Since the pandemic began, the local band in which Carlos plays the trumpet has canceled all performances and rehearsals. But Carlos, for whom playing the trumpet is a kind of relaxation, has been practicing, still, every day. The other night, however, out of the blue, he asked if I minded him practicing, and I told him this was his house, and he could practice whenever he wanted.
“But I don’t want to disturb you.” “You disturb me constantly, but you can do whatever you want in your house.” “Our house.” “Yes; our house; your house; my house. And I would never tell you that you can’t practice the trumpet even if it did bother me which it does not.”
Cut to a few nights later; I get home about 7PM and he’s rehearsing. I head back to the office-rehearsal space and we chat for a moment. He continues to practice, and I began doing some things on the computer until he says:
“Do you mind if I play some more?” “You can play whatever you like. If I can’t concentrate, I’ll leave the room.” “Well, I’m trying to master this Haydn concerto.” “Oh, that concerto.” “You know it,” “Yeah, it’s the one where when you start playin’, I start hidin’.”
I still got it. |