Marching season is out, but the competition is only heating up.
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Section leader applications for the next marching band season at Halston University are officially open, and percussionist Bay Rodriguez wants the role.
Bay's only competition is Ca...
noun. the membrane stretched over one or both of the ends of a drum; the part struck with sticks or mallets.
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THE HALSTON FOXES WON TONIGHT'S game.
That means two things: firstly, the marching band had to stay late at the stadium, filling up the stands, to play our usual victory songs as everyone filed out. Secondly, campus is already pulsing with celebration parties by the time the bus delivers the students back to the Music Department. While the wind instrumentalists can just go home, percussion has to come back and stow all the pit instruments, drums and cymbals. When our section started wheeling and carrying things in from the bus, Keller—with sagging under eyes—gave Callum the keys and told him to swing by her office on Monday morning to return them.
"If anything goes missing or gets damaged," she warned, stifling a yawn, "you will be repaying it with internal organs."
"You're not allowed to say that to a student," he joked, feigning distress.
"Lock up everything, and double check." Then she left.
Twenty minutes later, it's nearly eleven and no-one else is left in the band room. The cymbal cases are always heavier than they look; round black plastic with a handle and a hole through the middle, so multiple cymbals can be stacked on top of each other and bolted securely. The cymbal straps are black leather, removed and strewn inside the case, to be re-knotted the next time they're played.
Callum hauls the last cymbal case onto its appropriate shelf and shoots me a tentative smile. "What was wrong with you today?"
"Nothing," I shrug.
Tonight I played center snare in the Moon show, and it was a hit. There were more cinematic pieces than in Sun, which had pop anthems and show tunes, but turns out obscure film soundtracks are in vogue right now. People like to feel niche.
And maybe I couldn't stop thinking about how there are only two more shows left in the marching season, two more shows before I'll never be an ensemble drummer again. I looked at the audience cheering for us, dance team and cheer squad lined up at the front, confetti raining from the sky, and tried to press every detail into my memory. This is the shitty thing about capitalism; if you can't professionalize your hobbies, you often drift away from them. Specialization is the only way people can make an income and survive. There aren't enough hours for unpaid activities. For all my days I'll be thinking about making ends meet instead of making music.
Does Callum want me to be happy about that?
He prods, "Are you sure?"
I sigh, my frustration and sadness rising to the fore. "What do you think was wrong with me today?" Just so I know what to avoid expressing next time.
