Almost, But Not Quite

Try outs have came and gone and the verdict has been given. Fourth. Fourth out of sixteen saxophones. Ah ha! I didn't fail at life completely.

**polite applause** "Thank you, thank you."

The entire day of try outs was spent in queasy anticipation of my imminent downfall to completely worthless. I got absolutely no school work done and by the time three o'clock rolled around I was just about to burst into a fit of hysterical screaming complete with changing octaves.

All of the saxophones were in the band room waiting for their turn at self inflicted torture. Some were standing idly by and chatting and others --me-- were playing their prepared pieces over in over in hopes of last minute improvement. As the other players walked to the storage cabinet I slunk back into my chair, trying to avoid notice so that I could get those extra two minutes of practicing in. Finally, my turn was fast approaching. After the next person I was up...

You'll never guess what I did. I dropped my saxophone. Dropped it. On the floor. Oddly enough, this is the first time I've dropped the thing. It's the first time I've dropped any saxophone. Ah, but here's the highlight. Not only did I drop it, I bent several of the keys. This made it impossible for me to go any lower than a G. Shiva weeps.

Thankfully, one of the sophomores let me borrow their saxophone. Bless you benevolent sophomores! Just in time too, as I pushed my mouth piece on Mr.Denton walked out the door scythe in hand. Beckoning to his next victim. "Oh, me you say?"

I walked into the storage closet--You know how I feel about those.-- and was pleasantly surprised to realize that this one was larger than last years. Seconds later it dawned on me that there was no low lying fog or dim lighting. Thank goodness!

Even with the lack of fog etc. I was a nervous wreck playing on a foreign saxophone and did not do my best, but he didn't say anything--He usually takes out time to correct us during try outs. This is not a good idea considering how close I am to hysterical during these things.--and I didn't stay in there longer than I had too.

So, for now I must for fourth, but I will be challenging. Hopefully, by the time challenges roll around I'll have my saxophone fixed. Fifth chair has already said that he's challenging me. Well, I like my chair and he can't have it. Now let some more practicing ensue...

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.