Love Triangle

I love music. It's what feeds me. It's what I was born to do, what I live to do, what I would die to do. Don't get it twisted. I love music.

I hate musicians.

And don't go for the obvious. "It takes one to know one." Har, har. I'm really laughing. Everybody's a comedian once they find out what I do for a living.

And more than I hate musicians or their shitty jokes,  I hate, hate, hate something else most of all: The Annual Tri-County Orchestral/Wind Ensemble Holiday Mixer.

ATCOWHM (pronounced simply "at comb") is an excuse for every professional and semi-professional player within a sixty mile radius to wear too much red velvet, drink too much eggnog, brag about their recent concerts and venues, and hook up in the back of Fourth Chair Violinist Kennedy's Tesla once a year. I hate it, but somehow my best friend Charlotte manages to steamroll me into going year after year after year. She's a tuba player — they don't really deal in subtlety.

"ATCOWHM tonight," she texts me, "don't forget your ugly sweater! Be there or be square — and I know how much you would hate that ;)"

I'm telling you, the jokes alone are enough to put a poor fool off the instrument forever. It ain't easy playing triangle.

Like hell I'm wearing an ugly Christmas sweater; That competition is so rigged. Tell me how a woodwind has won EVERY year for four years when their sweaters are almost always store bought and bland but the judge happens to be Judith Gale, first chair flutist and grade A nepotist? I opt instead for a pair of dark jeans and a flannel in green and red jewel-tone buffalo plaid. There. Seasonal. Yippee.

The chest pocket also happens to be the exact right size to smuggle in three ounces of peppermint schnapps. I'm barely in the mood to attend this stupid party, and I'm definitely not in the mood to pay twelve bucks for a watered down vodka-cran just because it's been dressed up with little pipe-cleaner antlers on the straw and renamed a "Rudolph's Nose."

Charlotte picks me up in her navy blue PT Cruiser at eight: exactly on time to be fifteen minutes later than the start of the mixer, ergo fashionably late while also maxing out the amount of time I have to suffer before the night is through.

And so it begins.

Somebody hands me a glass of something I don't want to drink and cracks a wise one about sending me sheet music via my Onenote email. One note, get it? Ha ha.

"Hey buddy, what's your angle?"

"Been working on your embouchure?"

"Bit out of tune at that last concert,  kiddo."

The night is a series of faceless tacky sweaters and twinkle lights that laugh at me and keep handing me flutes of cheap sparkling wine, which I accept with growing misery. Just when I think my suffering must have plateaued, my heart falls into my stomach as I realize it's time for my least favorite holiday tradition: sectional skits.

Call me a party pooper, but I just can't find an iota of humor in the two straight hours it takes for every single section of every single symphony orchestra and concert band to ape out two minutes apiece of inside jokes from the past year that all culminates in a weird, subliminal sense of superiority about playing the cello, or the clarinet, or the alto sax, or the viola, or — well. You get it.

But Charlotte loves the sectional skits, so I know we won't be leaving early. I pat my shirt pocket and confirm with a low moan of dread that I am now out of peppermint schnapps. Buzzed and disappointed, I fall into a chair, cross my arms on the jolly red tablecloth, and despondently pick plastic holly berries off the centerpiece to flick at passing bassoonists.

"Excuse me," a nervous voice crashes my pity party. "Has your section already gone?"

I look up to see a young person of indeterminate gender in an oversized sweater,  candy cane striped leggings, and a pair of antlers grasping an instrument case and a small backpack in their over-sleeved arms.

They're awfully pretty.

"I don't have a section," I slur, and for the first time I'm a little embarrassed about what a mess I sound and look.

"Oh…" they fiddle with the white faux fur at the cuff of the sweater. I can see now that it's meant to look like Santa's coat. "Sorry. This is my first year, I guess I don't know all the faces yet. If you're not going up for a skit, do you mind watching my backpack? I'm supposed to be backstage getting ready for the singalong."

Sweet baby Jesus Christ in the manger, I forgot the singalong. I have got to stop getting so sauced at these things. At least then I would remember what torture to expect next year.

"Whatever," I say, and then quickly add "yeah, I can do that for you" in the hopes that I sound like a fraction less of a jerk. I eyeball the case in their hands. Like any typical instrument case, it's made of faux black leather with a sturdy plastic handle and metal clasps, but I don't recognize the dimensions. In width and height it's almost square, and about twice as long. It's no longer than a clarinet case, but definitely not the right depth. Piccolo and flute are right out. It must be some weird bespoke bugle or something. I admit it, my curiosity gets the best of me, but before I can ask after it they're gone and their backpack is slouched on the seat beside me. I sigh, and consider caving and buying a Rudolph's Nose.

At last, the sectionals are over. Mapleburg's Chamber Quartet takes Best Skit, no surprise there. A small portion of some other orchestra sets up on the podium as a screen is lowered upon which the words to yuletide anthems are projected. You know. In case we forgot the words to "Up on the Housetop" since last year.

Antlers and Sweater stands near the back with their instrument case and practically vibrates with excitement. I watch them put it down on a horizontal music stand and undo the buckles — and I sit a little straighter in my seat.

With pure, unbridled joy and perfect rhythm, they play the jingle bells. Not any of those cheapy kiddie bracelets that any ham-and-egger can pick up at Dollar Tree either, no sir. A beautiful, sturdy thing built around a thick wooden core that's carved into a smooth handle at one end and a sharp rectangular post at the other with rows of four golf ball sized bells fastened to each side with industrial pneumatic staples. I find myself singing along after all.

They are massively talented in their craft and variable in their technique: in "Jingle Bells" they slap the pommel of the bells rhythmically with the heel of their palm to create an exact, staccato undercurrent. In "All I Want For Christmas Is You," they flick their wrist to give the whole post of bells a soulful shimmy on the offbeat. In "Silent Night," they hold the bells completely still and quiet — which,  trust me, is MUCH harder to do than you would expect. One short case of butterfingers during Jacob Miller's trumpet solo and suddenly you're the designated brass punching bag for a month.

The singalong ends on a charming rendition of "Auld Lang Syne," and the musicians on stage disperse back amidst their comrades. Antlers and Sweater seems to reappear out of nowhere at my table.

"Thanks," they beam, "you looked like you were having fun out here."

My throat feels dry.

"So… you're a percussionist?" I wager, trying not to sound too hopeful.

"Auxiliary percussionist," they correct. "I do pretty much everything, but it's these guys that I'm really passionate about." They pat their instrument case.

"Me too!" I word-vomit.

"You're a jingle bellist too? What are the odds!"

"Well no, I — er —" I'm past the point of no return. "I play the triangle," I admit.

"Oh, I just adore the triangle," they clasp their hands together as they take the seat opposite me. "It's so versatile and understated. Yours and mine both, people assume it's easy, but it's not. It's simple. Simple is different than easy. I mean, any trombone can play a few sour notes in concert and let it slip under the radar, but —"

"If you mess up in aux percussion, EVERYBODY knows who it is," I finish giddily, "I feel exactly the same."

Somehow their hands are in mine. They are calloused and perfect.

Just then Charlotte waltzes up to the table, sober but mellow as per the usual.

"Hey Scrooge, Madeline Wicket drank an entire bottle of grenadine on a dare thinking it was alcoholic, and she's not drunk but she's definitely vomiting Macy's red all over the women's room, so I'm gonna give her a lift home. You want me to drop you off on the way? You've suffered enough."

"No, you go ahead, I'll be here," I answer unthinking. Charlotte eyes the jingle bellist's hands in mine and smugly replies "text me!"

Which sounds like she's making herself available to drive me home whenever I need, but I know it's really her soliciting business that isn't hers. Then she's gone.

"So… you said this was your first ATCOWHM, right? Can I buy you a drink? They've got this stupid — this cute little vodkacran that they put pipecleaner antlers on, call it a Rudolph's Nose."

They smile at me.

"That sounds really nice. Please do."