Fugue for Tinhorns

by Claire Engan

Looking back on good, fond, memories, is something everyone does. Within those flashbacks, there is always one scene you will remember the most as well. For this one, I was probably in the middle of my 7^th grade at Black Pine Circle middle school. Blurry at the edges as most memories are, I remember I was staring down a long narrow staircase, like the kind you would find leading to an attic. Everything was white. Well, not really, but that’s what it felt like. Whatever was behind me was all light, but I never turned around to see what it was. I stared back down the wooden stairway. At the bottom, my Spanish teacher was grinning at me, her oval head bobbing, her teeth encouraging me to go. They always reminded me of the high beams on a car. I was already at the top of the stairs wasn’t I? Where was there to go? I had to go on stage. That had to be my destination.

Thinking back on it, the origin of that memorable scene would be my school choir, Cantiamo. It wasn’t very big, but always proved successful, and trust me, we were good. I never really had a problem with it. Sure there were the few girls who were a little stuck up and thought they could out perform everyone else, but I sang quietly in the back of the alto section. As long as we sounded good, I was fine with it. Rehearsals took place after school once a week, and it was something I always looked forward to.

I entered the group as a 6^th grader, and there were 4 other 6^th graders like me, but they had all been a part of Cantiamo in elementary school too. Besides them, there were a few other 7^th graders, the annoying ones who I described before. During the 2^nd half of the year, some of our older singers left, to be replaced by a guy.

A boy.

We never had boys before. They had cooties. And not only was that strange, but he was going to sing the soprano line. To add, this was the same loser who had asked me out before the major holidays hit. He liked to use water bottles for swords, wear gross looking sweatpants, shirts with snakes on them, and smother his lips with Vaseline. It didn’t seem to help him much; his lips looked like giant pomegranates. Anyway, his name was Robin.

Avoiding him every chance I got was a priority. I didn’t want him to still like me, even though I had already politely declined when he asked me to be his girlfriend. However, he began to prove himself in the choir, so I learned to respect him as a singer. It was weird, having an awkward guy soprano on the team, but somehow, the brilliance that is Cantiamo allowed it to work.

After the winter concert, volleyball became the new thing, and all the female singers flocked to the courts, the barbeques, the adrenaline of sportsmanship and the shame of losing. I was the only one girl left. Robin, and I, and…the new guy? Another boy. He was Robin’s friend, Matt. I had seen him around. At the school dances, he’d out dance the crowd, and being supremely flexible, would redefine “how low can you go.” I didn’t think about it at the time, but he was actually rather nice looking. He was your classic “pretty boy,” thin, with side-swept short dusty brown-black hair, light blue eyes and small freckles that graced his nose. Matt didn’t have the best voice, but his ray of sunshine personality and sense of dance and rhythm made him a fun addition to the team. With Robin’s focus on Matt, the awkwardness that I felt between us slowly disappeared and he became more of a buddy than an opposition. Often we would find ourselves bored in class, and willing to go over the music with each other.

“How does that one part go again, Claire?” he would ask, and because I paid attention to his part as well as mine, I knew. We helped each other out, and we became closer in what I thought of as a business partner relationship.

During he next Cantiamo rehearsal, Ms. Sumsion, our music teacher, picked out a piece labeled Fugue for Tinhorns. We were going to perform it for the spring concert at the end of the year in June. I enjoyed the spring concert. I played in the jazz band, sang in Cantiamo, and sang with the rest of our grade. When I first read the title, I wasn’t too convinced that it would be good. It was from the musical “Guys and Dolls,” which I was pretty sure I had seen before, but maybe not? I definitely didn’t know the song. I knew what a fugue was at least…it is a single melody or phrase of music. It is a theme that is portrayed repeatedly in a song by different voices, be it instrument or singing, usually one after another. Sort of like a round, but completely different if you’re being picky.

It started with Matt. He knew the song, and launched into it right away while Robin and I fumbled around on the piano to learn our music. I was worried that at this rate we wouldn’t learn it in time for June. We wanted to have the most epic performance ever, as usual.

During each rehearsal, Matt would begin to sing about his horse, the one he knew was going to win the race. Paul Revere was his name. He was a great animal, but only when the track was clean and dry. Apparently he had twisted his ankle earlier in the rainy season because of a wet track. Robin butted in on the conversation, saying his horse, Valentine, would be the winner. Valentine looked good at practice every morning, and Robin had connections with the jockey’s brother. Last but not least, there was me. Epitaph was my horse. He was lead in many previous races, and had great breeding in his blood. The horse had a lot of class.

After rehearsing, and learning our parts to the fullest, we still had weeks to go before the performance. We spent a lot of our time getting familiar with one another; asking about each other’s hobbies and discussing our various opinions of the teachers in the school. We would take extra long warm ups, and instead of vocal exercises, lie on the grey dreary carpet and stare up at the ancient ceiling. It made me think about what it would have been like to live at the school. There were rumors that before it became a middle school, it was an orphanage. This would probably explain why there was a shower in the girls bathroom…

“So, what’s everyone doing over the summer?” Ms. Sumsion asked once. Her voice was always light and floaty, an obvious soprano. We were often worried that she took happy drugs, but she just happened to be a happy cheery person. She could also do a really impressive Kermit the Frog impression.

We lay with our bellies to the ceiling fan, the tops of our heads slightly brushing each other. We were not facing one another, but only listening. (It was a bonding experience.) I don’t remember what the boys were going to do over the summer. I explained that I was going to Washington state to see my friend who had moved there the previous year, and stay with him for a week. Oh well. What mattered is that we had a huge performance coming up in a few weeks, and we were ready.

We were in a nice church for the performance. All our spring concerts were in churches, and so far it had been the same one for many years. It was beautiful, with wooden pews covered in red velvet. They extended down the slope of the building to the stage covered in grey rug. Above, there was a display of golden pipes that belonged to the organ.

I went to the concert aiming for a 1940’s look. When singing a Broadway song, you had to be in Broadway character, and I was a man, in his suit, ready to take home the winnings. I decked myself out in a black women’s suit, a man’s suit would look too awkward on me I decided, with high shoulder pads and black concert pants to go with. Robin had a grey fedora, along with a dark grey suit, white shirt, and matching pants. Matt also had a hat, and a brown old-style men’s jacket with some dark brown slacks. We were all matching, we all looked good, except...I was missing something. What was the one thing I didn’t have? Oh. A hat!

“Dylan!” I shouted over the rush of pre-concert noise. I just had to borrow his hat! He was a buddy of mine from jazz band. I knew that if anyone had the same size head as me, it would be him. I had a very small head, and we had given him the nickname “Peanut” because of the size of his. However, when buying hats he always had to mind his hair. His hair was a large, curly, dusty brown afro that easily added 4 inches onto his height. Tonight, he was wearing a small brown fedora that would definitely fit on my head. Not needing it until his performance anyway, he lent it to me.

I got to wear it for the first half of the concert. I sat fidgeting next to other impatient middle schoolers, who really just wanted to sing their part and go home. We sat through the dreaded squeaking of fist grade violinists, and the annoying Hawaiian songs sung by the third graders that we heard in the halls every day. Just as I began to fall asleep from boredom, I was rushed back stage because we were on next.

I walked behind the stage, my heart fluttering with excitement. We walked down the narrow white hallway, doors on either sides of us labeled “Girls Dressing Room,” and “Make Up Room.” The adrenaline was rushing through my arms, my brain, and my body.

Maya was next to me. She was one of the many girls who had gone off to play volleyball instead of choosing to sing with Cantiamo. I wasn’t too mad at her though, she would later tell me how she hadn’t liked volleyball. We had roped her into our performance; she was going to be the person who announced the winner of the horse race we would so proudly sing about. It wouldn’t be Epitaph, Valentine, or Paul Revere. It would be Silverstreak, whoever that was. Her job was to yell from back stage, “Silverstreak, Silverstreak wins it all!” and we were to become very disappointed. I was proud of her, and I knew she could do it. She was very good at yelling.

I don’t remember who was on before us. I don’t remember them getting off the stage. I just remember looking up that long narrow staircase, excited that we would rock the show. I turned around, to see Robin and Matt close behind me. I was first up. They were waiting. Were the other performers off stage yet? Questions began to pelt my mind as I came up with excuses not to go on.

I turned around looking for the “all clear,” and received it from those gnashing, smiling teeth. My Spanish teacher, the adult who was monitoring the back stage activity. She smiled at me, encouraging me on, and Maya stood behind her, waving. I took a deep breath and turned around. This was it. I was going to walk out on stage, and give it my best. Tucking my hat down over my head, I started up the stairs into the bright light, and didn’t look back.

We stood there, three of a kind, in our poses, holding up newspapers to cover our faces. Again we began our repeated, heated discussion, pointing out facts and quotes from our newspapers. We danced in a “human juggle” kind of formation, constantly moving while we argued with music. It was a move we had practiced during rehearsal, because we lacked proper choreography. I forget who played the piano, but I’m sure they were having fun too. The music was flying through my lips, we sang so confidently, and it was natural as if we were back in the rehearsal room. What made it 3x better was the fact that we were hyped up on excitement and adrenaline. The stage lights blinded us, making me almost regret wearing the hot jacket and pants. Really, it adds to the performance, to wear something different than normal, and to feel great because it looks good. The last phrase of the song arrived all too quickly. The fun would end soon, but we hoped it would be memorable. We threw our hands up on the last word, and sang the chord that indicated the piece was over. I’m not sure the last word was even heard. Once the audience knew we were ending, they stood up and cheered and clapped. I tipped my hat up to see their faces. Happy people, they got what they wanted, entertainment. They loved us. The applause felt really, really good, like my heart was lifting out in midair.

“Silverstreak, silverstreak wins it all!” I heard the strained shout. I was hoping others had heard it too, because the roaring of the crowd was so loud. We acted our disappointment, and walked off stage, leaving the happiness and enthusiasm.

The last performance of the night was mellow. We all sang goodbye to our principal, who was leaving us that year. He wouldn’t be back to watch my class graduate. But I felt great about the night. Walking out of the large church, there were still people muttering about our performance in high excited whispers. “Did you see them?” one would ask, or “I really enjoyed that one...” Listening to this made me proud. The experience was unforgettable. If I had a tape of it, I would watch it all the time.

That song will always hold special memories. The performance will probably always remain as one of my most successful, and I feel privileged that I got to share it with some good people.