Burdens

Freddy Bauer arrived at the wedding venue a half hour early, setting the musical gear at the rear of the stage. Removing his trumpet from the case, he stood in the far corner of the room facing the wall and began his warm-up calisthenics blowing an endless series of long tones, intervals and legato flow studies in the low register. Ten minutes later when Herb Farini, the band leader, arrived, Freddy was still sequestered away where the two walls converged working through his musical drill.

“Not for nothing”, Herb whispered when Freddy finally returned to the bandstand, “there’s a cute blonde over by the bar that’s been ogling you nonstop for the past ten minutes.”

Putting the horn aside for a moment, Freddy glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, a sultry blonde in an eggshell white, sequin dress perched near the tap beer dispenser was smiling at him in a curious fashion. He thought he recognized the woman but wasn’t sure. “You gonna do anything about it?” Herb pressed.

“About what?”

“The blonde, of course.”

Freddy ignored the question. “I got this new device,” he noted, gesturing at a small metal weight about the size of a marble attached to the first tuning slide of his trumpet,

“Yeah, yeah,” Herb wasn’t even remotely interested in the trumpeter’s equipment. “What’s with the new gizmo?”

“It enhances individual notes. They slot better, improving tone; intonation’s more accurate.” Freddy raised the horn to his lips and blew a simple pentatonic scale then pinched the spit key, releasing the moisture from the horn. Setting the instrument aside, he added, “I can play down pitch centers more easily, and scales become more compact, which improves the upper register.”

Freddy's obsession with weight dated back several years, when he stumbled across an article in a brass publication about jazz trumpeters back to the swing era, who placed silver dimes in the bottom valve caps of their instruments to improve the sound. After reading the article Freddy visited a hardware store in the center of town and bought a selection of brass washers. The washers were too big to fit in the valve caps so he fixed them on a quarter-inch bolt with a matching nut, which he chucked into a drill press. Using the drill as an impromptu metal lathe, he reduced the washers down to the proper size. Over the ensuing year he experimented with different configurations of washers until he found a combination that suited both his musical tastes.

“That’s swell!” Herb said with minimal enthusiasm. “Now about that blonde…”

* * * * *

Freddy and Herb had meandered through high school together, where they formed a small jazz combo that performed at school pep rallies and social events. To suggest that Herb Carmody was a horny bastard was a flagrantly embarrassing understatement. A year out of Brandenburg High, Herb married his high school sweetheart, Marion, but that didn’t blunt his romantic dalliances.

Blonde-haired and still sporting an athletic build after his stint on the varsity football team, Herb used a combination of breezy humor and youthful good looks to bed an endless array of gullible women. Conveniently slipping his wedding band off the third finger of his left hand before he entered a night club or lounge to start the band’s first set, Herb assessed the lay of the land; but most recently, things didn’t go as planned. A young brunette in her mid-thirties who Herb picked up at a wedding function noticed the collection of women’s clothing alongside Herb’s in the bedroom closet.

“You’re married?”

“Not to worry,” Herb reassured the woman. “My wife’s away on a business trip and won’t be returning until the beginning of the week.”

The woman began to cry. “I’m Catholic,” she blurted in a faltering voice, tears dribbling helter-skelter down her cheeks. “and just committed adultery.”

“Where sex is concerned, Herb insisted, “my wife and I share an open-ended relationship.” The line was bogus, counterfeit as a three-dollar bill. Herb used the spurious rationale with every woman who questioned his faithfulness or lack thereof. Until she tossed all his clothes and personal effects out the second floor, bedroom window, his wife knew little or nothing about his extra-curricular activities.

“You don’t understand.” Placing her hands over both eyes, the sobbing only deepened. “I’m Catholic,” she repeated, “and it’s a mortal sin to defile a marriage. Worse yet there’s nothing I can do to fix what’s broken.”

“Geez! I’m sorry you feel that way.” In Herb’s hedonistic universe infidelity, adultery, cuckoldry and marital hanky-panky was just a casual and fleeting affair. Nothing more. Neither morality nor religious mores factored into the equation. He didn't need this aggravation.

“It’s a form of desecration,” the woman was working herself into a frenzy. “I just defiled a marriage, committed sacrilege.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Herb groused, quickly fishing about under the bedcovers for his boxer shorts and tee shirt. “Here, let me drive you home.”

* * * * *

The country club wedding proceeded without a hitch. As he was packing his gear away close to midnight, Freddy heard a woman’s voice. “Your trumpet had such a beautiful tone, when warming up earlier this evening.” Turning Freddy noticed the attractive blonde in the sequin dress. In response to his muddled expression she added, “I play principal euphonium in the community wind symphony.”

Freddy’s eyes brightened. “I thought I recognized your face. You were seated in the back row with the tubas and baritone horns at the Christmas concert last year and soloed briefly on Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain.”

“What a memory!” the woman chuckled. “Unfortunately, your saxophonist isn’t nearly as pleasant as you. He has a fresh mouth.”

Freddy grimaced and shook his head. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“No matter. I put him in his proper place.” Fifty feet away a young man in a brown suit was waiting patiently with a groggy toddler nestled against his chest.

“You husband?” The blonde shook her head in the affirmative. “Earlier this afternoon I listened to an Indian vocalist singing in her native language of Hindi. In her homeland the singer’s grandmother taught the child traditional Carnatic folk melodies, the classical music of the southern provinces.”

"I know that they sing in microtones and exotic modes but little else," the woman replied.

“Just moments ago, as I watched your husband clutching your sleepy-eyed daughter, several of the lyrical verses floated back to me.”

Is the tree a burden to the earth?
Is the branch a burden to the tree?
Is the fruit a burden to the branch?
Is the child a burden to the mother?”


“Such utterly lovely sentiments! It’s an allegory about how people ought to treat one another,” she exclaimed.

“I knew,” Freddy observed, “that the euphonium player who soloed on Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain might appreciate it.” The woman smiled broadly before wandering off with her husband and young child.