When I was in sixth grade I had a posse. I was the chief instigator and center of attention for a group of about six guys that I had known since kindergarten. Our desks were pressed together right next to the teacher so he could keep an eye on us and redirect our attention whenever necessary. It was often necessary. When the constant giggling at my little quips escalated to raucous laughter, it would be time once again to send me out to the hallway so that things could cool down. This went on all year, and I loved it. Poor teacher. But he was great, the only male teacher I had in elementary school but a true classic, from Boston. We California boys loved his accent. But in seventh grade it was just me and Chuck, both lonely misfits who constantly bickered with each other, resentful of our plight. I will have a lot to say about my relationship with Chuck in another post. I mentioned him when I told the story of how we entered beginning band together in eighth grade, and how we were made fun of by the more inveterate members of the advanced bands.

One day in eighth grade between classes, I sat down at the piano in the band room and played some ragtime, rolled out some improvisations as well. One of the kids from Symphonic band, Robert, heard me and got very excited. As his friends began to arrive he told them, “Hey, listen to this guy play: he’s really great!” A crowd gathered and I became a somebody. The beginning band wasn’t good enough to perform anywhere, and I still felt like a guest in the band room, but Robert invited me to hear the Symphonic band perform their winter concert. Robert was a percussionist, the good kind. He could read music very well and played the glockenspiel, xylophone, and timpani in addition to all the drums. I arrived at the concert that evening feeling like I was crashing a party or something, out of place but eager to hear the music. I sat near the back of the auditorium, but when Robert looked up from tuning the timpani and saw me he…smiled. Just a simple smile, notable for its lack of self-conscious reservation. No hedging or goofiness. Just, “Hey, you made it! Glad to see you.” I felt welcomed, and confused. Guys didn’t just smile at other guys, I had discovered in seventh grade. You don’t want people to think you’re gay or something, I had learned. But, no, he just threw me an easy smile and I think it may have changed my life. After that I felt like I belonged in the band and the band room. By the end of the year I began to be the center of a new circle of friends, and I liked it.

In summer school Robert taught me to play timpani and encouraged me to fool around on the other percussion equipment, showing me how to interpret drum notation. I was learning tuba and bassoon on top of baritone sax. It was a fun summer during which my friendship with Robert grew. I mentioned in a previous post that there were several boys who vied for status of “best friend,” and I wouldn’t ever grant any of them that title. But forty years later I looked back and realized that Robert really was the best friend I had in those years, even though I had never really noticed. I took him for granted because I could: he was so loyal and patient with my awkward social convulsions. Near the end of that summer, when we were fourteen, his sister got married. I should say something about Robert’s unusual family. Robert’s parents were members of a social club near my house, notable for the swimming pool enclosed by a fiberglass fence, with a clubhouse that was basically a private bar. His dad and dad’s best friend were gym teachers, I think, and the two couples had long taken family vacations together, camping at the beach and such. I think they liked to party because they had a full wet bar in their house. Anyway, some years before I met Robert, his parents and their best friends decided that they were married to the wrong people. They all divorced and remarried — each other’s spouse. The two families continued to get on great with each other, and the numerous children of the two marriages mixed freely and were allowed to live in whichever house suited them. I had never heard of such a thing! But they were all very nice people. His sister’s wedding reception was going to be held at the social club, and Robert told me he might be able to sneak a bottle of champagne out, so I should be ready. That Saturday afternoon Robert quietly arrived at my house with not one, but two bottles, still cold since the club was a block from my house. We snuck out to the detached garage about sixty feet behind the house and locked ourselves in. All I remember is how good it tasted. We laughed and joked around as the effect grew. I had never been drunk before, but by the time my bottle was empty I sure was. What I didn’t know was that Robert had already consumed a whole bottle on his own before arriving at my house. After finishing what turned out to be his second bottle, he threw up. Then passed out. I tried to get him back to the house, but he threw up again and collapsed in his own vomit. I couldn’t rouse him.

My mom and brothers and sisters were sitting watching TV together as the clock neared 10PM. They were startled as they heard the back door slam open, loud footsteps coming through the laundry room, kitchen, then dining room. As I entered the middle living room (still one room away) they had a clear view of me by now, and they knew it was me because I was yelling, “Mom! Mom!” the whole time) I suddenly tripped, did a shoulder roll and popped back up, still running. That’s when they noticed the blood running down my forehead. They assumed I had been in some accident or been beaten up. What had happened is that I fell on the back steps (without feeling a thing) in my haste to get some help for my possibly deceased friend. I told them that Robert had passed out and I couldn’t wake him. My mom jumped up and headed to the back door while my older sister Karen, now eighteen, laughed her head off. She knew immediately what was going on, and thought it was hilarious. Robert was fine. My mom called his parents and they laughed the whole thing off, saying, “Well, you know, boys.” My mom was mortified. I was grounded for a month.

When school started we told the story to the other boys in the band (I was now in Symphonic!) and they got a great laugh out of it. We gained a lot of status, as none of them had ever done anything so outrageous. The group of us adopted the name “The Chompain Bunch,” pronounced with a bad impression of a Mexican accent. I had a new posse.

One day after school, not long thereafter, I heard a commotion in the hallway outside the band room. When I came out to see what was going on I found Eric the trumpet player holding a very tiny, very wet kitten. “Someone just tried to flush this kitten down the toilet!” We didn’t believe him at first, but he said he heard the voices and the toilet flush before some boys ran laughing out of the building. He had gone into the restroom and found the kitten still in the bowl. We all formed a circle to look. He was adorable, a tabby, and happy to be held in someone’s arms. “What do we do with him?” everyone wondered. I sensed that Robert was about to say something, but I blurted, “I’ll take him. I’ll keep him.” And Eric, who had found the cat and was still holding him, said, “OK, but you have to name him John, since that’s where we found him.” And that is how I came to possess my very own cat.

John was the best thing that had ever happened to me. He was sweet and playful, no trouble at all. He slept with me every night. I remember one night having a dream where I was being attacked by a rattlesnake. I struggled with it, but it kept trying to bite me. Finally, in desperation, I attempted to stick my finger down its throat, and it stopped. I snapped awake and saw John sitting there nonplussed, shaking his head and opening and closing his mouth. My finger was wet. I remember when we took him to get “fixed,” how he wobbled around the house as the drugs wore off. He was always a good sport about anything like that. During the time I was skipping school, later that year, Robert was the one who would drop by on his way home and hang out with me, just to make sure I was all right. One day he skipped too, and we hung out all day. He played with John, whom he loved, while I played the piano. Even after I started going to school again six weeks later Robert continued to come by often. We spent many hours together, talking about music, life, people, stuff. He loved Rachmaninoff as much as I did, and I loved the way Robert smiled whenever I played ragtime. He let me borrow an old set of bongos and taught me to play them. Robert was great. One Friday in high school we stayed after school and he taught me the “timp-tom” part of the cadences we used in marching band, which he normally handled. The timp-tom is a set of three tuned drums you wear in a harness. The next Monday during Marching band rehearsal I played the timp-toms while Robert marched with the bell lyra. We had fun, but the director said I couldn’t do that again: I was needed on tuba.

Back to ninth grade: one Saturday Robert was over and I was practicing bassoon. I recall my mom and several family members were there. I glanced over and noticed that John had fallen asleep in the empty bassoon case! Robert laughed when I pointed it out. I put down my bassoon and quietly crept over to where John was snoozing and gently closed the lid. Even full grown, John was always a petite cat. I latched the case. No sound from within. Laughing, I gently picked it up by the handle and walked all the way through the house with the bassoon case hanging at my side. As I passed by my sister Jenny she asked, “Where are you going?” When I told her what was up she followed me. When I got to the dining room I set the case on the table with care, popped the latches, and opened it up delicately. There was John, now awake, totally chill. I went and grabbed my mom’s instamatic camera and snapped a picture, which is the only one I have of him.

In the Fall of 1977 the nation was riveted by the airing of the mini-series, Roots. I think it was the first time White Americans focused their collective attention on the history of Black people in our country, and it was a shock. My whole family watched. It would be difficult for me to over-state the impact that show had. I was instantly in love with LeVar Burton, of course. Everybody at school was talking about it, too. It pained me to have to miss two episodes due to evening marching band practice. That Thursday I returned home from practice at around ten, sad to have missed the show, which my family was still talking about. I looked around. “Where’s John?” I asked. My siblings’s faces dropped. “Oh,” they threw glances at each other. My brother, Dan, said, “John got hit by a car. He died.” I demanded to see him, disbelieving. Dan explained that a neighbor who lived around the corner had seen it happen and recognized him, calling our house. Dan, Jenny, and Drew raced out to see him, but apparently he was so badly injured they didn’t even want to go near the body. They had called Animal Control to come pick him up. So I never saw him again.

Something changed inside me. It was as if giant steel doors were slamming shut, one after the other, like on the beginning of the show “Get Smart.” I loved John the way only a child can: without reservation, without limits, without thought of self. He was the perfect cat. He had been my constant companion for two years. He kept the nightmares away. Now he was gone. I somehow knew I could never love anyone or anything the same way again. Now I would always have to guard my heart a little against the possibility of loss. Ten years later I “inherited” a female tabby named Cygnus, who had been in the family for about eight years. I loved her very much, but it was never with the same abandon with which I loved my little John. That night I was numb. But when Robert came over and found out that John was dead, he cried. How I envied that.

[Me on the piano, Robert on the timpani, and Eric (who originally rescued John) on the flugelhorn, photo for a newspaper promo for a high school concert.]