“Home is behind, the world ahead,
And there are many paths to tread“
“The bus gets to the station at 4:27AM. That’s plenty of time to order and eat a pizza.”
It was midnight on June the sixteenth, in the clammy basement of the Hodgeson household. Tim Hodgeson and his friends were lounging on the old sectional, doing their best not to get sucked between its cushions–and failing. Tim was gripping a controller, focused on the tv in front of him.
“Do whatever you want,” he said, absentmindedly. “I can put some cash up.” The digital vehicle he was piloting crashed and exploded in a brilliant display of hot-colored pixels, and he set the controller down with a deep sigh. His expression brightened when he looked around and saw his friends.
“I’m really glad you guys are staying up with me, by the way,” he added.
“You are leaving to go on a ten-state tour, dude,” Brian said, dialing the number for the 24-hour place. “Who knows when you’ll come back–if you will at all. We’re looking at the next Clarence Clemons over here.”
“I’m coming back,” said Tim. “Who else is going to keep you assholes in line?”
As if summoned by the swear word, the door above opened, and Tim heard the sound of footsteps coming down.
“Tim, honey? I’ve been packing for your trip. Can you come here a second?”
The boys shared a snicker, each one giving Tim an encouraging pat as he groaned and stood up. “I packed up this afternoon, mom!” He did a light jog up the stairs to meet his mom, who was holding a Costco-sized box of granola bars. “I’m not taking that.”
Tim’s mom laughed. “No, but I’m going to stick a few in your carryon. And by the way, I checked the bathroom. You didn’t take your toothbrush or your toothpaste yet.”
“I’m gonna brush my teeth before I go and pack it up then,” said Tim. “Shouldn’t you be asleep, mom? Brian says he’s gonna drive me to the bus. That’s why the guys are here. Get some rest.”
“You’re crazy if you think your mother isn’t seeing you off at the bus stop,” Ms. Hodgeson said with a stern look. “Now, let me ask you–how many pairs of underwear did you pack? And are you taking that hand sanitizer I got you?”
Below him, Tim heard another chorus of snickers. He turned beet red. “Mom, I’m 20 years old. I’m packed. I’m good. Leave it alone, alright?”
Tim didn’t wait to see his mother’s reaction. He marched back down the stairs to join his friends, who had just successfully ordered the pizza. He felt something drop in his stomach when he heard the upstairs door close, just a little bit harder than normal.
—
On the first night of the tour, Tim found himself warming up his alto saxophone in a soundproof room, away from the rest of the band. He was just a replacement player while the band’s usual guy was taking on some family stuff, but it was important to him all the same. His first touring gig that took him out of state, with real adult musicians who’d been doing this since before he was born.
His fingers worked up and down the keys as he practiced his scales, pumping his breath into the saxophone until it was a living extension of himself. When he’d heard enough, he moved on to practice the solo he’d written. The one that was going to make him stand out on this tour’s live recording. It wasn’t ready yet, but after a few nights of finding his confidence on stage…He shut his eyes and really wailed on the thing.
The door opened mid-interval, and Maxie the frontwoman walked in. “Hodgeson, we’re on in twenty.”
Tim ripped the saxophone from his mouth so fast at the sight of his boss. Maxie was just as imposing offstage as she was on it. It was hard to impress her, and even harder to make her show it. He never knew where he stood with her, and he really didn’t want her hearing the solo until it was ready.
“Y-yes, m’am!” he sputtered. The saxophone swung from his neck holder, and he reached down to stop it. The mouthpiece collided with his chin, which stung his pride more than his skin. Maxie pretended not to notice, leaving him to his thoughts with a curt nod.
Tim tried to shake off his nerves by going back to his warmup, but when his tongue touched the mouthpiece, he stopped. A busted reed, from when the mouthpiece hit his chin. One down, he thought as he approached his case. He dug for a replacement, but his hand only met with empty wrappers. A jolt of icy panic shot directly into his brain. Did he forget to pack extra reeds?
You can’t play saxophone with a broken reed.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Okay. Alright. Twenty minutes. We can do this.” He could send the band’s assistant out for a pack of reeds. The closest music store was about eight minutes away. It’d be tight, and he’d be playing with a dry reed, but at least he’d be playing. He pulled out his phone and called up the assistant, and then he ran to his carryon bag to scrounge up the necessary cash. The phone went to voicemail just as his hand hit a small cardboard box with a familiar heft: a ten-pack of Van Dorens, size three. Taped to it was a note:
“Can’t leave it alone. I’m your mom. Sorry.”
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