The Storage Closet of Doom

Oh holy nine gates of hell! I have try outs Tuesday. Tuesday. I have two days until try outs. I feel queasy just thinking about it.

Try outs are, without a doubt, the bain of my existence. You see, I have had many a try out and all of them were accompanied by a horrific nightmare-ish quality. It's like a really old detective movie where they're sitting in the interrogation room. Mr.Private Detective is sitting behind his desk cooly waiting for you to break under the pressure of his deductive skills. Meanwhile, you're sitting there using a slightly yellowed handkerchief to wipe away your perspiration. Exactly like that.

My first try out was held in the sixth grade. I had been playing the saxophone for a year and was no doubt behind the others that had been playing for two. Mr.C (Short man with red hair who has a tendency to look flushed) is sitting in his office. By office, I mean small closet that has been converted into a dimly lit extremely cramped room of torture. I don't remember much of it. What I do remember seems to be filled with flickering lights, shaking papers, and fog. Yes, fog. I think he brought in dried ice for the occasion. The sicko.

But, I'm not here to tell you about then. I'm here to tell you about now. The past two years I have had to try out for the high school band director, Mr.Denton. My extreme fear of Mr.C has obviously carried over to Mr.Denton with interest. Freshmen year try outs involved a darkly lit chorus room. Sophomore try outs were moved into small storage room. This years try outs...I fear they may be moved into a even smaller and dimly lit storage room. Oh blast.

Band directors and small dimly lit storage closets must be feared. Freud has something to say about early childhood traumas effecting you later in life. See. I'm not crazy. Ask Freud.

I should be frantically practicing, but if I practice then I'm forced to think about the you-know-what. So I'm going to safely avoid any type of thinking by reading. Yeah.

I wouldn't be worried so much, but this is the last year I have to get first chair. I don't want anyone else to have it, therefore I must get it. If this means using sabotage and unchivalrous poisonings...duty isn't always pleasant you know.

Wish me luck and safe sabotaging. I'm off to conquer a room of dusty band equipment.