Chapter Three: Music Lessons
(November 4th)
Steve looked nervously around the classroom still unable to believe he was here. His original plan had been to get Amanda or Jesse to take these classes, or even CJ or Dion, but the more he thought about his explanation for wanting one of them to learn to play the violin, the more ridiculous it sounded. He was a cop, for crying out loud! There was no need for him to take music lessons. If Mr. Downing refused to give back his mother's violin just because Steve hadn't found anyone who could play, he could simply arrest the man and take it back.
So why was he here? The only explanation he could imagine was that the way Mr. Downing had talked about the violin, like it was slowly dying of neglect and lack of love, had struck a chord within him. He smiled at his accidental pun. Struck a chord.
Steve glanced around again. While he'd been thinking, two more students had walked in. Now they were seven, and an eclectic bunch at that. He was relieved to realize he was not the oldest in the room. At the end of the row to his right sat an older woman. Judging from her age and professional dress, Steve thought there might be a possibility that she was about to retire or had just recently done so and was looking for a new hobby.
Next to her, was a nervous-looking Hispanic man, in his early thirties, wearing metallic, round-rimmed spectacles, a bow tie, and a sweater vest. He probably thought that developing some musical skill might make him more appealing to women. For some reason, Steve got the strong impression he was a mama's boy, and he couldn't help but think women would find the guy more appealing if he'd just lose the bow tie and change into a sweatshirt and jeans.
Between Steve and the bow tie guy was a girl, probably still in high school, turned out in what he thought the kids called gothic style. He had to wonder if his parents had thought he was as strange when he was a teenager as some of the adolescents today seemed to him. The girl's straggly blonde hair hung around her face like a curtain, warning off those who might start a conversation uninvited. She was dressed all in black, with a long spaghetti strap dress and a lacy cardigan over it and soft black suede boots. As she tossed her head, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, Steve saw that her skin was powder white and she wore black lipstick and eye makeup. John Lennon glasses with shiny silver frames and dark lenses perched at the end of her nose. Her nails were painted black, of course. If she hadn't looked so odd, she would have been a stunning young lady.
When she turned her head and caught Steve staring, he tried to look away, but she said, "Oh, go on and look. I know you think I'm weird."
Steve looked back at her, blushing slightly, and when she flashed him a lovely smile of perfectly straight, white teeth, he had to smile back. "I-I'm sorry I was staring, I know it's rude."
"Don't worry about it, and don't be afraid," she said. "I'm really perfectly normal." Indicating her attire, she said, "This is just to get my parents to notice me."
"I see," Steve replied, liking the girl already. "If you don't mind my saying so, I wouldn't think you'd have to try that hard."
"I don't mind, but you try being noticed when you're the fourth of seven kids in a 'blended family', three his, two hers, and two theirs."
She had marked the quotes in the air and rolled her eyes when she said, 'blended family,' and Steve had the strong impression she didn't approve of political correctness.
"Normal and smart don't get any attention at our house," she explained to him, "and sometimes the best praise you can get is to be ignored. I could have looked normal and been a loser like my twin brother, but he's been in jail twice and dropped out of school. I look like a freak, but I have straight A's."
"Oh, I see," Steve said. Wondering if she simply underestimated the amount of attention her parents gave her, he asked, "And are your parents paying for this class?"
"No," she said mockingly. "You think I'm just another whiny kid, don't you? My real dad sends me a check every month. He gave me a bonus for Christmas, enough to pay for these lessons. I haven't seen him or had a phone call from him in two years, but on the memo line of every check, he writes, 'I love you,' every time."
She said 'I love you' in that mocking tone again, and Steve couldn't help but feel bad for her. He could tell she knew where she stood in the world, and unfortunately, it was at the bottom of everyone's list of priorities. He wondered how long it would be until she got into some serious trouble.
"Don't feel bad for me," she said, surprising him. "My family might be a mess, and all the people who should care don't, but I have a few really good friends, and we don't smoke or drink or get high or have orgies or anything like that, and they'll think it's really cool that I'm learning to play the violin." Then she extended her hand to him and smiled again and said, "Sara Andersen, and you are?"
Steve smiled back, "Steve Sloan. You don't happen to read minds, do you, Sara?"
"No," she said, her tone very matter of fact, "but everyone says the same thing when they meet me, so I could guess what you were thinking." Then she winked and whispered, "Watch this."
She turned on her stool to face the bow-tie guy and Steve heard her say, "Boo!" He had to stifle a laugh when the poor man jumped and nearly fell off his stool.
To Steve's left was a slender Asian man, probably in his sixties or seventies. Hair that had once been pure black was now salt and pepper with a Fu Manchu moustache to match. Brown eyes, so dark they were nearly black, glittered with natural curiosity, and an expressive face revealed his every thought as he took in his surroundings. Despite the obvious differences, the man reminded Steve very much of his dad. Taking a cue from Sara, when the old man finally looked at him, Steve extended his hand and introduced himself.
A strong grip belied seeming frailty, and in a reedy voice, Steve's neighbor said, "I am Yoon MinJe, and I am pleased to meet you, Steve Sloan."
"I am pleased to meet you, too, Mr. MinJe."
Steve was a bit startled when the old man cackled at him. "Yoon is my surname," he explained, "MinJe is my given name. Koreans place a high value on clan connections, so we put the family name first."
"I see. Then, what should I call you?"
Yoon MinJe looked inscrutable for a few moments, then he grinned. "Most people who know no better call me Yoon, but you may call me MinJe."
Steve smiled and nodded. "All right, and you can call me Steve."
Sitting beside MinJe was a woman in her thirties and a girl of about twelve. They had been bickering since they walked in the door, and were clearly mother and daughter. The girl was the image of her mother, which Steve thought unfortunate, because the mother was not an attractive woman. She was too thin, waspish, pinched-faced, and irritable. Both she and her daughter had reeked of cigarette smoke when they walked in, though Steve sincerely hoped the nasty habit belonged to the mother and not the daughter yet. As Steve watched them, he realized they would actually both be much more attractive if they simply didn't look so mean and ill tempered.
"I don't want to be here!" wailed the girl.
"Look," the mother snapped back, "you said you wanted violin lessons for Christmas."
"Yeah," the girl whined, "for me, not for us."
Steve suspected this was an attempt at so-called 'quality time' that the child wanted no part of. She had probably asked for the lessons, fancying herself an artist among philistines, and now that her mother was invading her fantasy world in an effort to meet the parental obligation of showing an interest in her child, the girl wanted nothing more to do with the violin.
"Well, Amy, that's just too bad. I'm here, and that's that." She grabbed the girl's arm and pulled her close, whispering, though not quietly enough to keep the rest of the class from hearing, "Just look at these people. There's no telling what they might do to you if you were here alone. Now, just relax and try to enjoy yourself. If you pay attention, you might even learn something."
Steve couldn't fault the woman for her caution. As a seasoned cop, he knew better than most people just how evil the dark side of society could be. Still, he felt vaguely insulted at being lumped in with 'these people'. Even after all his years on the force, he still tried to keep an open mind about people and didn't suspect them until he felt he had reason to. Sometimes, his reason might be just a gut feeling, but his instincts were good, and his gut seldom lied.
"I want to GO HOME!" Amy yelled.
MinJe leaned in and said softly to Steve, "I don't know what's wrong with children these days. My son and daughter would have been ashamed to act that way."
Before Steve could reply, Sara turned around, and, feeling no shame herself, she said loudly enough for everyone to hear, "At least half the problem with kids these days is their parents. Most of my classmates do the stupid things they do because no one cares enough to stop them. Do you think kids would want to get high or drunk or have sex if they knew what it was like to be loved?"
Before Steve or MinJe could say anything, a strange looking man walked in and introduced himself as Cole Simon, their instructor. They were to address him as Mr. Simon or Maestro. Steve heard a snort of laughter from Sara, and, after giving her a glance that clearly said 'cool it,' he looked to the other side of his to see MinJe leaning back slightly to peek around him and glower at the girl.
Mr. Simon was bald as an egg on the top of his head, but he had lots of bushy, curly black hair that formed a ring around the sides of his head reminding Steve of a mountaintop sticking up out of the clouds. There was a large raised mole on his scalp about two inches above the hairline and directly above his right eye, and Steve was sure he wasn't the only one in the class who kept finding himself staring at it. Mr. Simon wore a beat up leather jacket, faded jeans blown out at the knees, and canvas Converse sneakers with holes at both big toes and one of the little ones. He had a five o'clock shadow, and deep creases formed on his face when he turned to frown at them. His eyes were set so deep beneath a heavy brow that Steve couldn't guess at their color, and he had a sallow complexion.
Sara leaned over and whispered to Steve, "I think he's a bit old for the grunge look."
Steve cast her a sideways glance, and hoped it conveyed disapproval rather than amusement. He really didn't mind her wise cracks, but he was paying good money for these lessons and didn't want any of it wasted on teacher-student conflicts.
Mr. Simon handed out nametags, then, and asked them all to wear them every day for the first week of the course. Once they had their nametags on, Steve found out the older woman's name was Silvia, the bow tie guy was Marcos, and Amy's mother was named Melinda. At Mr. Simon's orders, they all stood, and, gathering their things, moved away from the stools they had been sitting on.
"Ok, first of all, is there anyone here who can't read music?"
Steve was mortified to find he was the only one who raised his hand.
Mr. Simon rolled his eyes, and in a stage whisper, contemptuously said, "There is always one! Why, is there always one?" Then he smiled disdainfully at Steve, and pointing from him to the stool on the end said, "You! Over there!"
Obediently, and hoping to avoid any further embarrassment, Steve quickly complied. When he was settled, he began to open his instrument case so he would be ready when the lesson began, but Mr. Simon made a tsk, tsk, tsk, noise at him and said scornfully, "Don't even bother with that."
"But I thought . . . "
"That was your first mistake," Mr. Simon told him. He set his own instrument case on the stool beside Steve and opened it. Taking out a small booklet, he handed it to Steve and said condescendingly, "Here. When you learn to read music and count, I will teach you to play the violin. Until then, just stay out of the way, all right?"
Too stunned and ashamed to be angry, Steve just nodded, closed the case on his rented violin, and said, "All right."
"Now," Mr. Simon continued. "Who can read music, but doesn't play any other instrument?"
Steve wasn't surprised when the only one foolish enough to raise his hand was Marcos. In this way, Mr. Simon sorted the class into three groups. Steve was on his own, all the way at the end of the row with his little booklet, 'Reading Music Made Easy' by Cole Simon. Mr. Simon had left two empty seats between him and the rest of the group. Marcos was next, along with Silvia, because Mr. Simon did not consider the Jew's harp, harmonica, and spoons musical instruments. Sara, MinJe, Melinda, and Amy were all together because they each played at least one other instrument. Steve was surprised to learn that Sara played the clarinet, trumpet, guitar, piano, and flute, and she was taking lessons on the harp at school. He was glad to see that MinJe was also impressed. He liked Sara and MinJe, and hoped they would get along.
By the break forty-five minutes into the class, all of the students except Steve had been allowed to tune their instruments and tighten their bows. They could all name the parts of the violin and had received instruction on basic maintenance. Steve was still struggling to make sense of the booklet Mr. Simon had given him.
When the students went out into the lobby, Sara bought herself a Diet Coke from the vending machine and came to stand beside Steve who was growing more frustrated by the minute trying to study his lesson. She tilted her head to read the cover and burst out laughing.
"Oh, my God, he is such a pompous jerk!"
Steve murmured some form of reply and continued reading and MinJe came to join them. Sara sidled up close to him and read over his shoulder.
After a moment, she said, "He calls that easy? Puh-leeze!"
When Steve just continued reading, she yanked the book out of his hand and said, "Look at me."
He did and she said, "Why did you let him treat you like that?"
"Like what?" Steve feigned ignorance, but Sara gave him a, 'Who do you think you're kidding?' look, so he just smiled and said, "He took me by surprise, and it just wasn't worth getting upset over."
"Ok, the surprise I can understand," Sara said.
"Yes," MinJe said. "His behavior was appalling, and I am sure we were all surprised, but you had every right to be upset as well."
"Yeah," Sara said. "He was rude and condescending and insulting, and you should have said something, and by the way, the other half of the problem with kids these days is society. There was a time when people used to look out for each other, and there was a real social pressure to be courteous. Kids didn't get away with being smart or rude because someone would always correct them. When you didn't stand up for yourself, we should have said something on your behalf."
"She is right," MinJe agreed.
"Well, I didn't, and you didn't," Steve said, "and it doesn't matter now."
The fact was it did matter very much to Steve now, more so than when it had happened because he had gotten over the shock of being so poorly treated and was feeling very insulted and angry. He was also frustrated because he hadn't been able to make heads nor tails of the book, and all he wanted to do was learn to play a song or two well enough to get his mother's violin back from Mr. Downing in time to present it to his father at Christmas.
"May I please have my book back, now?"
"No," Sara said, and she handed it to MinJe. Then she grabbed Steve by the arm and led him into a vacant classroom. MinJe took one look at the book, shook his head, and threw it in the trash. Then he followed them into the empty room, curious to see what the young spitfire was about to do next.
"Sara, what are you doing?" Steve demanded.
"I am teaching you to read music," she said.
"That's what the book is for," Steve told her.
"That book is garbage," Sara argued.
"She is right," MinJe said again, "and that is where I put it. We will teach you now so when we go back you can join the rest of the class."
Steve looked warily at the unlikely allies. He had the distinct impression they were ganging up on him, but now that his book was gone, he had no choice but to attend their lesson.
Sara started by going to the chalkboard and drawing a loopy, swirly thing that looked to be part figure eight, part ampersand.
"That is the treble clef," MinJe said. "Music for violin is written in the treble clef."
"And this is the bass clef," Sara said, drawing an ear with a colon next to it, but you won't have to read it unless Mole decides to be a jerk and quiz you on it."
"Mole?" Steve and MinJe said in unison.
"Cole, mole, the thing on his head," Sara told them.
MinJe laughed and Steve just rolled his eyes.
Sara drew five lines and labeled them from bottom to top, EGBDF. "Ok, Steve, just remember, Every Good Boy Does Fine, and the spaces spell FACE."
Now MinJe went to the board and drew in the notes for the bass clef and labeled them. "They are off by one space and one line, but the notes are the same."
In twenty minutes, they had him counting 3/4 time, 4/4 time, cut time, and 5/8 time. He could identify whole, half, quarter, eighth, and sixteenth notes and rests on site, and clap even the most complex rhythms Sara could invent by the third try. He knew f was loud, p was soft, and sfz meant hit it hard and back off fast. He understood what a key signature was and knew the symbols for sharp, flat, and natural, but never having played an instrument before, he couldn't hear it in his head.
"Ok," Sara said, "that was a quick and dirty lesson, and you'll have forgotten most of it by tomorrow, but if you meet me here at say, seven thirty, I'll be glad to review with you. I have an old intro to musical notation book at home that you can borrow until you get the hang of it."
"And now we are late," MinJe said, "and we should be getting back."
As the three of them crept back into class, Mr. Simon reeled on them and snapped, "In the future, if you cannot return from the break on time, do not bother to return."
"So sorry, Mr. Simon," MinJe apologized, "it will not happen again."
"Yeah," Sara said. "We taught Steve to read music for you during the break, so now he can join the class."
"Oh, you did, did you?"
"Yes, Sir, Mole," Sara said, smiling innocently.
Silvia gasped, Marcos chuckled, and Amy and Melinda laughed aloud as Mr. Simon's hand flew to the mole on his head.
"Uh, Cole . . . I mean, Mr. Simon," Sara said. Then in a loud whisper, she added, "Sorry!"
While she was talking, MinJe had collected his and Sara's things and brought them over to the two empty seats between Steve and Marcos.
"What do you think you're doing?" Mr. Simon asked.
"We will help Steve keep up with the class," MinJe said. "He's a little behind since you didn't allow him to participate in the first half of the lesson."
"I didn't give either of you permission to move your seats," Mr. Simon said.
"We didn't ask," Sara said, and plopped herself down on the stool beside Steve with a note of finality.
"We will not disrupt the lesson any further," MinJe said. "Please, teach us, Maestro."
Mr. Simon shot the three of them a lethal look and moved on with his lesson.
"Ok, you," Mr. Simon said pointing to Melinda who sat at the end opposite Steve, "you're first."
"Excuse me, Mole . . . I mean, Cole . . . Mr. Simon," Sara said and his hand flew to his head to cover the blemish as it had before and several of the students laughed, "but what's the point of nametags if you're just going to point at us and say, 'you' all the time? Maybe you should wear a nametag. I know you want us to call you Mr. Simon or Maestro, but Cole is a great name, and it's kind of stuck in my brain, but then there's that thing on your head," the hand went up and more chuckles erupted, "and, well, it just really messes me up for some reason. If you had a nametag, I might not slip up and call you Mole, Mole," the hand, "I mean Cole," the laughter, "I mean Mr. Simon."
Mr. Cole Simon was livid and sputtering with rage, and despite his earlier rude behavior, Steve felt a little sorry for him. As he advanced toward Sara, Steve decided he better intervene, and, taking Sara by the hand, he said, "We'll be right back."
Leaving their instructor still stammering, Steve dragged Sara out into the hall.
"Oh, my God, do you believe that? He was so mad!" Sara said, laughing hysterically. "That was just too funny!"
As she slowly calmed her laughter, she realized that Steve wasn't laughing. She looked at him and said, "Why are you such a stick in the mud?"
"It wasn't funny, Sara."
"Oh, come on, Steve! After the way he treated you, he deserved it."
"That may be so, but that doesn't make it funny."
"Oh, don't be such a fuddy-duddy, Steve!"
"You know, earlier, you said part of the problem with kids these days is that no one cares enough to stop them when they are doing something foolish," he said. Then, giving her a dead level stare, he asked, "How can you be so sure of yourself when you don't even recognize someone who cares? What you are doing to Mr. Simon is mean, childish, and unbecoming, and I am asking you to stop it."
Chastened, Sara dropped her smile, lowered her eyes, and nodded. "Ok, I'll stop, but if he keeps acting like a jerk, I'll tell him about it."
Pouting, she turned to open the door, but Steve caught her elbow. She looked at him, and he said, "There's nothing wrong with confronting a problem, Sara. That's the first step to solving it, but when you give like for like, that only makes more trouble."
She thought about his advice briefly, smiled, nodded, and went back into the classroom, Steve following her.
When Steve and Sara returned, Mr. Simon glared at them for a full fifteen seconds. Steve watched as Sara met his gaze defiantly, only looking away when Steve gently touched her elbow and quietly asked her a question.
For the remainder of the class, Mr. Simon had the students attempt to play their instruments one at a time. As each student had only limited success in making music and much success in making dying animal noises, Mr. Simon became progressively more agitated.
"No, no, NO!" he shouted as Marcos screeched out a few almost-notes. "Like this." He lifted his own instrument and pulled the bow across the strings a few times producing a simple series of notes.
Marcos tried again, with little success, and Mr. Simon just rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Stop! That's enough for tonight." He turned to MinJe and said, "You, you're next."
"My name is MinJe, Mr. Simon," the old man tried to nudge his instructor into showing some respect.
"Ok, whatever, let's hear you."
MinJe sighed regretfully, knowing his effort had been for naught. He raised his instrument and pulled the bow across the strings. Though the sounds he produced were the least painful so far, they were still far from music.
"Stop!" Mr. Simon said before MinJe could have a second go at it. "We're running short of time," he said, and everyone heard him mutter, "Thank God!" Then he turned to Sara and said, "You. Go."
Sara cleared her throat and made a great show of pointing to her nametag.
"I don't have all night," Mr. Simon told her.
She cleared her throat and coughed, and slapped her hand against her nametag three times, then left her hand on her chest pointing to her name.
Mr. Simon glared at her for a long moment, and she glared back at him. Finally, he smiled wickedly, showing lots of teeth, as if he wanted to bite her head off, then, with strained politeness, his teeth clenched the whole time, he said, "Sara, it's your turn. Would you like to play for the group?"
"Yes, Sir, Mr. Simon. Thank you." She gave him a brilliant, toothy smile that never touched her eyes and drew the bow across the strings. Mr. Simon stopped her after less than a minute.
"That's enough! That's enough!" Turning to Steve, he said, "You're next . . . " As Steve raised an eyebrow and Sara cleared her throat, he added hastily, ". . .Steve."
Suddenly Steve was nervous. His face felt hot, and he knew he was blushing. He was the least musically talented of the group, and as bad as they had sounded, he was almost afraid to take his turn. His palms began to sweat, and he swallowed hard as he raised his rented instrument. His bow, held in a trembling hand quivered above the strings for a moment in indecision, then he held his breath, brought it down, and drew it hesitantly across the strings.
A sweet, mellow sound floated through the room amid gasps and soft exclamations of surprise. Steve slid the bow across the strings again, and the same sound greeted his ears, and he started breathing once more. He gave it another try; this time moving his fingers to a different position on the fingerboard, and the tone was different, but still unabashedly beautiful.
Music. Steve grinned. He was making music.
Suddenly, Mr. Simon's caustic voice cut across his thoughts. "Ok, enough for tonight. At least someone learned something," he said, looking daggers at Steve. "Now, you need to know how to store your instrument properly."
For the last ten minutes of class, Mr. Simon showed them how to wipe the rosin off the violin, loosen the bow, and place both pieces in the case so they would not be damaged. Then he recommended they purchase a device called a Dampit to help keep the violin from drying out. Finally, he reminded them that their tuition for the class included five hours a week in the music practice rooms and he highly recommended they all take advantage of it.
"You can record yourself playing and then listen for your mistakes. God knows, you'll make enough of those, and all of you can use the practice. Some more than others," he added, giving Marcos a hard stare.
As the class filtered out of the room, Steve approached Mr. Simon.
"What do you want?" the instructor asked before Steve had a chance to begin.
"I just wanted to say I'm sorry." Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw Sara turn and begin to stomp toward him and he saw MinJe take her wrist and hold her back. As he continued speaking to Mr. Simon, he silently thanked MinJe for the intervention.
"I didn't see where the course description listed the ability to read music as a prerequisite. Sara and MinJe were a great help, and Sara has offered to tutor me until I get the hang of it. I'll try not to hold up the rest of the class, and I promise we won't interrupt again."
"Ok," Mr. Simon said dismissively, not even looking up, "See that you don't."
When Steve didn't walk away immediately, Mr. Simon looked up. Something in the larger man's posture said he was waiting for something. Suddenly, Cole Simon didn't feel quite so important anymore.
"A-apology accepted," he said stiffly.
"Thank you, Sir."
As Steve walked out into the lobby, Sara came stalking over to him, MinJe following in her wake.
"Reading music was not one of the prerequisites for taking this class, Steve. Mole . . ." Steve raised an eyebrow and she amended her statement. "Mr. Simon was just being a jerk."
"I know that, Sara," Steve told her.
"Then why did you apologize?"
"It's called subtlety," Steve tried to explain.
"Huh?"
MinJe smiled and elaborated. "Not only does Steve know that reading music was not a prerequisite, but Mr. Simon knows that he knows, am I right?"
Steve nodded. "I suppose."
"So?"
"Call it an olive branch," Steve said.
"With a very big stick," MinJe added.
Sara looked perplexed, then she grinned broadly.
"Oh, I get it. You're offering to write tonight off as a bad start, but you let him know he better change his attitude tomorrow."
Steve nodded and said to MinJe, "You know, some of the kids these days are sharper than most people think."
"Oh, I agree," MinJe said nodding.
Sara stuck her tongue out at both of them. Looking at his watch, Steve said, "It's getting late and I have to be at work early in the morning. I'll see you two tomorrow, and thanks for helping me out. I was really feeling like the class dunce before the break."
After Steve shook their hands and said his goodbyes, Sara looked at MinJe and said, "Dunce?"
"You know what it means, yes?"
Sara nodded. "It's a dummy, right?"
"Yes."
They looked at each other and shrugged. Then MinJe grinned. Sara grinned back and said, "He has no clue how good he is, does he?"
MinJe shook his head and told her, "No, he has no idea at all."