Disclaimer: Guess what? It's all mine!!! HAHAHAHHAHA! True story, too ^_____________^ oh, and the POINT is that it's over-dramatized. I WANT it like that.
The mindless mind of Shadarii brings you....
the drama....
the pain....
the glory....
The Mountain-Dew Flavored Life
Of A Clarinetist In The Pit..............................
Dateline, nine-thirty-three AM. Monday, September
17. We had just finished watching last Friday's show, indeed, the first
time we had ever marched in front of real humans (well...there was
the weight team BUT). I had just taken my hands away from my eyes, having
seen myself messing up and therefore messing up the rest of my line. The
pain and my shame were doubled when out director held up a pair of scuffed
marching shoes that some careless someone had so generously donated to
the back room, but were being rejected. Mine, of course.
And then the TV was turned off, the little blue
blips where one of the flags had pressed record instead of play were gone.
The incessent chatter of the boneheads who were recording us, ceased. The
lights were turned on, and eyes were blinked slowly in pain.
"That's good, people. Very good," we were told.
"Not good enough, though, not yet. It needs work," he said, turning to
recieve a pile of lyre-sized paper from our T.A. "..plenty of work, and
we will get to it but first." Here was a devious smile, the frightening
grin to scare the shakos off all band members. "I have an idea."
"It's called Hoedown. Some of you know it
as the main theme from Rodeo, or for the more cultured, the Beef:
It's What's For Dinner arrangement." We waited for the bombshell to
hit, for our peaceful existance to flounder, indeed, the very foundation
of our lives to fall from under us like a trap made from vines and dirt
clods! "It's for the pics." A general sigh of relief from the band...we
all knew Rodeo and it was SCARY man. "and the percussion," Sighs
of pain from the percussionists. The rest of the band was happy. All but
those wise and wonderful sages, the clarinets. For we knew, we knew that
the devilish gleam in our director's eye had to mean something.
"The rest of you," and here the climax, "the rest
of you will square dance."
Square dancing?? Our fragile minds went speeding
from the scene back to faroff days of freshman gym, days when we listened
to twangy country music for an hour-and-a-half, a time of patience where
we tried to get our peers and colleagues to move WITH THE BEAT. Stars.
Promenades. One-Two-Chachacha.
Speechless.
And then the protests: "What? Oh no, really?"
"We can't possibly!"
"Oh shaddup, you babies!"
"Wait, will we be dancing with boys or like, other
girls? 'Cause like, I am like surrounded by girls in like, the last set.
And like, that's kinda gross."
This he ignored the way a grazing cow will ignore
the swarm of bees forming a blanket on his back. He simply waited.
When that didn't work, he gracefully bade us to be silent.
"Hey shut up! Now LOOK. We have three spots open
in the pit."
The pit! I began to remember....
Way back in seventh grade, five years past, when
the concept of "marching band" occured to me, I stared down at my snare
drum in chagrin. I was not looking forward to carting the thing all over
creation on a little harness. I twirled my 5A (yessir, 5A, can you believe
it?) drumsticks around and thought about the instrument I was playing on
the side. The Bb Clarinet. So shiny. So pretty. So....light.
And so it passed. I worked up my clarinet skills
to the point where my poor snare became my side instrument. I missed my
drum, I missed the chimes and the vibes, I missed the percussionist way
of doing every little thing. But by then I really liked my clarinet. And
so I was happy.
Then one fine day, our junior-high director decreed
that we would take a trip to the state marching festival to cheer on our
local high school, the one I would be attending next year. So we piled
into the bus and drove, not knowing what to expect, but eager just the
same.
We sat there with our nachos and Pepsis, watching
the first band march proudly on to the field, heads held high, feet moving
together, and you were sure that if you were at eye level, it would appear
to be one person to a line and not 16. They were big. We were quiet, for
once, as they began to play.
They were good, too. I don't remember the song.
The thing I do remember is my friend nudging me and saying, "Hey...wonder
why they don't hafta march." And there they were. The pit in all
its glory. I watched them and smiled to myself in self-loathing. If I had
known that I could simply have switched to bells, I would not be playing
the clarinet! But then I shrugged, decided that I liked the clarinet better
anyway and swigged my soda. And the percussionist inside me laid herself
down to sleep.