The Saxophone
George Thomas
Two saxophone cases sat on
the table. I rushed over and ran my fingers over the case that was clearly the more expensive. When I lifted the cover, I
gasped and my mouth went dry. I’d never seen anything so beautiful. The gold-lacquered saxophone, nested in a plush
velvet lining, shimmered like a rare jewel. I ached to own it and to run my fingers over the mother-of-pearl finger pads whenever
I wanted to. It was a dream: would it come true?
Earlier that summer, I realized that, because I was entering high school in the fall, I could no longer
use Pa’s hand-me-down C-Melody saxophone, the instrument I’d learned on and had played now for four years. I knew
all its quirks and foibles and I didn’t want to part with my battered old friend, but marching band music is not written
for that instrument.
In my junior high band, I had transposed all the alto sax music up one-and-a-half tones and changed the key signature
in order to play it on Pa’s sax. I’d wanted to do the same thing in the high school band, but the bandmaster allowed
only regulation instruments. The time had come to trade it in on a standard alto or tenor sax. An alto was smaller and cheaper,
so it would be an alto. My parents had called Mr. Gershman and he had brought over two alto saxophones for us to inspect.
The four of us sat in a circle
in the living room: Ma and Pa, me, and Mr. Gershman, who was my music teacher and also owned the music store. Pa had just
come in from hoeing corn and hadn’t changed from his overalls. They were covered with corn chaff; garden dirt had clumped
on his boots. I was mortified. He could’ve at least changed into something clean, I thought. I know he works hard at
the mill and then comes home and has to work the farm. But I worked hard today doing chores, too, and I took the trouble to
change. What will Mr. Gershman think?
Ma had changed from her working clothes, the uniform she wore as a short-order cook at the
diner. But I could smell the rancid odor of deep-fry grease on her hair and worried that my teacher could, too.
I tested each of the two alto
saxophones the man had brought, the reconditioned silver-plated Pan American and the glowing new golden Buffet. The plain
Pan American was much better than Pa’s. I could play all the way up to high F above the staff and down to low B-flat
just like any of the other notes. But when my fingers flew through scales and arpeggios on the Buffet, the sound was so much
more glorious that Ma and Pa stared at me in astonishment.
As the adults talked about the instruments, I sensed they were reaching a frontier
and when they crossed it, there would be no turning back. I sat deathly still with my heart in my mouth.
Pa turned to Ma. “What
do you think, Grace?”
I saw her glare at him and purse her lips. He always forced Ma to make all the decisions. Why couldn’t he pipe
up for once?
She sighed and smiled brightly at the rotund little man in the thick glasses who had driven from town
all the way out to our farm. “I think the Pan American will be just fine. I can’t really see any difference in
the sound. If he stays with his music, we’ll think about trading up to the other one later.”
My heart sank. With her, “think
about it later” always meant never. And anyone could tell the difference in the sound. Ma wasn’t being fair.
My teacher looked at me sympathetically.
He must have seen how desperately I wanted the better instrument. He leaned forward in his chair, his forehead perspiring.
“I have no doubt, Mrs. Thomas, that he’ll continue to play and to make progress. He has a rare gift, and we all
know how hard he works to improve. Why, he even practices all summer, even harder than the rest of the year, and takes lessons
when the other kids take time off.” He removed his glasses and mopped his forehead. “You might not think of it
this way, but the Buffet is a better investment. He’ll move ahead faster on that sax so he can start earning money playing
in dance bands, starting in high school.” Finished, he sat back.
Looking away from me, Pa shifted uncomfortably in his rocking chair. “Grace
is right, Mr. Gershman. We’d better stick with the Pan American for now. It’s a good instrument and all we can
afford.”
So that was that. They’d crossed the frontier.
I bit my lip and blinked back tears: thirteen year old boys don’t cry. If
only I could have gotten a real job the last two summers, I’d have earned enough to pay for the difference between the
two saxophones. But job pickings were slim with all the World War II vets coming home and needing work. Nobody would hire
a twelve or thirteen year old to do anything except mow lawns, which barely paid for my music lessons.
Or if only Mr. Gershman had
brought just the Pan American for me to try out, I would have been satisfied with the plainer instrument, not knowing any
better. If only, if only . . . .
Mr. Gershman rose from his chair. “Well, if that’s your final decision.” He shut
the velvet-lined lid on my dream sax. And something closed inside me. The little man continued. “He
can have the Pan American now, to get used to before school starts. I won’t make you wait until you’ve paid all
the installments. I’m sure he’ll do well with it. He’s my best student and I expect him to win all the high
school music contests.”
Pa went to the rolltop desk, got his wallet and counted out Mr. Gershman’s money. There was
none left when he finished.
My music teacher turned at the door and looked at me. “I'll see you next Tuesday for your first lesson
on your new sax.”
Mr. Gershman had been right; throughout high school, I did win blue ribbons in all the competitions, from the
county level right up to the state finals. By the time I entered college on a music scholarship, I’d earned enough playing
in the municipal concert band and in local dance bands to buy that Buffet saxophone. I brought my dream sax home from Mr.
Gershman’s music store, placed it on the living room table and opened the case.
Staring at the instrument, I longed to recapture
that magic time; the excitement and enchantment when I’d first seen it, right on that same table. I tugged hard at my
memory, remembering that it had been a very special feeling, a very special time. But I couldn’t go back. I was no longer
a child. I’d crossed a border, never to return.
[George Thomas worked thirty-one years for Xerox Corporation in Rochester, NY and Greenwich, CT, with foreign assignments in France and Mexico. After retiring to Florida, he started writing short stories, instructed by many great Sarasota teachers. He and his wife enjoy the rich Sarasota cultural environment and travel often.]
