The Swan of Tuonela - 4. The Planets

The following Monday, Phillip wheeled into a parking space, grabbed his case and ran into the church. The band had been off for three weeks, and he had gotten lazy, so he was off schedule and running late as usual. He flopped down in a pew at the back and put his horn together. When he was finished, he took out a couple of reeds, picked up the used pill bottle, went into the kitchen and filled it with water and dropped the reeds in. He returned, picked up his bassoon, slid his seat strap and bocal into the bell, grabbed the reeds, walked up and sat down. Rudy was already in his seat, running scales. He played bass clarinet and sat next to Phillip.

Rudy was a short Hispanic guy, as big around as he was tall. He taught the flag corps at one of the local high schools and in spite of being rotund, was very light on his feet. During rehearsal break, he would always show Phillip the routines he was currently working on. Phillip watched one evening as Rudy’s wooden rifle soared circling up into the air, held for a second and then descended. Rudy came out of his spiral facing Phillip just in time to grab the butt of the rifle in his right hand, stilling it for a moment before throwing it up, circling again, this time to descend and be caught behind his back. Rudy brought it around in front of him and twirled it in front of his chest, stationary in the air, until with a snap, he caught it with both hands, right over left, thumbs pointed down, barrel vertical in front of his nose. Impressive.

“So what routine are you working on for the fall?” Phillip asked.

Rudy frowned. “Some homage to 70s football games,” he said, rolling his eyes. “We’re going to have some gravel-voiced, super serious narrator like they had on all those stupid TV flashback spots. You’d think it was Edward Murrow reporting from Berlin or something. I don’t know where Harold came up with this idea,” he said, mentioning the head band director. “I can only suppose his …Dramaturge…,” he said the word sarcastically, shaking his head, “was on drugs when he thought up the concept. I survive the entire humiliating experience only by looking at it as high camp.”

Phillip nodded and fiddled with his horn, setting everything up and opening his music folder.

“OK, let’s start with the Holst,” Cheryl, the conductor, said, stepping on the podium. “At the top.”

On the downbeat, everybody started playing, heavy, ponderous chords of the introduction. But they didn’t get very far before Cheryl stopped and gave them a disparaging look and tapped her chest.

“My tempo, if you don’t mind,” she said. “I’m the conductor. Therefore it’s all about me and my desires, and right now, I desire something a little faster.”

They started again, and this time kept on tempo and managed to get past the first section. They finished the first page with only a couple more stops for corrections. Then there was an extended passage with only high woodwinds. Rudy and Phillip didn’t have to play again for a long time, so they started counting measures of rest.

“So…,” Phillip leaned over to Rudy, speaking conspiratorially. “I met someone.”

“Really?” Rudy said and turned to look at Phillip over his glasses. “And what’s he like?”

“Very sweet. Kind of quiet, though.”

“What’s he look like?”

“He’s gorgeous,” Phillip gushed. “He’s a little taller than me, with dark hair and really blue eyes.”

“Gym bait, no doubt,” Rudy said, rolling his eyes.

“Of course.”

“And just where did you meet this paragon?”

“At the Round Up,” Phillip said. “Sixteen?”

“Seventeen.”

“No, sixteen.”

Rudy shook his head from side to side. “Nineteen.”

“Well, anyway I met him a week ago last night.”

“Twenty-two,” Rudy said and then looked at Phillip and pointed to the music on Phillip’s stand.

“Where’s my bassoon?” Cheryl yelled.

“Shit!” Phillip pulled his reed into his mouth and started playing four measures into the phrase whose entrance he had missed. When the phrase was over, he stopped. Rudy still didn’t need to play.

“Oh, and you’ll love this,” Phillip said turning again to Rudy. “Guess what he does?”

“I have no idea.”

“He’s a mechanic at the airport.”

Rudy looked at him in shock. “That’s so, so ….so blue collar.” Rudy was infamous for getting involved with what were euphemistically called ‘tradesmen’ in Victorian novels. His last boyfriend had been a meat cutter at a grocery store. “That’s not like you.”

“It’s not, actually,” Phillip admitted. “But if you could see his smile, you’d understand.”

“Nice, huh?”

“Hypnotic… erotic…..”

“Despotic?” Rudy offered.

“Bass clarinet, I need my bass clarinet,” Cheryl said, looking at Rudy and Phillip. “Would you two stop gossiping and play?”

After a couple of more stops for woodsheding, they finished the first piece and pulled up the music for the second, an arrangement of Copland’s Saturday Night Waltz. As the baton came down, loud, noisy chords and solo notes erupted from different sections of the band, the prominent motives being thrown from section to another, imitating a group of fiddlers tuning up. Eventually the chaos subsided and the dissonant chords softened and dissolved away as the oboe began the melancholy waltz theme with it’s crippled, hop-along accompaniment. The simple melody was gently answered by open fifths on the bells, mimicking the original pizzicato harp chords.

There wasn’t much of a part for bassoon to play, so Phillip got to just sit and listen. The piece reminded him of when he’d been in junior college out in west Texas, years ago. During the week, he had stayed at the house of his aunt and uncle and then driven home on the weekends. He never saw much of his aunt or uncle. They were gone by the time he left in the morning and were in bed by the time he came home at night. He spent most of his time on campus, practicing piano in the music building or swimming laps at the natatorium or cycling out in the flat countryside or reading at the library.

There had been many nights when Phillip had left the music building late after having practiced piano for hours and driven outside of town where the lights of the city faded, and he could look up at the stars in the open sky. After all these years he didn’t miss much about west Texas, but he did miss the sky. Out away from town there were few lights and only a handful of towers topped with flames, burning off the natural gas from the oil fields. The stars blazed coldly and brightly and could easily be seen. Phillip had decided one year to drive out once each month and learn to recognize the constellations for that month. He had carried a flashlight and book of star maps that he had checked out from the library and a cassette tape of Saturday Night Waltz to play in the car. Over the course of several months, he had learned many constellations, and even now in his mind the intervals famously used by Copeland in his music, the open fifths and fourths, somehow mirrored for Phillip the solitude and emptiness of all those nights spent staring up at the sky, all alone.

Phillip sat and listened to the melody as it passed from one instrument to another. Finally, he had to play again - quiet, low notes, molto sostenuto, under a sad clarinet solo. This was the part of the piece he loved, quiet and empty and full of longing. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to enjoy his reverie for long since it was soon interrupted by intonation problems in the saxophones. As Cheryl worked the section, Phillip thought about the upcoming concert. Everyone had played really well. He wondered whether Mark would be able to come.

During the rehearsal break, Phillip told Rudy all the details about Mark. As he ran on and on, Rudy listened patiently and tried to act impressed at the right points. Rudy pretended to be cynical and jaded and world-weary, but Phillip knew he was secretly happy for him. Nevertheless as Phillip finally ran out of superlatives, Rudy was happy to see Keith, one of the sax players, approaching.

“Were you guys at the big party last week?” Keith asked, walking up to them.

“What party?” Rudy asked.

“Well, it wasn’t a formal party actually, but the neighborhood went crazy when that court decision came down. You know, the one overturning the state sodomy law.”

“Oh yeah, that, I read about it in the paper,” Rudy said.

“I can’t believe that finally in 1982, I’m a free man in the state of Texas,” Keith said.

“I was down here for a little while. I came down to look for a book. It was pretty awesome for a weeknight,” Phillip said. “There were people everywhere, yelling and screaming. They were dancing in the streets.”

“And the weekend was crowded too, lots of guys out,” Keith added.

“Yes, Phillip was just telling me about some new tart he picked up over the weekend,” Rudy said.

“He’s not a tart. He’s very nice,” Phillip said a bit too defensively.

“So what’s this guy’s name?” Keith asked.

“Mark,” Phillip said.

“What does he look like?”

“Well, I’ve decided my short answer is to tell everyone he looks like Bruce Jenner,” Phillip said. “Which I suppose is sorta true, now that I think of it.”

“Will I get to meet him? Is he going to come to the concert?” Keith asked.

“I’m not sure. I hope so. But I haven’t said anything about it to him yet. It’s a little early to start making social demands, I think.”

“All my boyfriends have to come to my concerts,” Keith said with finality. “It a clause in the prenup. And it’s never too early to start making social demands. Get them trained as soon as possible, that’s what I always say.”

They stood around talking for a while, discussing the concert. The theme was “Our Favorite Things” and included all the members’ favorite pieces. They had voted over two weeks to determine the choices. Unfortunately, some choices were more favorite than others.

“I swear if I have to play Procession of Nobles one more time, my head’s going to explode,” Rudy said.

“Yeah,” Phillip admitted. “It is a little heavy on Russian composers.”

“Well, you know Cheryl and her Russians,” Keith added. “I think she must have lived in St. Petersburg in a previous life.”

Rudy then proceeded to catch everyone up on the latest band gossip. Afterwards Keith left to talk to one of the trumpeters. Phillip and Rudy stood silently for a few moments.

“You know,” Rudy said primly. “I entertained a gentleman caller myself this weekend.” That was the way Rudy talked. He fancied himself a character from a Tennessee Williams play.

“Oh really?” Phillip laughed. “Who?”

“This guy named Evan. He’s a bus driver for DART, he continued. “I guess my new workout routine is paying off,” Rudy said as he turned to look at his butt.

“I thought you had lost a few pounds.”

“I picked up that Jane Fonda workout tape. I get up and do an hour of aerobics every morning before school.”

“Well, whatever you’re doing is working. So where did you meet this guy?”

“Oh, modesty forbids me….”

“Drop the demure,” Phillip interrupted and laughed. “The bookstore again, right?” he said in pretended disapproval. Rudy met all his tricks at the bookstore. “So did you have fun?”

“Well, he was OK,” Rudy offered. “But definitely a moped trick.”

“A moped trick.?”

“Yeah, like a moped. You know. They’re fun to ride, but you wouldn’t want any of your friends to see you on them.”