Harold
This is a story I wrote last year. I am sorry to those who have already read it, I am just cleaning out my files and I needed somewhere to put it. I have written things recently but have yet to transfer them to the internet. Maybe going back to school will inspire me.
I did take the setup from Stephen Chbosky's "The Perks of Being a Wallflower," but that was part of the assignment. Silly writing class.
Dear Friend,
I am writing to you for the very first time. I don't know your name really, and I won't tell you my last name, just to be safe - but I'm writing you a letter anyway.
I'm writing this during rehearsal breaks. I play in the orchestra, here, you know. I'm second violin. I guess that doesn't really mean anything to you, but I guess I should tell you it means I'm just about as second-rate as you can get. I share a music stand with a nice girl named Stephanie. She has nice teeth and keeps hair out of her eyes by sticking out her bottom jaw and letting out a "puff" of air. I don't talk to her that much. I suppose this is because I'm very shy. That's probably why I am writing to you, someone I haven't even met. In fact, I know it will be kind of weird when you open this letter addressed to you and stamped and everything, but I just needed someone to talk to.
I go to school at Brigham Young University and, despite its "Stone-Cold Sober" label given by the Princeton review, I like it. Apparently the ranking "suits parents just fine" - though I know mine haven't touched a newspaper in years. It's a quiet campus, and pretty cozy, I guess. The people are nicer than almost any other group of people. They're nicer than kids from high school.
I grew up in Washington State, but not anywhere near Seattle or Spokane, so you probably don't know where my town is. It's a little town called Cinebar just off of Maysfeild Lake, and it's very small. I could count the different last names of people on my fingers, but I probably couldn't pronounce them all because there are so many Mexicans.
I was Valedictorian of my graduating class, which I thought was weird because I didn't do anything except finish my homework every night. I guess the kids out there just weren't that good with anything but cars and making out. I like cars, and maybe making out, but I'd have to try it first to tell you for sure. Mostly I would just go fishing by myself. I'd take my canoe out to the lake on the back of my truck with the windows rolled down and the radio on. I like Jim Croce best. Dad gave me all his old tapes so that's what I would listen to mostly. Other times I just left the radio off so I could think without getting confused.
I really love music. Sometimes, when I'm listening to something I really love, it seems like my mind just goes to a different place. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel and shut my eyes real tight. When I'm driving like this with my sister, she starts to scream and shove my shoulder, but I don't really snap out of it until she turns the music off. I guess I should be more careful, but I can't help it. I love music.
I love it so much that I decided to be a music major when I came to college. Mom said she knew all those violin lessons weren't for nothing. Dad just called me a sissy boy over the phone and went back out the garage to work on the hot rod with Dan.
Dan is my younger brother, but he's almost twice my size. He's almost done with high school by now, but he was supposed to be done a year ago. It's not that he's stupid, he just doesn't know about school things really. He doesn't like to read like I do, but he really loves cars.
I think he's going to be a mechanic after high school. Mom wants him to go to college real bad, but Dad doesn't really care. He just grabs a beer from the fridge and says, "I didn't go to a single day of college, and look at me!" It's times like that when Mom rubs her eyes real hard and says she's going to her room to take a nap. I think she drinks by herself.
Mom is the one who brought me to church when I was little. She doesn't go anymore, but I can tell she misses it. I would tell her to just come back, but I know she'd just let out a long sigh and rub her eyes again.
Sometimes Caroline goes with me to church. That's Caroline, my sister. She seems to like it, but probably not enough to break up with her boyfriend. They are the kind of high school students who really like cars and making out. She drinks, too, but she doesn't know I know that. I think she's worried what Mom would say, but I also think she's embarrassed to be doing something so stupid. She knows better.
Hold on, I have to pick up my violin again.
I’m back. Orchestra is what I love most about college. We sit in a giant room with strange sound-proof padding on the walls that look like square slices of yellow brains. We play for hours. I like sitting in the middle of the violin section. Sitting here you feel the vibrations somewhere between your throat and your heart. Sometimes they feel so heavy and so thick it seems like I can reach out and take one. I don't know what I'd do with one of those if I grabbed one, but it's fun to think about anyway.
The harpist sits right next to me. That is a beautiful instrument, but I know I couldn't play it because Dad would probably disown me. The girl who plays it has long ebony hair and long, slender fingers. She moves over the strings so easily and so fast, sometimes I forget to play for just watching her. Then Stephanie will nudge me in the side and I turn back around to the music. I guess I should feel embarrassed, but I really don't.
If I did play an instrument besides violin, I would play the French horn. I like to turn around and watch the five of them play when the conductor wants to work out something with the brass section. I like the second horn player. She has long curly brown hair and keeps a grey cloth on her knee to shine her horn between playing. She seems to keep a smile tucked in the corner of her mouth, even when she has her horn up to her lips. I wonder how she does that. She has the most beautiful tone I have ever heard, but she's not quite as loud as the rest of the horns, so that's probably why she's just second horn. I'd like to think I would be second horn. I would be much too afraid to play all the solos, but I would still be very good, just like her. They'd have to put me in second.
Our conductor is a thin, blonde man with a large face. I don't know if it is really all that big, but his expressions just make his face stick out. I like it best when we are playing soft and light - his eyes close halfway and half of his mouth smiles. I think that is sort of what I look like when I listen. He makes other faces, too, like when he knits his eyebrows together and scrunches his chin into a pout when we’re playing steady and regal, but I think the first one is the best. He taps his baton on the stand to get our attention when we start talking. I would want to be a conductor just for that, but I know I'm too shy.
We are running through the second movement of the Beethoven one last time before the end of rehearsal. I'm just going to finish writing this letter when I get home.
It's 9:30 and I'm sitting by myself in my room. I live alone in the Branbury apartments next to the car dealership. Every night I fall asleep to the glow of giant fluorescent spotlights and sappy jazz blasted over the loudspeakers. Don't ask me why they do this, I've been trying to figure it out for two and a half semesters. At least there's someone around who feels important.
I wanted to talk to the second horn player after rehearsal, but all I could do was watch her pack up her instrument and leave with the other horn players. She looks like someone who would probably go out for ice cream after rehearsal, but all I can do is watch.
I don't have any homework left to do. I finished up my theory assignment before rehearsal. Now I think I'll just sit in my room for a while and listen to Jim Croce before I go to bed. There is one song called "Operator" that I like to listen to when I'm feeling like this. If you have that song, take it out and listen to it before you throw this letter away.
I'm sorry to bother you, and I wonder if you have things you should be doing instead of reading this. Well, if you got this far, just listen to that song. I think you would like it.
Sincerely,
Harold