Baritone Saxaphone

The fabric on the couch scratches my skin, making the day worse than it already is. I’m sitting here listening to my iPod, not even in a good enough mood to tap my foot to the music. Staring across the room at nothing in particular, my eyes begin to get a little restless. My hazel irises roam across that corner of the room, and I spy my black and brown backpack, the zipper stuck at the sides, unwilling to close the first pocket. It is leaning up against my aunt’s director’s chair. My English paper hangs out of my back pack, Times new Roman, 12 font, double space. Sigh. Then I shift my glance over to the tall, large, black, case that has one handle on the top. In a daze, I swing my legs off the couch, pull out my earplugs, throw my i Pod on the couch, and slump over to the tall black case. I tip it over on its side so I can open all the latches. There are four of them. Then I stick my fingernails in the cases opening, and lift open the top. The instrument is surrounded be red velvet, and there are four compartments to keep my reeds, cleaner, cork geese, and strap. It is gold-brass, and it sparkles in the sunlight that comes in a stream through my window. It is bigger and longer than the rest of its kind, and valves and keys cover every inch of it. Sigh. Well, at least it’s something to do. I search lazily for a reed, and then when I find one, I lay it against the mouth piece. After finding the flimsy, gold legitchur (no spelling suggestions) I secure it on to the mouth piece to hold the reed in place. Screwing on the neck, long, gold and curvy, into the mouth piece, I think about what music to play. The Incredible? No. Something more original. Something exiting. Something I hardly ever play. After I am done assembling my instrument, I stand up and hook the strap on the back of the instrument and pull it around my neck. Then I make my way over to the sliding back door, still carrying the instrument around my neck. I sag from its weight. In 30 seconds I find myself in the middle of the dewy lawn, searching all around the yard for intruders. At that moment a realize that I am so glad I am the only house for a mile. I plant my bare feet on the ground, feeling the cold mud ooze under my toes. I pull the mouth piece up to my face, take a deep breath, and let a rumbling low note explode throughout the area. It seeps through all the branches of the trees, making squirrels scramble and birds tweet and fly away. More notes come thundering out of the instrument, making my lips curl upward around my mouth piece. Boredom: cured.