"One-tee-tay-ta, two-tee-tay-ta, three-tee-tay-ta, four-tee-tay-ta," Neil Hollis counted loudly as he struck his knitting-needle baton against my tin music stand in a steady four-four cadence. Despite Mr Hollis's insistence that I focus on the sheet music resting on the stand he was so ardently tapping, my eyes were firmly focused on the ruptured blood vessels of this five-foot-three-inch man's nose. I (the ten-year-old boy with his right hand shoved up the french horn's bell) was absolutely transfixed by W.C. Fields' nose that graced the middle of our band director's face.
Our so-called "band room" was merely the foyer of the auditorium at Rusk Elementary. We budding musicians were arrayed in a semi-circle facing away from the glass outside doors, ostensibly to keep us from being distracted by the intermittent traffic occasioning Copia Street. But then the truth was revealed: the chairs were arranged to allow our band director to keep an eye out. Mr Hollis froze as a faded 1949 Buick Riviera slowed to a stop across the street along the northbound curb. He commanded, "Practice your sixteenth notes!" Then he stepped past me and pushed against the glass door.
A very heavily made-up bouffant-styled woman on the far side of her sixtieth birthday stepped from the car -- her expression matching the scowling grill of her vehicle. The little woman (a burly bleach-blond amazon who had an advantage -- of at least six inches in height and fifty pounds in weight -- over our diminutive white-haired instructor) was not happy. We had trouble making out the words, but it was apparent from Mr Hollis's slumped posture that he had very little to add to her soliloquy other than an occasional, "Yes, dear." The conversation ended with Mr Hollis's handing over his wallet and his wife's deftly removing its contents as she threw it back at his chest. She then immediately retreated to the land yacht in which she'd arrived.
Poor Mr Hollis. Suddenly that spider-veined nose made a lot of sense.
Our so-called "band room" was merely the foyer of the auditorium at Rusk Elementary. We budding musicians were arrayed in a semi-circle facing away from the glass outside doors, ostensibly to keep us from being distracted by the intermittent traffic occasioning Copia Street. But then the truth was revealed: the chairs were arranged to allow our band director to keep an eye out. Mr Hollis froze as a faded 1949 Buick Riviera slowed to a stop across the street along the northbound curb. He commanded, "Practice your sixteenth notes!" Then he stepped past me and pushed against the glass door.
A very heavily made-up bouffant-styled woman on the far side of her sixtieth birthday stepped from the car -- her expression matching the scowling grill of her vehicle. The little woman (a burly bleach-blond amazon who had an advantage -- of at least six inches in height and fifty pounds in weight -- over our diminutive white-haired instructor) was not happy. We had trouble making out the words, but it was apparent from Mr Hollis's slumped posture that he had very little to add to her soliloquy other than an occasional, "Yes, dear." The conversation ended with Mr Hollis's handing over his wallet and his wife's deftly removing its contents as she threw it back at his chest. She then immediately retreated to the land yacht in which she'd arrived.
Poor Mr Hollis. Suddenly that spider-veined nose made a lot of sense.
6 comments:
Wally Cox taught your band class?
Don't you just know he sat and plotted ways to do away with Mrs. Hollis while he wore the apron and cooked the dinner.
TERRIFIC!
Jamie--
Thanks
Gladys--
Yeah, Mr Hollis was Wally Cox ... but in W.C. Fields' body. I have no doubt he plotted his wife's demise, but mice always fantasize about ways to do in the cat.
have you ever found a picture of the hood ornament that inspired you to believe??
I've never really looked for images of Nash hood ornaments, but since you mention it ...
People ask me why i don't write a book...its because of posts like this...THAT was some writing my man. L-O-V-E-D it!
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