Part 1:
“Rick, they got everything. They cleaned me out. All of it!”
“What are you talking about? All of what?”
“Everything on the cart! My cymbals, the triangle, the xylophone … all gone.”
“The marching band stuff?”
“At least it wasn’t the drum cart. But still, I’m dead. I’m so dead. I only stepped away for a moment.”
“Just calm down. We can – ”
“Rick! They even got the glockenspiel!”
“What are you talking about? All of what?”
“Everything on the cart! My cymbals, the triangle, the xylophone … all gone.”
“The marching band stuff?”
“At least it wasn’t the drum cart. But still, I’m dead. I’m so dead. I only stepped away for a moment.”
“Just calm down. We can – ”
“Rick! They even got the glockenspiel!”
Labor Day weekend.
End of summer.
And the final weekend of the New York State Fair.
For eleven days, people came to Olawansic county and its crown jewel: Town Worth.
The yearly event foretold the end of long, sunny days.
Town Worth High’s marching band had reconvened practice a month earlier, in July.
I played the cymbals and was equipment manager for the percussion section.
Our band played daily at the Fair.
Rick worked the Hyung’s Carpets booth in the Merchants Building.
I ran up, empty cart in tow, and told him the awful news.
“OK, calm down,” he said. “How'd it happen?”
“I was wheeling the last of the stuff to the storage locker.
And there’s this guy, Shawnie, working the nachos stand.
He and Kacey Distaman broke up two weeks ago, he’s really cute.
Blue eyes, great smile, highlights in his hair, plays on the lacrosse team, a goalie I think, and –”
“What does this have to do with the instruments?”
“I got in line to talk to him. Only a minute! And got robbed.”
“So by now the instruments could be anywhere?”
“Probably.”
“All right, let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“Let’s try and find your percussion stuff.”
“There’s like 80,000 people here. We’ll never find anything.”
“You’re right. I guess you can just ask Dad to pay for what you’ve lost. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
My face went slack.
“All right, come one. I’m ready. Hurry!”
End of summer.
And the final weekend of the New York State Fair.
For eleven days, people came to Olawansic county and its crown jewel: Town Worth.
The yearly event foretold the end of long, sunny days.
Town Worth High’s marching band had reconvened practice a month earlier, in July.
I played the cymbals and was equipment manager for the percussion section.
Our band played daily at the Fair.
Rick worked the Hyung’s Carpets booth in the Merchants Building.
I ran up, empty cart in tow, and told him the awful news.
“OK, calm down,” he said. “How'd it happen?”
“I was wheeling the last of the stuff to the storage locker.
And there’s this guy, Shawnie, working the nachos stand.
He and Kacey Distaman broke up two weeks ago, he’s really cute.
Blue eyes, great smile, highlights in his hair, plays on the lacrosse team, a goalie I think, and –”
“What does this have to do with the instruments?”
“I got in line to talk to him. Only a minute! And got robbed.”
“So by now the instruments could be anywhere?”
“Probably.”
“All right, let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“Let’s try and find your percussion stuff.”
“There’s like 80,000 people here. We’ll never find anything.”
“You’re right. I guess you can just ask Dad to pay for what you’ve lost. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
My face went slack.
“All right, come one. I’m ready. Hurry!”
We headed to the crime scene: a crossway between the animal barns and the midway.
Visiting the nachos stand proved no help; no one had seen a thing.
We started canvassing every booth nearby.
The most popular stand was the legendary Steg's Osaurus BBQ.
Throngs of hungry people waited around its counter.
Pulled pork simmered in a smoky marinade.
A flash of light caught my eye.
Metal glinting in the sun.
High-pitched notes rang out from somewhere in the crowd.
A quick scan revealed two jerks with the triangle.
Banging out heavy metal medleys on it delicate frame!
My brother walked under the huge Steg's dinosaur (it had seen better days, but hey, it's an icon) and sidled up to the BBQ line.
Visiting the nachos stand proved no help; no one had seen a thing.
We started canvassing every booth nearby.
The most popular stand was the legendary Steg's Osaurus BBQ.
Throngs of hungry people waited around its counter.
Pulled pork simmered in a smoky marinade.
A flash of light caught my eye.
Metal glinting in the sun.
High-pitched notes rang out from somewhere in the crowd.
A quick scan revealed two jerks with the triangle.
Banging out heavy metal medleys on it delicate frame!
My brother walked under the huge Steg's dinosaur (it had seen better days, but hey, it's an icon) and sidled up to the BBQ line.
“Quite a beauty you got there,” Rick began.
"Huh?” said the two idiots.
“Pristine finish. Great sound. Say, what do you fellas know of the Pythagorean Theorem?”
The triangle went silent.
The smaller of the two (greasy hair, rodent eyes) spoke first.
“Uh, A squared, plus B squared, equals … C-section?”
“Close. Oh, you’re so very, very close.”
Then the big one (mirrored sunglasses, garish tatts) shared a thought.
“Maybe the shortest distance between two fists … is a broken nose. How ’bout that?”
“I’m not sure that’s correct. Not today.”
Mr. Sunglasses glared and scowled.
“You got a problem?”
“Actually I do. That triangle belongs to the marching band.”
“What are you sayin’? That we lifted it?”
“Yes. I’m saying you stole it. That you’re a thief.”
Rick's voice had gotten louder and now people in line were watching him.
“Bruh, you really want to talk to me like that?”
“I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to your other self.”
“What?”
“Your better self.”
"Huh?” said the two idiots.
“Pristine finish. Great sound. Say, what do you fellas know of the Pythagorean Theorem?”
The triangle went silent.
The smaller of the two (greasy hair, rodent eyes) spoke first.
“Uh, A squared, plus B squared, equals … C-section?”
“Close. Oh, you’re so very, very close.”
Then the big one (mirrored sunglasses, garish tatts) shared a thought.
“Maybe the shortest distance between two fists … is a broken nose. How ’bout that?”
“I’m not sure that’s correct. Not today.”
Mr. Sunglasses glared and scowled.
“You got a problem?”
“Actually I do. That triangle belongs to the marching band.”
“What are you sayin’? That we lifted it?”
“Yes. I’m saying you stole it. That you’re a thief.”
Rick's voice had gotten louder and now people in line were watching him.
“Bruh, you really want to talk to me like that?”
“I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to your other self.”
“What?”
“Your better self.”
His head cocked; he didn’t say a word.
“My little sister is very upset. Do you have a sister?"
“Maybe."
“What would you do if someone stole from her?”
He mulled over the question.
“I’d kill ’em.”
Rick stared earnestly into mirrored sunglasses and waited.
“OK, take it. Take it and tell your sister … sorry.”
With a nod of thanks, we made a quick exit.
“Incredible!” I said as we strolled off. “He could have pulverized you.”
“Yeah, imagine. Beaten senseless over a triangle. Huh."
“OK, don't overdo it."
“Why is that goofy thing even in the band? Who can hear it?”
“The triangle adds aural texture. One more unique sound in the sonic pageant.”
“Aural texture? Sonic pageant? Pretty deep for a girl who slams cymbals for two hours.”
“We have a name for that. It's called percussion.”
“No trumpet for you, huh? No clarinet, no oboe?”
“Yeah, go blow an oboe.”
A loud roar came from the nearby Tornado Bomb, its riders flailing upside-down and out of control.
Oh, I was right there with them.
On second thought?
Maybe I really should have gone with the oboe.
“My little sister is very upset. Do you have a sister?"
“Maybe."
“What would you do if someone stole from her?”
He mulled over the question.
“I’d kill ’em.”
Rick stared earnestly into mirrored sunglasses and waited.
“OK, take it. Take it and tell your sister … sorry.”
With a nod of thanks, we made a quick exit.
“Incredible!” I said as we strolled off. “He could have pulverized you.”
“Yeah, imagine. Beaten senseless over a triangle. Huh."
“OK, don't overdo it."
“Why is that goofy thing even in the band? Who can hear it?”
“The triangle adds aural texture. One more unique sound in the sonic pageant.”
“Aural texture? Sonic pageant? Pretty deep for a girl who slams cymbals for two hours.”
“We have a name for that. It's called percussion.”
“No trumpet for you, huh? No clarinet, no oboe?”
“Yeah, go blow an oboe.”
A loud roar came from the nearby Tornado Bomb, its riders flailing upside-down and out of control.
Oh, I was right there with them.
On second thought?
Maybe I really should have gone with the oboe.