Percussionist

Devoted to his major in music, this percussionist is far more exhausted than your average college student. He has an apartment, but he rarely goes there, for he would rather just sleep in the band room after practicing while everyone else parties and sleeps, living out their mundane college lives. He uses his home as a storage area instead; drawers and bedside tables are littered with tuning forks and tambourine wax and music, and piles of drums occupy the corners and line the walkways. Addicted to Gatorade and Brown Cinnamon Pop-tarts, some may call him crazy. But he longs to be extraordinary. First in the state, top of his bands, hired for 4 or 5 gigs per week, he has exceeded our expectations by eons. He believes in eternal improvement, nothing can ever be too perfect, too precise. He will spend hours on one tiny passage, concentrating on details nobody else would even think to care about.

His eyes, periwinkle and fringed with blonde, squint as he contemplates his music, noting every dynamic change and stealthy indication of the composer. To me, the music looks like ink splatters on the page, holding no observable patterns or even resembling music at all. But to him, the dots sing and whisper, speak their complex language in his head. When he sheds his snow-sprinkled peacoat and timeless beret, a scraggle of golden slightly-in-need-of-a-haircut locks are exposed, a testament to his schedule, which is too full of rehearsals and concerts to make room for such a trivial appointment. He considers his bulging mallet bag, fingers twitching excitedly as he ponders which mallets to paint his auditory masterpiece with. He chooses a blue set, soft yet heavy, good for warm rolls and deep chords. Two mallets in each calloused hand, protruding at awkward angles that somehow feel natural to him, he approaches the rosewood keys of the marimba, shutting out all distractions and focusing on his music.

The yarn mallets brush the notes like gentle fingers and the room’s atmosphere shifts instantaneously. If you listen closely you can hear his silver watch jangling against his wrist as his hands flit and flutter, a symbol of his punctuality and reliability that he never removes. He shifts fluidly from one end to the other of the humming instrument, rolling on the balls of his converse-sheathed feet and always prepared to move. His concentration is tangible in the air, glowing of an intensity that can only come from love and total devotion to the music.

The melody is unpredictable, yet he tames it and prunes it, making it bloom and flourish like nothing I’ve ever heard before. I can hear the colors swirling in the air, yellow with C Major, red for A minor, blue for a serene B Flat. Despite the lack of lyrics his tune tells me a story, of love, loss, and peace, and he must feel it too, for the music shows on his face. His eyes close as rolls crest and bellow, his faintly muscular shoulders square when the notes are frantic. His own emotions flow through this music that is not his own, and watching him play alone is an intimacy he only grants to those he trusts. Without using words he opens his heart, telling his own story for us who choose to listen.

In the end, the beauty fades away. The room returns to silence and he emerges from his trance, modest about his own playing and admitting “I could have done better.” He has no idea how he touches his single audience member; how he leaves an impression so clear it is tangible. Under-appreciated by only himself he sets to work improving his technique, acknowledging the beauty of the piece but not of himself.