The piano was rolled out of the big practice room at the beginning of the night, before the house was open, while the halls were still empty save for a few hippies and hobbits. Men's choir wheeled it down the hall to a corner by the auditorium doors, in front of the windows, with a ledge to sit at and play.
Tommy Marcus is the most talented pianist at the school. I wouldn't call him one of the prodigies, like the violinist who serenades the stage during lunch, or the Harvard to-be graduate, but he's got a way with the stand-up box of strings. It becomes him. As good as his is with the piano, the voice alongside it beats all else, and I knew before I ever saw him he was, if not prodigy, an extremely talented kid.
He's accepted as if a prodigy, though. The other talented pianists wordlessly regard him as their superior, making room at the center of the ledge for his choice of song, the same way the other musicians let the violinist own the stage whenever she so desires. It's out of respect for the song, and all songs, and music everywhere -- the better musician plays first.
So, as the audience members began to file in, standing in line and getting their tickets marked, Tommy played and he sang and his friends circled around the piano, leaning on their elbows (like bicycles), and sang with him, entertaining themselves before showtime, eventually abandoning the piano in the hallway before the curtain rose.
After the concert was over, and after the terrifying but good-natured hug, Thomas (the cellist) and I were looking for my costume in the band room. It was easier then, after all the other bags had been picked up and gone home, but all we found was an empty floor. To greet us when we left, a song floated down the hallway, just around the bend where the borrowed piano rested.
By this time, Thomas was beginning to notice my entire demeanor becoming substantially less like myself and more like Martensen. I glided instead of slouched, I twirled instead of turned. I no longer had to worry about being too shy or too awkward or too much like myself, watching things happen and recording them for later. In the tie-dye and Levis, beads and bandanna, I was now a performer, a participant, and a part of the world around me. By wearing his clothes, I took on his place in the world, wore his masks, and could no longer stand to observe without participating.
And I knew this song.
I knew it from Lyssa, who, during a passing period before science one day, decided to rock me back and forth and sing it to me like a lullaby. Lyssa is shorter than me by a little under a foot, and has a very powerful and passionate voice with a habit of changing keys at unplanned bars. She sang "Hallelujah," the Leonard Cohen one. After a few lines, I noted that the song had obviously touched her in some way, so I went home that night and listened to it 36 times before I went to sleep.
I knew this song.
As this fact slowly clicked within, I ran barefoot down the hallway as it neared the first chorus, which timed my arrival so perfectly I (Martensen) could not help but meet it halfway. I belted the word as loud as I could, before realizing I (Shady) cannot sing very well.
I sing like a cellist, which means I hear notes and can mimic them eventually, but my voice is not well-trained enough to hit on the notes right away. I did not hit a single syllable correctly at the hallelujah I slid in singing with all I had. The singers turned and looked at me, all dressed in black, Tommy and his friend at the piano, a couple leaning against the lid and two girls at the other end, sitting or standing by the windows. They had obviously rehearsed this, with well-planned harmonies and practiced melodies. Or they were just naturally talented.
The song continued, and I, in an effort to save face, continued singing. I, Shady, dressed in brightly colored seventies-themed apparel, still smelling like a gay boy, continued singing, reaching pitch and holding it best I could as the chorus rose. They smiled at me, considerably amused, and a few of the smiles stitched themselves into giggles between notes, and I joined the ensemble.
I couldn't leave.
I knew this song, and no one was coming to save me, and there was no way I could leave. So I just kept going. There were instances in the song when some kids forgot the words, or didn't know them, or couldn't see them from the phone Tommy's friend was reading off of from the music rack. The two girls left halfway through the song, a bass vocalist joined at one point and hummed harmonies, and I sat down on the ledge and sang with all I had (which is not as much as Martensen does).
By the time it ended, and it began to sink in what exactly I had done, Tommy leaned across his friend, looked me in the eye, and gave me a fist-bump. Which was exactly the moment I realized I was still myself and had just accomplished a horrendous thing, and succeeded. The pros to wearing a choir boy's clothes had evened out alongside the cons.
Before another song started and I embarrassed myself all over again, my phone rang, and Roonie saved me.
"Shady."
"Yes?"
"Did your mom come to pick you up yet?"
"No, I think her phone is turned off..."
"Oh. Sorry. You're still at the school though?"
"Yeah, participating in the experience of life. Why?"
"I left my makeup bag in the choir room, by the water fountain. Is there any way you could get it for me, and bring it to school tomorrow?"
"Yes! I'll go do that now."
"Oh thank you! Thank you so much!"
"No problem."
Just before I hung up, like a nostalgic afterthought of a dream in the morning right as you forget it, she said, "Wait. Shady. Shady."
"Yes?"
"Thank you for being my knight in tie-dye."
Thank you for being my knight in tie-dye.
So I found Roonie's bag and didn't find mine, and sat and listened to Tommy's piano as I quietly thanked Brady for the hug and Martensen for the clothes and Lyssa for the song and Roonie for the phone call, like prayers to humans I know cannot hear me, and I showered twice that night and still smelled like sweat and sunrise the next morning.
MORAL: It is best not to ask about the four-minute hallway exchange of rolled-up Levis and a single sock which took place the morning after, and sometimes losing things makes for good memories.
Tommy Marcus is the most talented pianist at the school. I wouldn't call him one of the prodigies, like the violinist who serenades the stage during lunch, or the Harvard to-be graduate, but he's got a way with the stand-up box of strings. It becomes him. As good as his is with the piano, the voice alongside it beats all else, and I knew before I ever saw him he was, if not prodigy, an extremely talented kid.
He's accepted as if a prodigy, though. The other talented pianists wordlessly regard him as their superior, making room at the center of the ledge for his choice of song, the same way the other musicians let the violinist own the stage whenever she so desires. It's out of respect for the song, and all songs, and music everywhere -- the better musician plays first.
So, as the audience members began to file in, standing in line and getting their tickets marked, Tommy played and he sang and his friends circled around the piano, leaning on their elbows (like bicycles), and sang with him, entertaining themselves before showtime, eventually abandoning the piano in the hallway before the curtain rose.
After the concert was over, and after the terrifying but good-natured hug, Thomas (the cellist) and I were looking for my costume in the band room. It was easier then, after all the other bags had been picked up and gone home, but all we found was an empty floor. To greet us when we left, a song floated down the hallway, just around the bend where the borrowed piano rested.
By this time, Thomas was beginning to notice my entire demeanor becoming substantially less like myself and more like Martensen. I glided instead of slouched, I twirled instead of turned. I no longer had to worry about being too shy or too awkward or too much like myself, watching things happen and recording them for later. In the tie-dye and Levis, beads and bandanna, I was now a performer, a participant, and a part of the world around me. By wearing his clothes, I took on his place in the world, wore his masks, and could no longer stand to observe without participating.
And I knew this song.
I knew it from Lyssa, who, during a passing period before science one day, decided to rock me back and forth and sing it to me like a lullaby. Lyssa is shorter than me by a little under a foot, and has a very powerful and passionate voice with a habit of changing keys at unplanned bars. She sang "Hallelujah," the Leonard Cohen one. After a few lines, I noted that the song had obviously touched her in some way, so I went home that night and listened to it 36 times before I went to sleep.
I knew this song.
As this fact slowly clicked within, I ran barefoot down the hallway as it neared the first chorus, which timed my arrival so perfectly I (Martensen) could not help but meet it halfway. I belted the word as loud as I could, before realizing I (Shady) cannot sing very well.
I sing like a cellist, which means I hear notes and can mimic them eventually, but my voice is not well-trained enough to hit on the notes right away. I did not hit a single syllable correctly at the hallelujah I slid in singing with all I had. The singers turned and looked at me, all dressed in black, Tommy and his friend at the piano, a couple leaning against the lid and two girls at the other end, sitting or standing by the windows. They had obviously rehearsed this, with well-planned harmonies and practiced melodies. Or they were just naturally talented.
The song continued, and I, in an effort to save face, continued singing. I, Shady, dressed in brightly colored seventies-themed apparel, still smelling like a gay boy, continued singing, reaching pitch and holding it best I could as the chorus rose. They smiled at me, considerably amused, and a few of the smiles stitched themselves into giggles between notes, and I joined the ensemble.
I couldn't leave.
I knew this song, and no one was coming to save me, and there was no way I could leave. So I just kept going. There were instances in the song when some kids forgot the words, or didn't know them, or couldn't see them from the phone Tommy's friend was reading off of from the music rack. The two girls left halfway through the song, a bass vocalist joined at one point and hummed harmonies, and I sat down on the ledge and sang with all I had (which is not as much as Martensen does).
By the time it ended, and it began to sink in what exactly I had done, Tommy leaned across his friend, looked me in the eye, and gave me a fist-bump. Which was exactly the moment I realized I was still myself and had just accomplished a horrendous thing, and succeeded. The pros to wearing a choir boy's clothes had evened out alongside the cons.
Before another song started and I embarrassed myself all over again, my phone rang, and Roonie saved me.
"Shady."
"Yes?"
"Did your mom come to pick you up yet?"
"No, I think her phone is turned off..."
"Oh. Sorry. You're still at the school though?"
"Yeah, participating in the experience of life. Why?"
"I left my makeup bag in the choir room, by the water fountain. Is there any way you could get it for me, and bring it to school tomorrow?"
"Yes! I'll go do that now."
"Oh thank you! Thank you so much!"
"No problem."
Just before I hung up, like a nostalgic afterthought of a dream in the morning right as you forget it, she said, "Wait. Shady. Shady."
"Yes?"
"Thank you for being my knight in tie-dye."
Thank you for being my knight in tie-dye.
So I found Roonie's bag and didn't find mine, and sat and listened to Tommy's piano as I quietly thanked Brady for the hug and Martensen for the clothes and Lyssa for the song and Roonie for the phone call, like prayers to humans I know cannot hear me, and I showered twice that night and still smelled like sweat and sunrise the next morning.
MORAL: It is best not to ask about the four-minute hallway exchange of rolled-up Levis and a single sock which took place the morning after, and sometimes losing things makes for good memories.
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