m plagiarizing. My body can’t hold myself up anymore, and in my mind I’m begging for my time to be over. Every neuron in my brain’s focused, not on my failed improv, but on the director, trying to send telepathic messages: take pity on me, I can’t do what you want. Move on to the next person, he’ll do better. Just please, make it stop. One of them must have reached him, because he motions for the next person to stand, and I gratefully plop down on my seat, mentally making promises to practice before the field concert came. Promises I know I can’t keep. I look at the clarinet resting on my lap and my trembling hands. Waves of guilt and impending doom crash against every side of my head, and my tinnitus acts up. I can’t hear anything underwater save the taunting ring.

              I have one last chance. One more time to tell my story. And despite all its imperfections, despite how vulnerable I have to be, I want to share it. I’m looking at the sheet music, hoping it can help me find some peace in the storm. I feel my hands tremble as I hear the saxophonist reaching the end of his solo. In a few moments, he’ll gracefully sit down and smile at himself. He’ll look at me, and his eyes will say, that wasn’t so bad. I can do this easily, so it should be easy for you too. His friend will tap his right shoulder and give him a thumbs up. The director will smile at him briefly before motioning for me to stand, then look away during my brief time.

              Suddenly, I realized I don’t want that. I don’t want him to look away from me. I want everyone to stare at what I’m about to do. I want to be acknowledged. I want people to see past my anxiety, past my shaky hands and hunched back, and see me. I can squeak, I can play too soft for them to hear, but I want to play anyways. I’m still trembling, and I don’t know anymore if it’s anxiety or adrenaline.

The saxophonist starts to bend down into his seat, as if he was sinking into tar. With every inch closer to his seat, my heart beats faster, my wide-open eyes are burning, and my breathing nearly stops. I can feel my legs share the same irregular vibrations as my hands, and my jaw’s just beginning to join the discord troupe. After the seconds-long eternity it takes for him to rest, the director’s laser eyes burn into mine.

Electricity scorches through my lower back and floods my legs. I jolt upwards so fast, I almost fly into my music stand. My clarinet’s weightless, springing upwards with ease. It’s become a part of my body, sharing the soul wanting to present itself to the world. My head’s still in the ocean, and I can feel the heaviness of the water wanting to bend it down.

You think you’ll be able to match him? You think you’re on his level?

I don’t.

Why does this matter? You’ve never been dedicated enough to practice, so why do you think you can play?

I want to.

What makes you think you’re qualified to play jazz? To play an improvised solo?

I love it.

Who do you think you are?

I taste wood above my bottom lip as my upper teeth bite the hard plastic. My eyes dart to the faces of my peers, at the half-empty wine glasses next to them, at the camera set up behind the director, and then, beyond everything. I take one final, slow, deep breath, feeling the air inflate my lungs.

I’m me.

My head breaks through the surface, the air at long last kissing it, and I play.