Michelle Kay

Larry Roszkowiak

Taking Lessons

I began taking drum lessons when I was eight years old. I took them from a grouchy old man called Mr. Caroche. (Don't worry about how to pronounce it. You'll never meet him.)

He gave lessons at the Brandywine Music Center on north Market Street. There was a retail area in front and some small teaching rooms in back. The teaching rooms were eight-by-eight-by-eight and made with several layers of thick, cobbled together soundproofing material. Since most of the students were young children and not able to play their instruments loudly, I concluded that the soundproofing was intended to contain the sound of the teachers.

My brother had had some contact with Mr. Caroche. His name, and temper, were household topics.

My parents presented the situation to me with the kind of solemnity reserved for First Communions. I was to be taken to Mr. Caroche as a youth is taken into a demanding apprenticeship. They made it sound like I was going to study with Michelangelo.

On Monday nights they began taking me down to the music store where he gave lessons. (NOTE: Giving lessons is not the same as teaching.)

Mr. Caroche's hair was a gray flattop that was rounded on the sides and yellowish in front. His face bore the inhale creases of three hundred thousand cigarettes. He had short crusty fingers that had lit and held each and every one of those cigarettes. He always wore a suit. Woolen suits that smelled like ashtrays.

He never smiled. He hated everything. He hated mail. He hated air. He hated the paint.

He was a lousy explainer. He would grab the drumsticks out of my hands and start pounding the drum pad with a force that seemed lethal.

I stood inches away from him in that little bare room. He pounded the pad. When he counted the words sounded like cannons. His breath hit me in a stream of hot puffs like car exhaust. He roared through smoky lungs, "Why can't you do that? WHY—CAN'T—YOU—DO—THAAAAAT?"

I stood frozen. I completely defocused my eyes and stared into space. My little boy mind cooked up a stream of heart-ripping dioramas and tragic vignettes.

One had my parents dropping me off, that very night, at a home for the retarded. No words. No good-byes. No hugs. A few quiet signatures and it's all done. They walk off briskly with bowed heads. The balance of their lives nothing but shame. Bleak, endless shame.

In another my father is in our living room late at night. He's alone. The room is dark save one small lamp. Dad's sitting on the sofa—near the end. He's still in his office clothes. Tie pulled down, collar unbuttoned, sleeves jammed up, shirt tail half out. His head is in his hands. He's never known such despair. The next morning we wake up and he's gone. No one asks why he left because everyone knows. He left because I couldn't play six-eight time.

Suddenly, my mental jailbreak was busted. Mr. Caroche took my little hands and slapped the drumsticks into my palms. He was now a little disheveled. His tie had gotten crooked. He was breathing heavy. He looked like he had just strangled somebody and it had taken longer than expected.

He grabbed the music book, turned the page, rolled up the cover and shook it in my face. He barked, "Next week. This! This! And THIS!"

His thick hairy hand smacked against the book with each assignment. I wish I had known the word "jawohl." Instead, I nodded silently.

He opened the door and let me walk out first.

I walked slowly. There was nowhere to go. He had convinced me I had no skill, no value, no use. I was completely without future.

Mom greeted me cheerily, "How'd it go, honey?"

I sort of shrugged and shuffled. I looked at my shoes.

Mom smiled, tousled my hair and turned to Mr. Caroche.

"How's my boy doing?"

"He'll get it."

"Atta boy!" she said proudly. "Atta boy!"

We put on our coats and walked outside into the Wilmington winter. The cold air was a comfort.

Larry Roszkowiak was born in Camden, New Jersey in 1948. After serving in the US Navy he went to college on the GI Bill as a thirty-year old freshman. He now lives in San Francisco and is working on a novel, Stories For Girls.

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