Brass Master Class

Stirring the ice cubes with his index finger,the man looks past the bored waitress to watchwind-blown palm fronds twist like dancers’ wrists,and vines of bougainvillea wind their wayaround a massive chain-link fence. Abovecongested U.S. 1, he sees the light railtrain advance due north and disappear.“I need another scotch, bartender.”

               Back     at school his afternoon class unpack their horns.     Showing off, a senior trumpeter     plays callisthenic licks from Also Sprach,     while the freshman French horn player from Cincinnati     wiggles his lips until his fancy half-tone     trills begin to agitate the air.

“Sir, should I close your tab?” “I guess it’s time,”the professor sighs while staring at his watch.A breeze blows through disheveling his hairas he gulps the last drops down and fishes inhis pocket. From his money clip he pullstwo bills and drops them on the polished bar.His red face shines. “Keep the change,” he smilesand laughing, stumbles to his feet. “Whoa, horse.”

     The bass trombonist oils his slide. Behind him     the tuba player slurs arpeggios.     “Wonder how many drinks he’s had today?”     a trumpeter with pimples on her chin     inquires. “Shut up,” the bass trombonist barks.

When the hall’s front door pops open, a rush of heatpours in. “So are you ready for Richard Strauss?”the wobbly professor bows. The students straightentheir backs and lay their horns across their laps.The impish man with salt and pepper hair

sits down behind the Steinway. Sans a scorehe plays the famous dance from Salomé.As he sings the taps of the tambourine, his studentswatch his hands climb up and down the keys.Suddenly he stops. “When Ormandyconducted this in 1969,we never sounded better.” Gazing pastthe young musicians, he clears his throat. “Let’s seewhat we can do with pesky Zarathustra.”