Hunkered own in the middle of nowhere is the town of Sagebrush. From all appearances, it does not amount to much. No more than twenty businesses line either side of Main Street. What entertainment there is can be found at the tavern, the bowling alley, or the picture show, unless you want to count the Foster’s freeze as an ice cream parlor. On the old Oar Road, at the fringes of the town, stands a white church and next to it is the elementary school. The high school is about five miles father out on the same road. Sage Brush may be small, but it is not stupid. Someone figured out a long time ago that putting all those teenagers that far out of town would allow them to drive their teachers nuts while leaving the rest of us in peace. You may wonder how such a small town can even support a high school. The answer is that it is the only high school within a radius of fifty miles, and it picks up a lot of out of towners. Since the only people crazy enough to live within that radius are the people who pretty much grew up there the vast majority of us graduated from or at least attended Sage Brush High. Faith in its football team is almost a religion with us, and we trot out its band to play at just about every occasion.
I always thought the coach of the football team must be under a lot of pressure. I still do, but the toughest job probably belongs to the band teacher, Mr. Waver. Once I was foolish enough to ask him how the band tryouts were going. He cupped his chin in his hand, cocked an eyebrow, and asked if I had ever heard of the great character actor, Slim Pickens. More than once Mr. Waver has looked up at heaven and asked God why He gave two left feet to any kid who had even the slightest amount of musical talent.
“This is a marchin’ band,” he bellowed. “That means ya all step out with the same foot at the same time, and ya all keep the same distance from the folks around ya. If ya can walk and play at the same time, the music should help ya keep in step.”
You could not accuse him of taking anything for granted, but he did exaggerate a bit. I would not ask him, but if you did, I am sure he would agree that the exception to the two left feet rule is a trombonist named Harvey Slider. Young Slider should have been the natural if unofficial leader who held the band together. The Problem was that all he could think about was gaining enough weight to play football.
“About once a week he cuts my class to use the football team’s weights,” Mr. Waver complained. “The rest of the week he eats everything in sight. The only thing that fool boy has accomplished is increasin’ the size of his butt and belly. I’m surprised he hasn’t busted his breeches.”
It would have been easy for Mr. Waver to blame young Slider for what happened. To his credit, he blamed the “dickheads” instead. That is his word not mine, but I know who he meant. He was talking about the principal, Dr. Schwanskopfmann, and the drama teacher, Richard Head.
I will get to what happened shortly. First I want to clear up any impression I might have given that Mr. Waver is bitter. Actually he tends to be rather philosophical about such things. I remember him telling me how he had spent a good deal of time wondering why he had to put up with those two. He said he finally concluded that it was just the natural order of things. It was his opinion that no institution or company reaches its optimum size without putting at least one dickhead in a position of authority. The quintessential number is two. Preferably, they head up separate departments that have to interact with each other. That way, if you go to one dickhead to expedite something, he will always tell you to talk to the other dickhead. Why does top management put up with it, you may ask? Well, he had a good answer. “They don’t know.” He explained that dickheads always carry out a direct request from a superior. They also stick up for each other because if one of those departments is taken over by someone else, that someone is bound to produce more work that will flow into the remaining dickhead’s department.
At this point I could not help questioning his assumption that no one in top management would know. I conceded the point but said it did not matter.
“Those who know,” he said, “think it’s a good way of distinguishin’ between the complainers and the employees who are clever enough to get the job done in spite of the dickheads.”
This is the ideal of course. He would be the first to tell you it is not always so. In fact, he said the worst situation is like the one at Sage Brush High where one dickhead is in a position to expand the responsibilities of the other dickhead.
“And he’ll expand the other dickheads responsibilities because it means fewer things will reach his desk?”
“Well, that’s what he’s thinkin’.”
Now that I have cleared that up, it is time to tell you what happened. You see our town really makes a big deal out of homecoming. People literally come from hundreds of miles away. The festivities begin with a lavish parade from Main Street, up the Oar Road to the high school. The band always pauses there and plays three or four tunes before marching into the stadium. Then there is a football game between Sage Brush and its arch-rival. After the game there is a barbeque followed by a dance.
Last year was Dr. Schwanscopfmann’s first homecoming as Principal, and he wanted to put on a good show. Naturally, he could not think of anyone more qualified to put on a good show than the drama teacher. So he put Richard Head in charge of everything. The first time Mr. Waver heard about this was when he was called into Dr. Schwanscopfmann’s office.
“Dick has this great idea,” Dr. Schwanscopfmann said. “Tell him about it, Dick.”
“Yes, I think we should put all your trombones right up in front of the rest of the band.”
“What?” Mr. Waver gasped.
Dick then affected his best Robert Preston voice and recited the order of the band in the song “76 Trombones.”
Mr. Waver almost gagged. “But we’ve been practicin’ with the band in a certain order all year. Changin’ it now would really mess those kids up.”
“If you were some ordinary band teacher, I’d agree,” Dick crooned, “but I’ve seen you drill. You’re brilliant, Mr. Waver! Three weeks should be plenty of time for a man of your talent.”
Dr. Schwanscopfmann’s words poured out like molasses. “We have faith in you, Mr. Waver. You’re the best. You can do it!”
The finality of Dr. Schwanscopfmann’s manner told Mr. Waver that no further protest would be tolerated. Mr. Waver rose from his chair a started walking toward the door.
“That’s the spirit,” Dick called after him. “Get right to it!”
Mr. Waver was reaching for the door knob when he heard Dick say: “I have this vision of the equestrian drill team out in front of the band, synchronizing their maneuvers to the music.”
Mr. Waver’s hand lightly brushed the door knob as he performed a pirouette with all the speed and grace of a figure skater. “Horse shit!” He blurted it out before he could stop himself.
Dick’s face flashed red. “What? What was that?”
Dr. Schwanscopfmann gently placed his hand on Dick’s shoulder. “I think he was inquiring as to the volume of manure the equines might produce,” he said with exaggerated gentility.
“How much could they produce?” Dick screeched. “We’re not talking about birds. And it will be well worth it.” He let his voice drop back down into the Robert Preston range. “Picture it: Twenty of those magnificent creature all moving in time with the music. And behind them, resplendent in their uniforms, is the proud, high stepping band playing a lively tune. The perfect blend of man and beast. A sight to inspire men’s souls. Boffo! It will be boffo!”
Mr. Waver wanted to barfo. From the very depths of this soul rose the unspoken phrase, “IT WILL BE HORSE SHIT!”
“Yes,” Dr. Schwanscopfmann oozed. “Yes, I can see it. It’s brilliant, Dick. Truly, creative genius!”
Mr. Waver almost ripped the door off its hinges as he opened it. Carefully and slowly, very slowly, he closed the door behind him. He knew that if he did not hold himself in check, he would tear down the entire wall. “Dickheads!” He stopped off down the hall.
Although Mr. Waver was still grumbling over the reordering of his band and the fact that it followed the equestrian drill team, the parade started off quite well. At the first mile mark, however, the extra weight young Slider had gained came into play. It seems that the brief under shorts Slider was wearing began to creep up in back. With each step they climbed farther up his behind, putting tremendous pressure on the front. Finally, the left leg band of his shorts slid up over part of his scrotum, pinning it in a vise grip against his leg. It was now with a painfully measured stride that young Slider marched and played. Increasingly his thoughts turned from his marching and playing to the question of how he could extricate his scrotum. Never before had he so regretted his choice of instrument. “What am going to do, let go of the slide?” he asked himself. In spite of the discomfort, he expertly played a difficult part of the tune. He tried giving his hips a twist as he stepped out with his right foot. The sharp pain this produced told him in no uncertain terms that this was not a good strategy.
By the time he reached the two mile mark, the pain was becoming more than he could bear. Still, he gamely tried to carry on. After another very painful half mile he had made up his mind. There are a lot of things one will give up for his art, but, the Vienna Boys Choir not withstanding, a scrotum is not one of them. He increased the grip his left hand had on the trombone and raised the instrument so that it was pointed at the sky. He then began working his right hand down the front of his trousers. This was not an easy task given the weight he gained.
The first clue the female trombonist next to him had that something might be amiss was the silence. She was used to keying on the clear, crisp tones he normally produced. She glanced at him and noticed that his trombone was pointed at the sky. She then looked at where the struggle was taking place in his trousers. She watched his hand worked its way across his body to the point of pain. Her reaction changed from curiosity to shock and then to the realization that you cannot play the trombone while giggling.
He had just seized the offending elastic when he stepped on a particularly wet piece of horse dung. His feet suddenly rose toward the sky. He probably would have landed on his head if his rotation had not been stopped by his right foot striking the female trombonist in the chest. Where the slide of his trombone struck the coronet player behind him would have been considered a serous foul in boxing. Inspired by the blow, the coronet player hit a note that sounded as if a bull mammoth had suffered it for him. All three musicians fell causing a chain reaction. Adding to the comedy was the fact that young slider had not extricated his suffering scrotum. He continued trying to do so while trying to stand. As a result, he kept stumbling into or falling on other musicians who were trying to stand.
Most band teachers confronted with this tangle of musicians, instruments, and road apples would have been tearing their hair out, but Mr. Waver seemed to be enjoying the farce as much if not more than the rest of the audience. “Horse shit,” he cackled. “It’s horse shit!”
The comedy of the event must have softened Mr. Waver’s opinion about the principal and the drama teacher. “I shouldn’t call ‘em dickheads,” he said. “I suppose they meant well, but you know I was right about the parade.” Not that he was foolish enough to think it would do him any good. “Dick will say the horses were magnificent and the band performed well, except for that incident caused by a deranged student digging inside of his trousers. I’ll then have to explain why Slider was digging inside his pants. Dr. Schwanskopfmann will be sympathetic to the point of not blaming me for the tug of war in Slider’s breeches, but he’ll also tell me to instruct all male band members not to wear under wear on the day of a parade.”
Judging by the fact that the equestrian drill team is going to be out in front of the band again this year, I would say Mr. Waver’s prediction was fairly accurate. Mr. Waver also talked young slider into marching with the band again. Since this is Slider’s senior year it is his last chance to redeem himself. I do not think that he or any other trombonist will be wearing drawers, but they would have to go a long ways to match last year’s performance anyhow.
First published in macsbackporch.foxtail-farms.com on Mar. 30, 2010
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