Mrs. Bogen’s black four-inch heels were clomping against the sidewalk. She had a stack of ungraded papers under her arm, and cigarette between her lips. Memories of today’s unsuccessful classes tossed around in her brain, waiting to be drowned by the bottle of tequila she had waiting for her at home. As she rounded a corner, she nearly stepped on an advertisement written on the ground, finely calligraphed in pink sidewalk chalk: Recorder Lessons: 50 cents.
There was a boy there, looking up at her with big, waiting eyes. She looked up and down the empty street, flicked her cigarette, and knelt down.
“What’s your name?”
“Michael.”
“Michael, how long have you been playing the recorder?”
“Three weeks!”
She laughed. “And you’re going to give me a lesson?”
Michael folded his arms. “If you pay fifty cents.”
She took off her sunglasses. “Alright, then.”
She reached into her bag, extracted her wallet, and gave the kid two quarters.
He reached behind him and picked up his plastic Yamaha recorder and handed it to her.
“Now put it in your mouth.”
She eyed the crusty, saliva-covered mouthpiece with apprehension.
“I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Well, you’ll never know if you don’t try. That’s what my mom says.”
Repulsed, Mrs. Bogen slipped the recorder in her mouth.
“Now cover some holes.”
She placed her fingers over random holes.
“Now blow.”
She blew, and a harsh sound, like a train whistle, escaped the instrument.
Michael snatched the recorder away. “Uh, that was very good. See you next lesson.”
She furrowed her eyebrows, frustrated with the instructor’s lack of instruction. Mrs. Bogen left her inexperienced teacher and walked home. She tossed her stack of papers on the coffee table, poured herself a drink, and considered the first essay, an underwhelming analysis of the Spanish-American War. The whistling noise blaring in her head, she scrawled a note on the bottom: “That was very good. See you next lesson.”
There was a boy there, looking up at her with big, waiting eyes. She looked up and down the empty street, flicked her cigarette, and knelt down.
“What’s your name?”
“Michael.”
“Michael, how long have you been playing the recorder?”
“Three weeks!”
She laughed. “And you’re going to give me a lesson?”
Michael folded his arms. “If you pay fifty cents.”
She took off her sunglasses. “Alright, then.”
She reached into her bag, extracted her wallet, and gave the kid two quarters.
He reached behind him and picked up his plastic Yamaha recorder and handed it to her.
“Now put it in your mouth.”
She eyed the crusty, saliva-covered mouthpiece with apprehension.
“I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Well, you’ll never know if you don’t try. That’s what my mom says.”
Repulsed, Mrs. Bogen slipped the recorder in her mouth.
“Now cover some holes.”
She placed her fingers over random holes.
“Now blow.”
She blew, and a harsh sound, like a train whistle, escaped the instrument.
Michael snatched the recorder away. “Uh, that was very good. See you next lesson.”
She furrowed her eyebrows, frustrated with the instructor’s lack of instruction. Mrs. Bogen left her inexperienced teacher and walked home. She tossed her stack of papers on the coffee table, poured herself a drink, and considered the first essay, an underwhelming analysis of the Spanish-American War. The whistling noise blaring in her head, she scrawled a note on the bottom: “That was very good. See you next lesson.”
