Chapter One: Back In Black
A/N: This is a story that's been in my head for a while. It's anomalous among marching band stories for a good deal of reasons: the protagonist is male, an athlete (football player no less), and an underclassmen and the band in question is small and new. This story is more a story about life in the rural Southwest through the mouthpiece of Tobias Gerlach's marching band experience, but it wouldn't be the same without the band piece, so I put it here. That previous "chapter" was just setting the stage, because the setting here is much more important than in most band stories. I apologize for not using horizontal lines in the original of this chapter.
Tobias stretched his long, bronzed arms straight up, linking his fingers. His day thus far had been brutal; a two-hour football practice before dawn, then home to farm chores, breakfast and a half-hour nap before having to get back up and ride to school in his father's Jeep Comanche for band camp at nine O'clock. Now it was eleven-thirty, the sun was high in the sky, and Tobias was sore, tired and dehydrated. Another half-hour, though, and he would be on his way to air-conditioning, food and getting to sit down.
In front of the band on the practice field they'd painted in the grass between the arms of the "U" that was the high school, their drum major, a lean Apache in aviator shades and a muscle shirt, conducted the imaginary music that the two-dozen of them were marching to, standing on the running board of his lifted GMC Sierra. It was a good podium, albeit strange, and it made a good place to sit during the breaks.
"All right," said the drum major, "We are well ahead of schedule; that last set was scheduled for first thing tomorrow. Doctor Ramirez told me that if we were doing well, to call him and he would assess our work, and possibly let us go early. Should I call him?"
The band gave a chorus of affirmatives, and so the Native pulled out a rugged candybar cell phone and hit a speed dial.
"Yeah, we've got it. Seeya."
No sooner had he hung up than a dark-skinned, black-haired man of probably forty-five, with small rimmed glasses and a pony tail, stepped out of the building. He wore a Hawaiian shirt, and ratty blue jeans, which, unbeknownst to Tobias, could not have been further from his normal attire.
"Nathan," said the man to the drum major, "Can I climb on your cab real quick?"
"My what?" asked the drum major, confused.
"The cab of your truck. I need to stand on it for a second."
"G-go for it, I guess," Nathan allowed, curling his lower lip, interested. The man removed his glasses and placed his palms on the tailgate of the truck, which was at about his neck, and pulled himself up in a show of strength wholly remarkable for a man his age, then set down a foot and climbed all the way into the bed. The band watched, flummoxed, as he then climbed onto the cab, which was less of a challenge, and leaped to the roof of the building from it.
"I knew there was a use for that stupid truck of yours," said the director, looking down at Nathan, "Now, show me what you've done. I prefer to see things from above, as the judges will."
With a sideways glance over his shoulder, Nathan got back onto the running board and started the song. The students moved in and out of their sets fluidly, with Dr. Ramirez nodding at intervals, until they reached the end of what they'd learned, when he began applauding them.
"Good work," he said, "It is now eleven forty-five by my watch; you have until one O'clock." He squatted down and placed a hand on the surface of the roof, then swung down so that he was holding onto it, and let go, absorbing the momentum with his knees and standing up. It was only then that he noticed the looks on the faces of most of his pupils. "Go," he said, surprised, waving his hand dismissively. The students all paused, and then made a beeline for either Nathan's truck, or the parking lot.
Tobias sprinted for the truck, climbing on a forty-inch tire and pulling himself into the bed. In the cab, Nathan started the engine, sending a massive diesel rumble through the dual exhaust pipes. Adjacent to Tobias, another hitchhiker hoisted himself in just as the truck started backing up. Tobias knew him from football; he was a sophomore, the team's center, short, burly kid named Kenny.
"He did a lot with this thing over the summer," Kenny remarked to Tobias, looking up and down the bed, "It didn't used to look like this."
"It makes a good podium," said Tobias, grinning.
"Yeah, and a decent stepladder to boot. I was wondering why Nathan was conducting from his truck, but I guess that explains it."
The truck swung out of the parking lot, shocks absorbing the impact as they hit the highway into town. Behind them, a second car sped along, a black Audi TT roadster with the top down, loaded with five girls. Tobias wondered who the driver was; not many in Geronimo could afford such a car.
They pulled into the dirt lot of the local pizza joint, with the Audi behind them, and Nathan parked. The lot wasn't full, but there were a few trucks here and there, one of them being the owner's rig. A half-dozen kids piled in from the truck along with the handful from the car, and immediately sat down. Tobias found himself across from the band's only sousaphone, a small kid he'd never seen until that morning, and next to Kenny.
"Two larges all right with you guys?" asked Kenny.
Tobias and the sousa nodded their agreement.
"Good. I want sausage; what do you want?"
"Sausage is good by me," said Tobias.
"Ditto," added the tuba.
Kenny leaned back in his chair and turned to look at the kitchen.
"Yo, Keith, my hombre," he shouted in a false but well-imitated Cholo accent, "You got to get our order, man, 'less you not gonna have no job, and you can't buy no rims if you got no job."
A white kid, about Kenny's build, stepped out of the kitchen, and responded in the same accent, "'ey, fuck you, hombre. You think you the only customer I got up in this place, man? I gon' kill you, soon's my shift's done."
"Man, bring it," said Kenny, "I take you to school, motherfucker!"
"Hey, Keith," said Tobias, "You seen my brother?"
Keith dropped his accent. "No—wait, who's your brother?"
"Duane san Clemente."
"Like that fast fucking midget on the football team Duane san Clemente?"
"Yeah, him."
"How's that work? He's, like, red, and you're, like, white."
"He's my half-brother. Have you seen him?"
"Nah. Why?"
"He was apparently going to jack my car and drive around in it. If you see him, kick his ass."
"I'm not going to beat up the only other receiver we've got that's any good. You can do it." He ducked back into the kitchen and came out with a waiter's notepad.
"You're Duane's brother?" asked the kid across from him.
"Yeah. You know him?"
"He's in my grade."
"You're an eighth grader?"
"Yeah."
Duane was a small-built running machine of an eighth grader, Tobias's half-brother by his mother whom his father had adopted the previous year. He was almost fifteen, and thus old enough to be allowed to play for the high school in football, which he did with aplomb, tearing holes in even the varsity defense. In a fashion, Tobias was glad they were in different positions, him at quarterback on offense and linebacker on defense, and Duane at receiver and secondary.
Tobias took off his shirt and traded it for a short-sleeved Underarmor garment. Sitting down on the bench in front of his locker, he dug out his pads and started to assemble them on his person. Click-clack; the sound made him chuckle. Around the locker room, his forty or so teammates were doing the same. He glanced at each face in turn, and something hit him. No Duane.
"Yo, Jota!" he yelled at a lean Latino tying his cleats.
"What up?" The Latino looked up at Tobias from his shoes.
"What did you do with my brother?"
"I think he was on the field with Keith, last I checked."
"Fuckin' overachiever. Makin' me look bad."
"If you weren't such a band geek, you wouldn't have that problem."
As if on cue, two boys came into the locker room, clad in pads from the waist down but with their shoulders unprotected. One was Keith from the pizza parlor; the other was a small, lithe Apache, and Tobias's brother. Neither of them were used to that descriptor yet; both had been only children, albeit under different circumstances, until the fateful day in court when Tobias's father had won custody of both of them, and they had become brothers. Tobias had once delighted in being the only child; now, he had to share everything. Not that he minded; it was less chores around the ranch, someone to play Madden with, someone to torture when he was bored, but neither could get used to the idea that it was a permanent arrangement. Duane still called Tobias's father Mr. Gerlach, and their relationship was awkward at best. Luckily, Duane was smart enough to be grateful for what he had been given, a chance at a decent life, and not to bite the hand that fed him.
"Get into your shoulder pads, boys," said the coach, as he sat at his desk in front of an outdated Compaq, pecking away. The building of the new school had tapped out the budget for the last decade, and so the administration had gotten creative with the technology, receiving donations from various other high schools, Bureau of Indian Affairs offices, and New Mexico Plains University, stripping them, and installing open-source software to save disk space, RAM and maintenance costs. It worked pretty well, except for in Dr. Ramirez's case, because his composition software didn't run very well on Linux.
By the time Keith and Duane were fully suited up, the coach stood to address the team.
"All right," he said, "Good to see so many of you out for football this year. Most of you I know from our summer practices; for those of you who couldn't make it, welcome. I'm going to send around some introductions, but first, your captains. There's four, one for each class: for the seniors, we have our nose guard, Lawrence Gorman. We call him Lawdog." A three-hundred-pound Native raised his eyebrows. "Juniors, you get Juanito Iglesias, quarterback and free safety. Lucky you." The Latino that Tobias had spoken to earlier threw his hands straight up and there was a brief round of applause. "Sophomores, you get Kenny Andasola, our center. Last year, our starting center decided to tear his MCL in the second quarter of the first game; I told Kenny to line up at center and he's been there since. Finally, freshman, and Duane, I give you Tobias, linebacker and potential quarterback." More applause for the two underclassmen, and then the coach started up again. "We've got forty-two of you playing this year; ten seniors, twelve juniors, twelve sophomores, seven freshmen and an eighth grader. A lot of coaches would say that isn't even enough to play, but I came here from Dove Creek, where we played eight-man football, so forty-two doesn't sound so bad."
When the team finished with the field, it was all ready dark, and their coach had turned on the lights. Tobias removed his helmet and walked up the hill next to Kenny.
"Where are the band now, do you suppose?"
"Right there," replied Kenny, pointing at a line of silhouettes moving towards the field.
"Son of a bitch," cursed Tobias, "How are we supposed to eat?"
"After rehearsal," said Kenny tiredly.
The two musicians were the first ones in and out of the locker room, bolting down the hallway, past the underclassmen commons at the elbow of the "U" and into the band room. Sitting against a chair, assembled, was Kenny's trombone, and on the seat was Tobias's mello.
"Somebody must be in love with you, Tobias," said Kenny, "Because they would never do that for me." Disregarding his teammate's attitude, Tobias grabbed his horn and bolted out the door, past the practice field, through the parking lot and back down the hill he'd just run up.
"You look winded," said Nathan from his podium as the two of them arrived at their spots in the opener, "What did you do, join the football team on us?"
Tobias snickered, but Kenny summed up his response with one finger.