Dream
I kneel beside a boy in the uniform of the Beginning Band of Durham School of the Arts in the Decatur High band room.
He wears a crisp, white shirt tucked into neat, black dress pants. His stiff, leather shoes are shiny and black.
I have on a tux.
His jaw is clenched.
He squints.
His upper lip twitches.
The concert starts in a matter of minutes, probably less than ten judging by the speed at which everyone moves.
He's upset because his tuba is broken about three seconds before the downbeat of his first show.
I work feverishly on the valves of his horn, one of the two concert tubas here in Decatur with the same kind of adrenaline-laced strength and speed that lets a woman with a 120 lb frame lift up the front end of an SUV because her kid is trapped underneath.
I end up feeling cool, detached, and serene as I watch my fingers flowing over the mangled valves so fast they almost blur.
I'm so focused on my work that I never look down to see what vest I'm wearing and know whether I play for DHS or Wind Symphony. It doesn't seem very important.
I watch myself perform a miracle for this kid, saving his first concert, but it feels so easy, so routine.
His appreciation isn't lost on me even though I've done this dozens of times before. I remember how it felt when someone did it for me.

I raise my head and blink at the boy kneeling on the band room floor.
He sings a song I once heard on the radio. It's loud, off-key, and weirdly out of place. I chew him out for being obnoxious and creating additional stress two minutes before a concert.
I get down on my knees. When the sand and grit on the floor cut into my legs, I notice that I'm wearing some kind of slacks, not jeans. I have on my tuxedo.
He wears a strange, red-and-gold, version of the DSA Beginning Band uniform.
His jaw is clenched, and he looks like he's about to cry.
He points towards a little, silver tuba like one of the Decatur High concert horns. The room seems colder, so I pull my heavy, leather coat off of a chair and put it on.
The people around us are moving faster. Whatever is wrong with his tuba, I know I don't have much time.
I pull the instrument over towards me as quietly as I can so as not to add to the general cacophony of preparation. I think about how it's so loud in here that my family can probably hear it from their seats. I sigh.
I work on his mangled valves with desperate speed. My hands seem to know what they need to do, so I read a bit of the paper, which someone left on the floor.
I'm not exactly sure where I am, who I'm playing for, or what I think I'm doing, but an ice cold confidence that I will at least get this particular tuba to hold up through the evening comes over me. My location and band are unimportant.
I take my coat off. There are jeans and a t-shirt on the floor.
Somewhere, a dog howls, or perhaps a wolf. Others join in.
I have the valves moving again. The boy is grateful and relived.
I feel vaguely annoyed at the insanity and chaos of the situation, but I performed one of those perfectly routine, concert night miracles. I saved a kid's first show for him. I kept the section at full strength and able to do its part on one trippy concert night. Wherever this particular circus is taking place, whoever is the ringmaster, I did my job, and I did it well. I leave the room and walk to the stage.