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"Tell me, miss. How do you say this happens again?"

Posted by Freischutz on Friday, August 10, 2012

like this

"Okay. Each time I proceed into the music room a strange phenomenon occurs as follows.

                Upon approaching the door I am greeted with an awful racket—there is quite some verbal abuse (mostly ethnicity-related) going on between the eldest of the banjos and my accordion. Floyd, the banjo, is just plain xenophobic; Wagner, the accordion, takes delight in preaching of his, uhm, "distinguished" German ancestry and therefore nettling Floyd.

                But most of it stops upon my arrival. Before giving heed to me Floyd makes sure to complete his oration. If I remember correctly I believe it was that a foreigner should respect the culture and traditions of the country he enters, for the foreigner is a guest, not a citizen. A citizen, Floyd defines with great erudition, is someone who is made in America. If you are made in China—or Germany, for that matter—and coexist in that country for life, you are still not a “citizen”. Only Americans are “citizens”. All others are “inhabitants”.

                Floyd also adds that it was the founding fathers of America that...

                “Hey!” Floyd shouted suddenly, perhaps after realizing that I was standing in the doorframe and giving witness to his speech. “Where have you been? What’s your excuse, on call or somethin’? You told, no, promised me yesterday that we would spend a serious 45 min. practicing new songs.” He regarded Percival, the violin, and sniffed. “All you did was play Humoresque on Perc the Pain over there.”

                “It’s not my fault I’m the favourite,” Percival said indifferently. Had he been an animate object I suppose he... no, I stand corrected, it, would have narrowed its eyes and taken a haughty sip of tea.

                Another uprising. The autoharp and mandolin chime in this time. The guitars stare in listless oblivion.

                “I am the eldest of all of you. I am entitled to the master’s affections,” Percival hissed.

                At that time Wagner began humming a little tune. I am not sure if it was I’m Henry VIII or the William Tell Overture.

                “Entitled, my tailpiece,” Floyd said. “I have been the master’s faithful musical companion for longer than any of you. Why, I couldn’t tell you all the jams, harvest festivals, Civil War reenactments, gigs, streets corners we’ve picked at. We run this hoedown, m'pardners.”

                “Your sound quality is inferior,” Henrietta the Harmony, the “other” banjo and the object of Floyd’s greatest envy, chimed in. “Within a few more months your beloved master will bore of your flat, unmelodious tone. She could sell you to an amateur, with luck and a case included, for $100. I will then become her new favorite. My harmonious timbre surpasses yours. I will replace you.”

                “What country were you made in? Japan?” Floyd enquired, glancing up at her headstock. “I can't think of any other nation that would spell it 'Harmonie’.”

                Henrietta was quite taken aback.

                “Quiet! Ze lot of jou!” Wagner yelled. “Vie all know zat ze master has a preference to vorld music over your sick-making, widerlich bluegrass. Come, Master, play me. Vie can dance to ze polkas of Deutschland.”

                Might I add that Wagner is named after Richard Wagner, the patron composer of the Nazis.

                “Germany! Ha!” Percival laughed. “Master loves classical.  Play me, Master, and I will sing the concertos of Weber and the lieder of Beethoven.”

                “Beethoven!” Wagner mimicked. “All jou feel like doing after listening to Beethoven is invading Poland. Speaking of which I did, back in ’39.”

                “You can play oldies on me,” a guitar added hopefully. “Haven’t played any of those in a while, besides on a turntable.”

                “Speaking of ‘in a while’, I believe we are overdue for Banjo Signal,” Floyd interjected

                “Before we invaded Poland I played the Beer Barrel Polka in a bar called Die Schicklgruber,” Wagner added.

                As the instruments conversed among themselves I suddenly realized that I would not be playing any of them. I realized that I was late for this appointment with you, Doctor. "


7 comments on “"Tell me, miss. How do you say this happens again?"”

Swing Says:
Saturday, August 11, 2012 @5:14:08 AM

Fantastic, great story... now, go play your fiddle.

Play Happy

richdissmore Says:
Saturday, August 11, 2012 @7:57:42 AM

very neet little story you worte there have it made in to a childrens book

lawrence lamear Says:
Saturday, August 11, 2012 @10:48:38 AM

Nicely done Bailey...I loved it! I, also, have imaginary conversations in my head...though I suspect it's because I'm overdoing the self-medication again...

But in your case, it's because you actually have writing talent. Look forward to more in the future.

GodblesstheUSA Says:
Saturday, August 11, 2012 @11:12:01 AM

Wow...that's awesome!! You could submit that to some where...just not the American Psychiatrist Association. : ) I love the ending.

Freischutz Says:
Saturday, August 11, 2012 @1:16:02 PM

Thanks, you all. When I am not picking, fiddling, or... (how would you say that for an accordion? Squeezeboxing?) I often entertain myself with writing short stories and nonsense poems. Thought you guys might like to hear one.
I know, ha ha, I must be awfully bored. But sometimes I do put genuine effort into writing longer things that maybe could be called "books".

tboudre Says:
Monday, August 13, 2012 @3:19:59 PM

Thanks Bailey, I enjoyed reading it.

Leliel Says:
Tuesday, August 14, 2012 @3:34:02 PM

Love your sense of whimsy. :D

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