The bus was
yellow, just like all the other buses, with its dirty windows, full of
fingerprints and tracings that declared Johns existence, because he was here. Windows that we were never allowed to open, even
though the worn out, fake leather,
plastic seats smelled of too many kids that almost made it home, but not quite
before their bladders betrayed them.
But this yellow
bus was the short bus. The one they used to pick up those kids that were
heading for that special class because they were different from everybody else.
Maybe they didn’t read yet in spite of their thick, black rimed coke bottle
eyeglasses or maybe they talked funny from some malformation that took place
before they ever saw the light of day.
Whatever it was, they were those kids, the ones everyone teased
and laughed at behind their backs and to their faces. They rode that short yellow bus, and we sat
next to them.
The Cello? Who plays the cello? I could hear
my Dad from the other room, his voice sounded strained, the way it sounded when
he didn’t understand how an umpire could make that call and was talking to the
TV because the stupid ref must be blind. I guess if your daughter plays the
violin that’s OK, but when my brother declared that his instrument of choice
was the cello, that was different.
It stood as tall
as he did at first. The case for it was brown and made of canvas. It seemed
like it weighed 40 pounds if it weighed anything at all. The case had a handle
just below the neck for carrying, but it was useless because he was so short
when he started. It took up the whole seat next to him like a greedy selfish
little child with that single metal foot poking into the black rubber mat that
ran down the aisle. It was laughable really, just like those kids on the bus.
My case was not canvas; it was made of high quality plastic, with “a sensible
carrying strap that you could put over your shoulder”. I heard the man tell my mom so when she bought
it.
Nerds, that’s who
played the cello and the violin and that’s who we were. Orchestra nerds who, way too early in the
morning would have to ride that short yellow bus, in the grey mist that
obscures everything around you. Like clouds that were too lazy to rise to the
heavens, and in their slothfulness, make early in the morning colder and more
dismal than it really needed to be. This is a good thing, this London pea soup
fog, that tasted of cold steel, maybe none of the other kids will see that we
got on that squatty yellow abomination they called the short bus. But they did
see. They noticed that we packed up our cases and our music and mounted that undersized,
laughed at, bus.
My brother lugged
that cello onto, and off of that short bus for 3 years. Why couldn’t we just
have orchestra at our own school? Why did we all have to be bused to one
central school? Some kind of music school boot camp to see who would survive is
my guess. Did you know that most cello music for beginners only has about 8
notes? They play the bottom of the music; the music that no one really heard
back then, in the stone ages, before subwoofers. Three years times 8 notes is not a satisfying
musical career, nor is it worth riding the short bus for. Sorry Pachelbel.
Enter junior high, no go ahead walk through
the double doors that are designed to slam shut at the slightest hint of a
student struggling with a large, brown, canvass encased, expensive, piece of
wood. Yeah, this becomes the new short bus. Those cold heartless metal doors,
that greet you with the same warmth as your classmates as you disembark from
the regular long bus.
Time to get
something cool man, something hip. Time to trade in the short nerdy thing for a
taller one, a cooler one, a jazzy one. Yeah man, a standup Bass. Nothing says
“hey look, I’m cool now” like a bigger brown canvas covered piece of
beautifully grained and polished wood the color of honey. One that sings like Ole
Man River and knows what makes Ella smile. This sensual shape that you caress
with your arms wrapped around, like new lovers in the night. This was
cool. And just like he would trade the
short bus for the longer one, he traded his cello for that stand-up jazz bass
and the much cooler, jazz bus.
Oh the bliss of
that beautiful bass. Now it sits next to him on the bus, like Marilyn Monroe,
waiting for someone to challenge her to move, knowing she won’t. But he never really traded up and out of
that place where he was a bit different. He never really arrived at cool until
he put his big bass behind him in that seat with her viola. One day he just
asked that cute little blue-eyed blonde girl to sit next to him, and she placed
her black plastic protected viola next to his brown bass and joined him on his
green leather seat.
That was 25 years
ago, and they are still playing together. All through the valley whenever they
need a stand in for the stand-up bass they call him. Oh sure, inside he is still that nerdy music
kid who still carries those 8 notes to Pachelbel’s Cannon in his head. And no,
he won’t play it for you at your wedding, but, could he interest you in a
little of the Duke?
