Best of the Worst

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Non-Fiction

Best of the Worst

Non-fiction Essay By Brett C Swanson

Even with the sickness and discomfort of not being able to do anything to control my thoughts, the perception that everything was boring, and the constant feeling of throwing up every second; it was still one of the best moments in my life. All I could do was lie down on the bench conveniently and scenically located next to a trash can and the opening of the stage. It was terrible. The whole day my high school’s jazz band was traveling on a bus to go to a “band competition.” Already I felt dazed by lack of sleep from a previous night of non-stop video game action; I was at the point where I thought everything was funny. The last thing I needed was a band competition to travel to seven hours away… on a Saturday. On the way to our destination we stopped for food at a food court in a mall, where I unfortunately contracted food poisoning at a foreign food restaurant. The whole jazz band I was traveling with ate the same food I ate, but I was the only one who got sick by it. When we arrived at the competition, I notified our band teacher that I couldn’t play, and stated that I could get a substitute trumpet player to play my part. His response was: “You’re pansy.”

After the second time I threw up, our band was about to perform in front of the judges for the band competition, I was slightly off stage sprawled out on a bench staring blankly at the vacant stage where there were chairs set up for each member of the band, with each player’s instrument set neatly down in front of each person’s chair. It was a small stage but there were only about fifteen members in our jazz band. The people in the crowd were talking amongst themselves; I guess eagerly awaiting our performance. I was left alone on stage while the rest of the band was in the hallway outside the auditorium waiting for their performance time.

At about this time I couldn’t focus on anything, every thought was a blur, I didn’t care about anything, and my skin color looked as white as a ghost. I don’t know what came over me, but I felt like I was letting the band down, I felt like I needed to do something. Then somehow I got a genius plan to go out on stage and wait there until it was time to start the show. (I not sure why, but I felt a type of phantasmagoric stupor come over me, just urging me to do what I assume were: random things). The curtain was open, and the lights were on the stage, and in the process of walking to my seat located on the opposite side of the stage, I lost all my thoughts again and I came up with a new plan, I was going to play a solo. Somehow in my mind I thought this was a good idea. I don’t know why I did, I just did. Luckily my brain shutdown again, and I stopped like a zombie in the middle of the stage. Then another wonderful plan hit me again. I would steal my trumpet mute, (a small metallic beer can type contraption, worth about thirty cents on E-Bay).

By this time I’m staring at the audience and then my stomach pain begins to lift. I still feel dazed and confused and I decide to go along with the plan. I’m still not sure why, since it would be completely pointless to do so. I gently meander across the three rows of instrument sections to the trumpet section. I look down at the four trumpets lined up in a row in front of four chairs, and I pick up the trumpet of our lead trumpet player, most likely because it was shiny and caught my eye. By this time, although I didn’t notice at the time, the audience was dead silent. It was about two minutes until the rest of the band walked onto the stage and would perform, and apparently the audience and judges thought that I was going to play a song or something, so I have the attention of the room about now. I must have had some sixth-sense telling me I was being watched, but my brain just didn’t care right then, so I began looking around blankly almost as if I had an idea. I set the trumpet down exactly where it was after pushing a few of the trumpet valves as if I were testing them, and remembered my goal was to steal my mute. Silently I walked across the row, to my mute. The audience was silent. I took a few turns to the right and left to make sure the coast was clear to steal my mute, and I reached down and took it in my hand. The crowd looked at me strangely, I was told later, but little suspicion arose. Then I made a steady walk to the other side of the stage while putting the mute inside an unbuttoned opening in the mid-section of my dress shirt I was wearing making a huge bulge around my waist. I still couldn’t comprehend what I was doing, I couldn’t think. I was halfway off stage when I finally noticed that there was an audience. I panicked, but didn’t show it. Someone in the audience finally realized what I was doing and said “Hey!” in an unsure/serious manner completely throwing me off guard. I finally got a hold of my thoughts for once and saw what I was doing, but the only thing I thought to do was to run off the stage with the mute.

I ran into the hall where the rest of the jazz band was just in time to go on for the performance. They wondered why I ran into the hallway, but I said I would tell them later, and later I saw the video recording of it myself. I didn’t want to go back on because I thought I would be arrested, but did anyway by some coercion by my teacher and somehow felt completely normal again, (probably due to adrenaline). We played the performance and did fine, the audience didn’t care that I was the “mute thief” for some reason.

On the way back on the bus, our teacher/conductor read the judge’s evaluations of our band performance, and we scored incredibly high in certain categories due to an unknown cause that baffled everyone. The judges said they loved my act thinking it was part of our performance, thereby giving us the extra points needed to get the number one spot as the best jazz band at the competition. Even when I felt like I couldn’t do anything I was able to make the deciding difference, and whenever I feel like I can’t do anything to change an outcome, or help anyone, I am able to look back on my experience and realize what difference anyone can make.

Brett C Swanson, age 16, contact: swanson_777@hotmail.com

Posted 06/13/2005