By Frank Melcori
I don’t know why I took up the trumpet. I never had a desire to play one. Somehow, I guess, it provided my only emotional attachment during those first few years after my divorce. Like they say: Go figure.
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So there I was, standing on Halsted, when I realized that both my trumpet and my car keys had been stolen. I’d left the keys in the door. This was something I’d done off and on over the years, and it was only a matter of time before I’d pay. The loss of that trumpet threw me for a loop. I felt wretched. I walked over to my girlfriend’s car. She was out of town for the weekend, and I had her keys in my pocket. Another car pulled up, and the driver waved me over.
“Yeah,” I said, suddenly full of hope. “Did you see him? Do you know where?”
“I got a better idea. Why don’t I call the cops and we can all go down and get him, you son of a bitch. You got the nerve to stand there and ask me to buy something you just stole.”
When I got home, I sat in my kitchen, dejected and empty. My music stand was set up, complete with the Clark exercises. Sunlight touched the lowest corner of the sheet music. Particles of dust rioted in the moving rays. I watched until the light faded.
“You stupe!”
