Trombonist

This was an essay I wrote for english class, but I was proud of the end result, so... That's kinda why this random thing is up here. No, I'm not crazy enough to make up such an arbitrary idea with no help. I got a topic and this is the result.

Enjoy.


There's a man outside my window. Maybe it's a woman. I can't see. Every day he comes and plays the trombone. Sometimes he plays very happy tunes and I start laughing. Sometimes the music makes me cry. He's very good. I like the sound of that trombone. I wish I could play. I want to be able to play an instrument as well as that trombonist can. They won't let me have any instruments though. I'll never learn to play anything. They won't let me. Not even a harmonica. I'm told to not whistle either. I want to whistle.

I can see a little of the outside if I jump by my window. In the quick glances I cast, I can see the tip of a phone-booth. A bright red one, like in those British shows. But that's all I can see. The tip of a red phone-booth. I would go look for myself. I would go see the phone-booth up close. Maybe even make a call. They won't let me though. Just like how they won't let me whistle. I want to whistle. I want to go outside.

I can't remember when the last time I went outside was. I can't remember what it looks like. I've tried to look out the window, but the tip of the phone-booth is in the way. All I see is that bright red phone-booth. Grass is green and the sky is blue. I know that. But what is green and what is blue? Are they like red? How are they different from the red phone-booth? I want to go outside and see for myself. That would be nice. To go outside and maybe even whistle. Why won't they let me? They let that man play his trombone in the phone-booth, but I can't whistle. That's not fair. Not fair at all.

I wonder what that man looks like. Is he tall or short? I don't even know if it's a man. I just assume it is. All the people who visit me are men. All except that nice lady. That's how I know what a woman is. That nice young lady. I wonder if the man outside has ever visited me. Maybe he's that nice lady. She knows how much I want to whistle, and she knows how they won't let me. I like the music. Maybe she knows that and plays it for me. I just wish she would stop playing those sad songs. They make my gut churn.

But there are some very happy songs that the trombonist plays. They always make me smile. When I hear it, I stand up and start dancing a little. It's fun to dance. They can't stop me dancing. They never see me to stop me. I always hear them coming. I sit down and sit still so they don't know I was dancing. I don't want them to take away my dancing as well. It's difficult to dance though. The trombonist in the phone-booth doesn't keep time very well. He often changes his song halfway through. Sometimes he stops without warning. He'll start again randomly. Sometimes in the middle of the night. That trombonist is always there, I think. I don't think he leaves that red phone-booth. I wonder: is he also stuck? Can he not leave that phone booth? Can he not go outside like me? Someone like me. That makes me happy. I'm not alone.

The trombonist was playing, but he stopped now. I was whistling with the tune. I was jumping to try look out the window again. I jumped while I whistled. The men who visit me came in. They told me to stop. But I didn't want to. I felt like annoying them and kept on whistling. I stopped suddenly. I wanted to ask about that trombonist in the red phone-booth. They said there wasn't any trombonist. They said there wasn't a phone-booth. They said there wasn't a window. They said I needed to put my jacket on; it was going to get cold. They said I needed to go to sleep. They helped me put my jacket on. It was a pretty white jacket. It was red before, they must have cleaned it for me. That was nice of them. They left again. I was alone. I was used to it now. The lying men were gone. If there wasn't a window, and there was no phone-booth, and there was no trombonist, what was there?

The men had said I need to stop biting myself. I chewed the inside of my cheeks. They said I was messing up the walls. Their pretty, soft, white walls. They said the trombonist wouldn't bother me anymore. Said he had calmed down, that he wouldn't scream anymore. Scream? So that was the happy tune's name. I laughed. It was a pretty name. I looked to the window which showed the tip of the red phone-booth. I would have to tell the men that the phone-booth was melting. It was running down the walls. Those soft, white walls. I want to whistle again. I want to go outside and find that trombonist and ask him to play again. It was such a happy tune.