THE FIELD TRIP
By Gregory L. Metcalf
In most of the secondary schools of the United States you will find the school band. Lost Hollow High School has one band made up of 9th through 12th graders. This is a story about how that group, the “Lost Hollow High School Muskrat Band,” took their first ever field trip.Many years ago, in my second year as the band teacher, I was having breakfast on a Saturday morning down at Mabel’s Cafe with a couple of my cronies, Cranky Cranklemeyer and Tom Brandston.
“Those eggs look pretty good, Greg,” mentioned Tom, indicating my plate with his fork.
“These are pancakes, Tom,” I retorted with a slightly squeamish look on my face. Mabel was not known for her culinary delights. In fact, the only things Mabel could cook for breakfast that looked edible were eggs. I was kicking myself for not ordering them.
“Ow!” barked Tom. “Who’s kicking!”
If it was determined by looks alone, my two friends could have been the Laurel & Hardy of recent times. They seem to be such opposites. When standing, Tom with his lanky thin six-foot-two frame, towered over Cranky, who was a very stocky five-foot-nine. Tom had medium length dark hair that was almost black, whereas Cranky’s hair was a reddish blonde, with some graying along the sides. Neither one sported any facial hair like my full beard.
Just then Mrs. Stubbleberg walked in to the restaurant, spotted us, and came up to our table. “Hello gentlemen,” she cooed, smiling at Cranky.
“Hello, Mrs. Stubbleberg,” came the unison chorus from the three of us. Mrs. Stubbleberg was the 4th grade teacher for the three of us almost twenty years ago and still had the ability to have us grovel in our seats, now that she was the principal of Lost Hollow High School. She had always liked Cranky, who was known as her “teacher’s pet.” I assumed it was because he always gave her an apple every day. He hated apples.
“I just heard that the High School Band Festival is going to be held in Anacortes next month,” she said. “Do you think you will be taking our Muskrat Band to that event this year?”
I just realized she was looking directly at me. Seeing those historical eyes boring in on me caused me to forget everything I knew……where I was, what Mrs. Stubbleberg just asked me, my name………
“Come, come, Greg” said Mrs. Stubbleberg, waiting. “You look like you just forgot your name!”
“It’s Greg, it’s Greg!” I stammered, thankful for the hint. “I, uh, hadn’t thought about the band festival. I must not have gotten the paperwork,” I hoped, not wanting to get involved in something that might actually cause me to have to work a little more than usual.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Mrs. Stubbleberg, showing one of her piercing looks. “I put the application in your mailbox personally, right after I made a copy of it. I happen to be on the Board of Directors for the festival. If you’ve lost the application I can get you another.”
“Oh. Th..Thanks.” I replied morosely.
As Mrs. S. began to walk away she intoned, “I’ll put the paperwork in your box again, Greg. Try not to lose it.” The last sentence was said with a grin that showed teeth that were implanted from a shark and a look that bored a hole directly through my right eye, through the wall, and into the next county.
“Wow!” exclaimed Tom. “Did you see those teeth?”
“Alright, guys, you’ve got to help me figure out a way to get out of this festival,” I choked. I shouldn’t have had that last bite of pancakes.
“Aw, it can’t be that bad, Greg,” mentioned Cranky.
“Bad?!” I exclaimed. “Don’t you realize that this will involve a, …a, …… I could hardly say it ….. field trip!?” Just then I heard high-pitched, short violin notes that seemed to come out of an old Alfred Hitchcock movie. This, of course, caused me to levitate about 2 inches out of my chair.
“Why are you so jumpy?” responded Tom.
“Didn’t you hear that music?” I whimpered. It came right out of that old Hitchcock mov….”
“That’s the brakes on Lyle’s pickup truck that just pulled up to the café,” scoffed Cranky. “Besides, you are NOT going to get out of this one, Greg. Didn’t you hear that Stubbs said she is on the Board of Directors of the festival?”
“Great,” I said resigning myself to the inevitable.
“Now eat your eggs and lets go,” said Cranky, scowling.
“These are panc… oh, never mind,” I responded, gloomily, as I shoved my plate away.
When the fateful day of the field trip arrived I figured that I had prepared as much as possible for this monumental occasion.
“What’s that body armor for, Mr. Olson?” enquired a nosey 9th grade trumpet player.
“All right you kids!” I barked. “I don’t want to see any gouging, clawing, kicking or elbows. Make this a clean….”
“Mr. Olson, we are just getting on the bus,” stated one of my more factual clarinetists.
“Well, I wish you well,” said Cranky, pumping my hand. “By the way, if you don’t come back can I have your guitar?”
“I am only going for the day, Cranky,” I replied. The way he smiled was unnerving.
“If we don’t get a move on we’ll be late!” barked the bus driver, who was a little old lady who was about 110 years old.
I counted the 33 kids and had a seat in the front of the bus. “What are those blocks strapped to your shoes?” I asked.
“I can’t reach the brakes without ‘em!” cackled the driver.
“But, but….”
Just then the bus lurched forward and we were off. I looked out my window in a slight panic and saw Cranky, smiling, and strumming an imaginary guitar.
“We had gone about ten miles with no problems and I was beginning to relax in my seat when I heard from the last row of the bus, “99 bottles of beer on the wall…” being sung by one of the less in-tune drummers. Immediately, I leapt to my feet grabbing my emergency kit, and headed to the back of the bus. I was already prepared for this. As I reached the back of the bus I exclaimed to the drummer, “How did you get that cut on your lip?”
“What cut?” he responded.
“It’s ok,” I said. “I have plenty of band-aids.”
“But that looks like duct taay….mmmph.”
My father always taught me to be prepared.
The next hour was fairly uneventful except for the fact that the heater broke and we had to pull over for Barney Wertelmeyer, the clarinet player whose alias was Ragweed.
“I have to go pee really bad, Mr. Olson, and if I don’t go in the next couple of minutes the bus is going to get really wet,” exclaimed Ragweed. The thing about Ragweed was that he was extremely truthful. The bus screeched to a halt and Ragweed ran into the forest, coming back a few minutes later, scratching his legs, arms, and face.
“I think I got into some stinging nettles, Mr. Olson,” came his account.
“Oh, great,” I said, thinking that I didn’t have any ointments.
“Mickey, do you have any of your slide cream?” I asked of one of the closer trombonists.
“Sure, Mr. Olson,” he replied, opening his case and handing me his jar.
By the time we were done with Ragweed he looked like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. “Gosh, thanks, Mr. Olson!” said Ragweed. “Don’t mention it,” I said, noticing that I could see my breath. “Is there any chance of getting some heat on this bus?” I asked of the bus driver.
“As soon as we get to Anacortes I’ll have someone look at it,” she said. As I looked back at the kids they were blowing into their hands and patting their arms, trying to get the circulation going.”
We pulled into the Anacortes High School parking lot and all the kids were staring at the school with their mouths open. “Look,” one of them exclaimed, “that building is huge!”
“And the classrooms have windows!” stated another. “They have a lawn with real grass in the front!” shouted out still another.
“Now, now, students! They are human just like the rest of us,” I stated, looking doubtfully at Ragweed. “Let’s get our gear and get off the bus.”
As Tommy, who had the alias of Blap, stepped off the bus he said, “This is a small step for man……” Blap had never been on a field trip before.
“Shut up and get moving!” shouted Jimmy Thornbush, one of the trumpet players.
Once we were off the bus I counted 32 students and if you were paying attention earlier you know that I was one short. I got back on the bus and saw Ragweed crouched down behind the last seat. “What’s wrong, Ragw… er, Barney?” I asked.
“I look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy,” stated Ragweed.
“Nonsense,” I said. “Once you have your uniform on nobody will notice anything.”
“Were we supposed to bring our uniforms?” he asked.
All of a sudden I began to feel my asthma coming on. Usually, Ragweed had to play his clarinet to produce that effect in me. “You forgot your uniform!?” I stammered.
“I don’t think Mickey brought his, either,” whimpered Ragweed.
As I got off the bus and was wondering if this world would be ok with one less clarinet player, I asked, “How many of you forgot your uniforms?”
Four hands went up. “Oh, great,” I exclaimed. “Now what do we do?”
“I know,” said Blap. Someone can wear my black shirt and you can make a sash out of your grey duct tape.” Our uniform had a black top with a grey sash placed diagonally on the front.
“That’s got to be one of the most ridiculous ideas I have ever heard,” I said, reaching for my duct tape. “Who wants to wear Blap’s shirt?” Instantly, 32 bodies backed away, leaving Blap in the middle of a ring of band students. Blap was not known for taking showers and washing his clothes unless some special occasion was coming.
“Come on, guys,” said Blap, “I took a shower and washed all my clothes last night getting ready for this festival.”
“Oh, all right,” Ragweed said, disgustedly. “I’ll wear it.” I guess the fact that Blap wears a double extra large and Ragweed wears a small didn’t dawn on him.
“Well, if you won’t be needing me for a while,” said the bus driver, “I’ll go try to find someone to fix that heater and get some lunch.” After making sure everyone had everything they needed off the bus we said goodbye to the bus driver and started getting everyone decked out in some form of a uniform, with four of the students wearing duct tape sashes. We walked into the school and approached the registration table where I proclaimed, “We are from Lost Hollow High School.”
“Where is the rest of your band?” asked a woman whose nose was slightly higher than every other nose in the room. She could have been the double for the evil queen in a recent movie I had just seen.
“This is it!” I smiled.
“Oh,” she said. I had never known how condescending the word “Oh” could be until that moment. “Those are interesting uniforms,” she said sweetly, staring at the duct-taped musicians. “You need to head over to the warm-up room because you perform in 30 minutes,” she said. “Our guide will lead you.”
As soon as we entered the warm-up room I instructed our students to warm-up. They immediately started jumping up and down, patting their arms and blowing into their hands. “I meant on your instruments!!” I yelled.
Just then Jimmy shouted, “I think I left my trumpet on the bus!” Without hesitation I barked, “Quick! Catch the bus before it leaves!”
“And see if my music is there, too!” yelled Blap, as Jimmy took off on a run. The look I gave the shrinking Blap was about .45 caliber.
“What do we do now?” queried Ragweed.
“Keep warming up!” I demanded. After a couple of minutes of cacophony I got Priscilla’s attention and motioned for her to come up front. Priscilla was the president of the band, which meant she got to direct the band for various warm-ups and pep band events. “Priscilla,” I said, “I want you to run the band through the first song.”
“Ok, Mr. Olson,” she chimed. As Priscilla started leading I began thinking about what to do about the missing music and trumpet player, noticing the clock ominously showing only 10 minutes left for our warm-up time. The continued torrent of noises brought me out of my contemplation. “Priscilla!” I yelled over the tumult, “I wanted you to run through the first number!”
“That’s what we’re playing, now, Mr. Olson,” came the reply.
That caused me to think of what kind of scores were given at these events and if we were about to set a new record for the lowest one ever given.
“Are you still cold, Mr. Olson?” asked the ever-inquisitive Ragweed. “You are shuddering.”
Just then a voice behind me said, “You have to head to the stage, now.” I turned and saw our guide holding her hands over her ears.
As we shuffled to the stage I was wondering if it was too late for prayer. Ragweed interrupted my thoughts with, “Do you think I could actually use a reed this time, Mr. Olson?” Because of the unusual nature of Ragweed’s tone I had decided a long time ago to have him hum through his clarinet instead of using an actual reed. Whenever he played his clarinet with a reed, Ragweed had the ability of putting people into a trance-like state that we had coined the Daymare (which is not much different than a nightmare). The result would be grotesque facial expressions, wide eyes, and fainting. For some reason I was affected in a different way, with wheezing and palpitations.
“Absolutely NOT!” I stammered, wondering if there was a side door through which I could casually slip out.
As the kids organized themselves on the stage I looked out past the stage lights and saw six eyes peering at me. “What kind of beast is that?” I asked the guide, with a shudder.
“Those are the judges,” glowered the guide. As the judges smiled at me I was reminded of my principal’s teeth down at Mabel’s.
“Could we have a few more minutes?” I asked the guide in desperation. “I am waiting for my trumpet player and….”
“I am sorry,” came a cold voice behind me. It was the evil queen. For some reason I was beginning to have cravings for Turkish Delight. I guess you had to see the movie……….
“We are on a tight time schedule,” she continued, ”and you will have to begin your program now.”
Without a trumpet player and no tuba music we began our first number. The sounds coming out of the band reminded me of the New York Philharmonic……when they are warming up. Actually, our sounds were not that good. I turned and saw the same smiles from the judges, except that now their heads were bobbing up and down, not much different than someone who is laughing uncontrollably. I am not sure what caused my next action but I leaned over to Ragweed and said, “Put your reed on, Barney.”
“Really?” came the reply. “Now?”
“Yes, now!” I hissed.
Within seconds there came a wailing out of the band that I recognized. It was Blap, who had noticed Ragweed putting on his reed. But before Blap could alert the rest of the band a horrific resonance began to pierce the auditorium like a knife through soft butter. As the sound began to fill the room I turned and saw the judges with faces cast in hideous form, which was not unlike most of the faces of the audience members. In fact, my band students had stopped playing their instruments and began mimicking the look of the audience. As I reached for my inhaler, Ragweed was just taking a breath to begin another phrase. I instantly gave the cut sign and had my band stand up as if we just finished the performance.
At first there was no sound but then some polite applause began scattered throughout the room. I hurriedly ushered my band off the stage and to the warm up room to get our cases. As we headed outside I saw our bus pulling up.
“We got the heater fixed!” exclaimed the bus driver, smiling. “Hey, what’s wrong with you? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”
“It was worse,” I stated.
Then I noticed Jimmy sitting in the front seat. He was covered with mud, his clothes were in tatters, and his glasses were missing one lens. “What happened to you?” I asked.
“Well, it’s a long story, Mr. Olson,” began Jimmy.
“Never mind,” I said, exhaustedly. “You can tell me later.”
After counting the students I saw the evil queen heading out to our bus. “Quick!” I said to the bus driver. “Let’s head out of here!” But I was too late because the queen had reached our bus.
“Mr. Olson! Mr. Olson!” she shouted. I have your scores here. She handed me the envelope with the sheets. As I opened it with trepidation I noticed how quiet it was on the bus with every kid staring at me. As I looked at the scores my jaw fell off my face and bounced on the floor of the bus before coming to rest in a position of shock.
“Why these scores are all in the Superior range,” I stated in disbelief.
The queen said, “It seems that all memory of your performance was completely wiped out of the minds of all three judges (not to mention everyone else in the auditorium). They couldn’t remember you making any mistakes so they gave you the highest score of Superior.”
Instantly, a cheer rose up from the kids on the bus. On the way home there was laughter and singing.
From that day our band became somewhat town heroes and Mabel even gave me a free pancake breakfast. As I was having that breakfast down at Mabel’s the next Saturday with Tom and Cranky, Tom said, “Boy, you certainly have made Mrs. Stubbleberg’s good list. She has been telling everybody what a great band we have.”
“I know,” I said gloomily.
“Why so glum?” asked Cranky. “I would have thought you would be soaking it up!”
I replied, “Now that everyone thinks we are so great we are getting requests to have us play at the all the events around the county. That would mean more…… (I gulped)…… field trips.” Instantly, there arose those high-pitched, short violin notes again, which caused me to leap out of my chair.
“I sure wish Lyle would get his brakes fixed,” complained Tom.
Just then Mabel came up to the table. “In honor of our award winning band director I fixed something special for you boys,” she said, proudly, as she set the plate on the table. As I reached for the cover of the dish I asked, “What’s it called, Mabel?”
“It’s called Turkish Delight!”
My right hand froze in mid-air as my left reached for my inhaler.
