sitting on his lap like a sexy girl, and Al was hugging it from behind, his hands on its hips. “If you don’t mind,” he said, peering at me from around the guitar’s curvy waist, “I need to practice. I have a recital coming up.”
The recital took place on a Sunday afternoon. It was held in the music hall at the local college. Parents and grandparents, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, shifted in their seats, straining their necks to catch a glimpse of the kid that was theirs. We all clapped politely as the student musicians from the Western Colorado Academy of Music traipsed across the stage—nineteen ten-year-olds and one fifty-three-year-old man—carrying violins, guitars, flutes, trumpets, piano music. My son was the boy with one hand in his pocket and a guitar strapped to his back; Al was the nervous guy, pale and sweaty and wearing a white T-shirt and black sweater vest.
The boy played “Ode to Joy” perfectly, though without emotion, a lackluster performance. Afterward, as the audience applauded, instead of taking a bow, the boy rolled his eyes and nodded impatiently, like an underling was telling him something he already knew.
Al bombed his performance. From the first awkward note he played, I knew it would be bad. It got worse. His timing was off, he missed notes, what should have sounded smooth and melodic sounded chaotic and irregular and traumatized. The two minutes went by very, very slowly. My son, sitting beside me, shook his head. “Oh, Al,” the boy said in what was probably his first moment of true empathy. “Oh, Al,” I agreed. It was a terrible thing to watch. At the end of the song, there was silence. Then Al shouted “Farruca!” in a bold and impassioned voice. It was an act of bravery and courage.
While Al took his bow, as he’d been instructed to do, the audience, made up mostly of parents, siblings, and grandparents, applauded politely.
Then Mr. Schatz, who’d been sitting in the front row, stood up. Mr. Schatz faced the audience. Mr. Schatz projected his voice so everyone could hear him, even the people in the balcony, even the people in the very last row. “Didn’t Allen try hard!” Mr. Schatz said. “Allen gets a little nervous, but he still tried his very best! Let’s give him another round of applause!”
My ex-husband didn’t have any record albums, he didn’t buy CDs. I don’t know if he’s ever been to any concerts. In the car, while he was driving, he’d turn on the radio, sometimes a country music station, sometimes a conservative talk show, but it was more like background noise. Music didn’t seem to be part of him. I have no idea what songs correspond with what moments of his life. That I was once married to a man who didn’t dance, who didn’t sing, who listened to music without really hearing music, seemed remarkable to me. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
As Mr. Schatz led the audience in another round of applause, as the audience clapped and Al turned red and bowed before slinking offstage, as the boy tugged on my sleeve asking can we go to Dairy Queen, I overheard what the old lady sitting in the row ahead of me said. She leaned toward her middle-aged daughter and spoke loudly. She said, “Well, isn’t that nice! How they let that mentally retarded fella out to be in the recital just like everyone else! Those mentally retarded sure have come a long way!”
I was just about to lean forward and tap her hand, and tell her Lady, I am going to marry that retard someday, when Al appeared, guitar in hand. He was motioning for me to come on, come on. He was tilting his head frantically toward the exit. Al was whispering, “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.” In the car, he said there were two things he wanted to say: Yes, we were most definitely going to Dairy Queen; and no, we were not listening to Springsteen, so don’t ask.
The Boy, Again
Y esterday the boy didn’t get out of bed until two-seventeen in the
The recital took place on a Sunday afternoon. It was held in the music hall at the local college. Parents and grandparents, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, shifted in their seats, straining their necks to catch a glimpse of the kid that was theirs. We all clapped politely as the student musicians from the Western Colorado Academy of Music traipsed across the stage—nineteen ten-year-olds and one fifty-three-year-old man—carrying violins, guitars, flutes, trumpets, piano music. My son was the boy with one hand in his pocket and a guitar strapped to his back; Al was the nervous guy, pale and sweaty and wearing a white T-shirt and black sweater vest.
The boy played “Ode to Joy” perfectly, though without emotion, a lackluster performance. Afterward, as the audience applauded, instead of taking a bow, the boy rolled his eyes and nodded impatiently, like an underling was telling him something he already knew.
Al bombed his performance. From the first awkward note he played, I knew it would be bad. It got worse. His timing was off, he missed notes, what should have sounded smooth and melodic sounded chaotic and irregular and traumatized. The two minutes went by very, very slowly. My son, sitting beside me, shook his head. “Oh, Al,” the boy said in what was probably his first moment of true empathy. “Oh, Al,” I agreed. It was a terrible thing to watch. At the end of the song, there was silence. Then Al shouted “Farruca!” in a bold and impassioned voice. It was an act of bravery and courage.
While Al took his bow, as he’d been instructed to do, the audience, made up mostly of parents, siblings, and grandparents, applauded politely.
Then Mr. Schatz, who’d been sitting in the front row, stood up. Mr. Schatz faced the audience. Mr. Schatz projected his voice so everyone could hear him, even the people in the balcony, even the people in the very last row. “Didn’t Allen try hard!” Mr. Schatz said. “Allen gets a little nervous, but he still tried his very best! Let’s give him another round of applause!”
My ex-husband didn’t have any record albums, he didn’t buy CDs. I don’t know if he’s ever been to any concerts. In the car, while he was driving, he’d turn on the radio, sometimes a country music station, sometimes a conservative talk show, but it was more like background noise. Music didn’t seem to be part of him. I have no idea what songs correspond with what moments of his life. That I was once married to a man who didn’t dance, who didn’t sing, who listened to music without really hearing music, seemed remarkable to me. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
As Mr. Schatz led the audience in another round of applause, as the audience clapped and Al turned red and bowed before slinking offstage, as the boy tugged on my sleeve asking can we go to Dairy Queen, I overheard what the old lady sitting in the row ahead of me said. She leaned toward her middle-aged daughter and spoke loudly. She said, “Well, isn’t that nice! How they let that mentally retarded fella out to be in the recital just like everyone else! Those mentally retarded sure have come a long way!”
I was just about to lean forward and tap her hand, and tell her Lady, I am going to marry that retard someday, when Al appeared, guitar in hand. He was motioning for me to come on, come on. He was tilting his head frantically toward the exit. Al was whispering, “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.” In the car, he said there were two things he wanted to say: Yes, we were most definitely going to Dairy Queen; and no, we were not listening to Springsteen, so don’t ask.
The Boy, Again
Y esterday the boy didn’t get out of bed until two-seventeen in the
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