brevard memory

I only remember one person from the two weeks I spent at Brevard Music Center before I packed my things and left without saying goodbye, not even to him. I don’t remember his name, but he was big with blonde hair and a southern accent—Arkansas, I now remember. A kind of trumpet jock, we would pal around every day, and I attached myself to him as I had many a trumpet jock before and after. Well, one night I remember practicing and he kind of wandered into my room and asked if I would show him how fast I could play. “Play the fastest thing you can,” he demanded. Of course I refused, with every insecurity firing off inside. “Please,” he continued. “Don’t be weird. I just want to see.” And on and on this went, with him pleading for me to play fast and me saying no. Now, if you know a trumpeter, try to imagine walking up to one of them and asking them to play their highest note for you. It would never happen. But anyway, finally I surrendered and played a chromatic scale up and down the span of an octave as fast as I could. “Come on, you can play faster than that,” he said. I tried again. “No really, go faster.” And it probably wasn’t long after this night that I left.