which doctor
14th April 2009, 05:40
Anyone have any comments on this or suggestions on making it better?
The Fascinating Home of Mr. Atkins
When I was 13 I began taking music lessons. I wasn't a great saxophone player and I never became a great saxophone player. I enjoyed it, but didn't show much passion. My instructor's name was Mr. Atkins. He had been a well known musician and private instructor in the area for decades. He charged reasonable rates for lessons and you needn't bring your check on time. Everyone in the local music business had heard of him and people told me I was lucky to have him as an instructor. He was an elderly man with a round head and gray and thinning hair that was slicked back across his scalp. His head stuck out a little too, like a pigeon's, but luckily for Mr. Atkins, it didn't bob back and forth when he walked. He had big eyes that looked like they could pop out at any moment. He wore glasses, probably to keep his eyes from falling out I imagined. They had thick, smudge covered lenses and faded black frames. His wardrobe consisted of pleated khakis, button-up dress shirts, and wool cardigans; pretty typical for a man of his age and temperament. Definitely an interesting specimen to behold.
His house was tucked back in an aging, but quiet neighborhood full of winding streets with funny sounding names, the kinds of names that belong only to planned suburban housing developments. His was a low-slung bi-level, a little Frank Lloyd Wrightish and painted in colors that reminded you of the 1950's. The other houses in the neighborhood were also low-slung bi-levels that looked a little Frank Lloyd Wrightish and were painted in colors that reminded you of the 1950's. Music lessons were conducted in the basement and you had to walk around to the back of the house to get to the door that went to the basement. Mr. Atkins' sprinklers were always on, which meant that my approach to the basement door always had to be strategically planned and carefully executed, lest I get wet.
The inside of Mr. Atkins' home matched the outside. There was reddish-brown shag carpet and it was filled with mismatched old furniture, each one with a different, busy pattern. I can't find the right words to describe the patterns, besides that they belong to another era and are of the variety that one finds only in homes such as these. There were a few bookshelves, each filled with row upon row of identical looking books. Their spines read “Reader's Digest Condensed Edition” followed by a volume number and year. The light in this room was dim. It was the basement and only a little natural light came in through the small windows high up on the wall. There were all kinds of interesting looking lamps, but they all had yellowed and dusty lamp shades that shaded most of the light. Does this mean that the lamp shades were doing their job too well or not well enough? The walls were wood paneled, not with real wood, but with fake wood, or maybe a real wood veneer, I'm not sure. On one wall hung a blue marlin. The furniture was of the variety that you sat in, not on. You could hear the springs when you sat on the cushion, but they were weak and you sunk in deep no matter how much you weighed.
The upstairs was a mystery. I never could quite figure out what was going on up there. I could always hear several different voices coming from upstairs. Besides Mr. Atkins' wife, I never saw any of these other people, but from what I could tell the demographic was multi-generational. I heard old raspy voices, tired middle-aged voices, youthful and defiant voices, and crying baby voices. Mr. Atkins never talked about his family, and despite all the conversations I eavesdropped on, I didn't know much about them either.
The whole experience overwhelmed my senses. With my ears I could hear whatever particular muffled racket was coming from upstairs and the talented flutist who always had her lessons right before mine. Mr. Atkins frequently reminded me that this girl could play each of her scales several octaves up and down many times without pausing to breathe. This was true, my ears witnessed it many times over. I could only play my scales up and down once before stopping to take a breathe. With my nose I could smell the peculiar odor of oldness, old people, old furniture, old air, coupled with the stale cigarette smoke that seeped underneath the door and drifted down the stairs to the basement. With my eyes I could see the various knick-knacks and accessories that characterized the basement sitting room where I always had to wait 10-20 minutes before each lesson. The room never changed, but I never ran out of things to look at. With my hands I could feel the rough and itchy polyester couch cushions and the cold brass of my saxophone as I assembled it. After it was assembled I held my saxophone in my hands with the pads of my fingers grasping the mother of pearl keys. Lastly, taste, on my tongue sat a reed being warmed up for play, and in my mouth was the taste of wood familiar to all who play reeded instruments. Nowadays they have plastic reeds and they don't taste like anything. My sensory experience at Mr. Atkins' would not have been complete if I had used a plastic reed.
The room I had my lesson in was actually a mudroom. It was between the basement sitting room and a door that led outside. The space was very cramped and half of it was occupied by a chipped and worn, pastel green upright piano that sat against the wall. The rest of the room consisted of a small desk cluttered with all sorts of strange looking music-related objects and two chairs, one for me and one for Mr. Atkins. I sat in the chair on the right and Mr. Atkins sat in the chair on the left. There was a small window that leaked when it rained and a door that never shut right. Since I was seated closest to the door it was my job to make sure it was shut properly. Each time I had to do this was an event in and of itself, but usually after the right combination of shaking, twisting, turning, and slamming I was able to get it shut. Whenever a student walked through the room I had to get up and move my chair so there was enough space for the door to open. A few minutes later I would have to get up again to close the door when Mr. Atkins noticed it wasn't completely shut.
Each week I visited Mr. Atkins for my lesson was more or less the same. The sights, sounds, textures, and tastes never varied much from visit to visit. One day while getting ready to leave for my lesson there was a message on the answering machine. It was Mr. Atkins' wife. She was calling to tell us that something had happened and Mr. Atkins would no longer be giving music lessons. This was all I would ever know about what happened to Mr. Atkins, just that something had happened. I had assumed I was going to keep taking lessons with Mr. Atkins for a long while to come. There was still all of high school band in my future. And now Mr. Atkins had disappeared from my life. I don't think it's necessary to describe his disappearance as sudden, all disappearances are sudden and Mr. Atkins is no exception. I would never again see Mr. Atkins. I would never again have to sit in that strange basement room waiting for my lesson. I would never again have to fight with that stubborn door. I would never again have to dodge the sprinklers in an effort to keep dry. It was an experience I believed was going to be infinite, the same week after week for as far as my developing mind could see into the future. After listening to the message from Mr. Atkins' wife I learned that no experience was infinite. There is always a beginning (this I already knew) and there is always an end (this I had just learned) and all that's left are memories and the impression they made on you. So long, Mr. Atkins and the place you called home.
The Fascinating Home of Mr. Atkins
When I was 13 I began taking music lessons. I wasn't a great saxophone player and I never became a great saxophone player. I enjoyed it, but didn't show much passion. My instructor's name was Mr. Atkins. He had been a well known musician and private instructor in the area for decades. He charged reasonable rates for lessons and you needn't bring your check on time. Everyone in the local music business had heard of him and people told me I was lucky to have him as an instructor. He was an elderly man with a round head and gray and thinning hair that was slicked back across his scalp. His head stuck out a little too, like a pigeon's, but luckily for Mr. Atkins, it didn't bob back and forth when he walked. He had big eyes that looked like they could pop out at any moment. He wore glasses, probably to keep his eyes from falling out I imagined. They had thick, smudge covered lenses and faded black frames. His wardrobe consisted of pleated khakis, button-up dress shirts, and wool cardigans; pretty typical for a man of his age and temperament. Definitely an interesting specimen to behold.
His house was tucked back in an aging, but quiet neighborhood full of winding streets with funny sounding names, the kinds of names that belong only to planned suburban housing developments. His was a low-slung bi-level, a little Frank Lloyd Wrightish and painted in colors that reminded you of the 1950's. The other houses in the neighborhood were also low-slung bi-levels that looked a little Frank Lloyd Wrightish and were painted in colors that reminded you of the 1950's. Music lessons were conducted in the basement and you had to walk around to the back of the house to get to the door that went to the basement. Mr. Atkins' sprinklers were always on, which meant that my approach to the basement door always had to be strategically planned and carefully executed, lest I get wet.
The inside of Mr. Atkins' home matched the outside. There was reddish-brown shag carpet and it was filled with mismatched old furniture, each one with a different, busy pattern. I can't find the right words to describe the patterns, besides that they belong to another era and are of the variety that one finds only in homes such as these. There were a few bookshelves, each filled with row upon row of identical looking books. Their spines read “Reader's Digest Condensed Edition” followed by a volume number and year. The light in this room was dim. It was the basement and only a little natural light came in through the small windows high up on the wall. There were all kinds of interesting looking lamps, but they all had yellowed and dusty lamp shades that shaded most of the light. Does this mean that the lamp shades were doing their job too well or not well enough? The walls were wood paneled, not with real wood, but with fake wood, or maybe a real wood veneer, I'm not sure. On one wall hung a blue marlin. The furniture was of the variety that you sat in, not on. You could hear the springs when you sat on the cushion, but they were weak and you sunk in deep no matter how much you weighed.
The upstairs was a mystery. I never could quite figure out what was going on up there. I could always hear several different voices coming from upstairs. Besides Mr. Atkins' wife, I never saw any of these other people, but from what I could tell the demographic was multi-generational. I heard old raspy voices, tired middle-aged voices, youthful and defiant voices, and crying baby voices. Mr. Atkins never talked about his family, and despite all the conversations I eavesdropped on, I didn't know much about them either.
The whole experience overwhelmed my senses. With my ears I could hear whatever particular muffled racket was coming from upstairs and the talented flutist who always had her lessons right before mine. Mr. Atkins frequently reminded me that this girl could play each of her scales several octaves up and down many times without pausing to breathe. This was true, my ears witnessed it many times over. I could only play my scales up and down once before stopping to take a breathe. With my nose I could smell the peculiar odor of oldness, old people, old furniture, old air, coupled with the stale cigarette smoke that seeped underneath the door and drifted down the stairs to the basement. With my eyes I could see the various knick-knacks and accessories that characterized the basement sitting room where I always had to wait 10-20 minutes before each lesson. The room never changed, but I never ran out of things to look at. With my hands I could feel the rough and itchy polyester couch cushions and the cold brass of my saxophone as I assembled it. After it was assembled I held my saxophone in my hands with the pads of my fingers grasping the mother of pearl keys. Lastly, taste, on my tongue sat a reed being warmed up for play, and in my mouth was the taste of wood familiar to all who play reeded instruments. Nowadays they have plastic reeds and they don't taste like anything. My sensory experience at Mr. Atkins' would not have been complete if I had used a plastic reed.
The room I had my lesson in was actually a mudroom. It was between the basement sitting room and a door that led outside. The space was very cramped and half of it was occupied by a chipped and worn, pastel green upright piano that sat against the wall. The rest of the room consisted of a small desk cluttered with all sorts of strange looking music-related objects and two chairs, one for me and one for Mr. Atkins. I sat in the chair on the right and Mr. Atkins sat in the chair on the left. There was a small window that leaked when it rained and a door that never shut right. Since I was seated closest to the door it was my job to make sure it was shut properly. Each time I had to do this was an event in and of itself, but usually after the right combination of shaking, twisting, turning, and slamming I was able to get it shut. Whenever a student walked through the room I had to get up and move my chair so there was enough space for the door to open. A few minutes later I would have to get up again to close the door when Mr. Atkins noticed it wasn't completely shut.
Each week I visited Mr. Atkins for my lesson was more or less the same. The sights, sounds, textures, and tastes never varied much from visit to visit. One day while getting ready to leave for my lesson there was a message on the answering machine. It was Mr. Atkins' wife. She was calling to tell us that something had happened and Mr. Atkins would no longer be giving music lessons. This was all I would ever know about what happened to Mr. Atkins, just that something had happened. I had assumed I was going to keep taking lessons with Mr. Atkins for a long while to come. There was still all of high school band in my future. And now Mr. Atkins had disappeared from my life. I don't think it's necessary to describe his disappearance as sudden, all disappearances are sudden and Mr. Atkins is no exception. I would never again see Mr. Atkins. I would never again have to sit in that strange basement room waiting for my lesson. I would never again have to fight with that stubborn door. I would never again have to dodge the sprinklers in an effort to keep dry. It was an experience I believed was going to be infinite, the same week after week for as far as my developing mind could see into the future. After listening to the message from Mr. Atkins' wife I learned that no experience was infinite. There is always a beginning (this I already knew) and there is always an end (this I had just learned) and all that's left are memories and the impression they made on you. So long, Mr. Atkins and the place you called home.