Works of Fiction

The prologue from a currently incomplete novel for NaNoWriMo 2024.

Prologue

The author would like to make it abundantly clear that, although Anthony can indeed play the trumpet, his doing so has no bearing on the title of this book. In fact, he never joined a jazz band while in school and instead focused his efforts on solo and small classical ensemble work.

Anthony always found improvisation tricky. He couldn't tell if it was a lack of musical knowledge and comfort with his scales, a lack of practice and exposure, or simply a failing of personality. Maybe his creativity wasn't up to snuff and he had to accept that he would forevermore read music from a sheet of paper and eventually work some soul-despairing cubicle job because that's all he was cut out for. Less dramatically, he often that that though he enjoyed trumpet, it wasn't the avenue he could use to connect to some deeper part of himself; maybe he continually failed to unlock that hidden sliver of artistry, never found his muse, or had the wrong tool in hand to speak that musical language of the heavens that seemed to come so effortlessly to the first- and second-chair trumpeters.

Those two—Beth and Tyler—tore it up at all hours in the practice rooms. He would put his ear to the door sometimes, tap along to the backing tracks, and wait in nervous silence for one of the trumpets to join. The half-beat of anticipation when he heard them inhale and could picture them pressing their pursed lips to the mouthpiece sent chills through his spine because something miraculous was about to occur. They would belt out a solo that always managed to be equal parts tasteful, technical, inventive, and virtuosic. They'd hover on a note over a chord change, sometimes creating a dissonance that they had the confidence to maintain; there was a forcefulness behind their decisions that convinced Anthony, and anyone else within earshot, that a master was at work so don't bother complaining about a little tritone or half-step flub. You better believe it was intentional, and wait for what's coming next.

As sure as a snap on two on four, whoever was playing would break through a moment of uncertainty shared by everyone except themselves and begin a line so full of momentum and verve that it would root the listener in their spot until the track left the solo section.

Anthony heard this at least once a day at the institute, and knew without a doubt that he never had that effect on anyone else. Of course, he wasn't playing jazz to backing tracks. In fact, he wasn't sitting in those practice rooms at all. He wasn't some kind of exhibitionist. Not that he thought that of Beth and Tyler—if you have the goods, Anthony figured, you're allowed to flaunt them. At some point it switches from exhibitionism to a public service. But he also figured that people wanted to hear his playing in the practice room only slightly more than he wanted his mom to great him from the living room window the day after deciding to become a nudist.

In short, jazz intimidated Anthony. But that's not important right now.

What's important is that Anthony played trumpet, and then he didn't. He went to music school, then business school, then to a corporate job where he failed to have a cubicle. He grew up in that time where he saw his parents working in cubicles while he was destined to gaze across an open-concept office littered with random dividers separating loosely-constructed teams. Pinned to the dividers were pictures of pets and small neon signs; atop and beside them were a mix of fake and real plants; desks contained a few personal photos, additional plants, unlit candles, silent fidget toys, and other affectations and decorations deemed allowable by the wardens of corporate culture.

Anthony's desk was largely indistinguishable from others in terms of style and panache. A photo of him with his parents and little sister was a dead ringer for someone to determine this was his desk, as was the tent-fold card stock name tag on the corner that had “Anthony Promic” printed in a font not unlike Helvetica, but that he and a few others knew was actually Proxima Nova. Once one determined whose desk it was through this mild sleuthing, they could piece together a few more details between the ceramic three-dimensional eighth note sculpture and the toy brass trumpet that no longer contained batteries since Roger insisted on pressing the play button every time he walked by. Beyond these, there was a smattering of company-issued pens and notepads, a color wheel that was far more expensive than most would have guessed, and the book Managing Creative People.

By comparison, the desk to his left had a few detailed books on graphic design, and the framed photo was of Lisa and her brother on a trip to the Grand Canyon last year instead of parents and siblings. There was her first palette, some Pantone swatches, and a succulent nestled in a blue painted pot. Roger's desk, three over to the right, didn't have any pictures. But there was the collection of ticket stubs from the past decade along with the display case containing the lone home run he hit while pitching in Division II college baseball. Nobody was at the game so he was able to collect it after his team lost.

Each desk had its bit of flair, but it all fell in line to create the impression that this office could serve equally well as a movie set. For Anthony, this was fine. He was still coming to terms with his promotion to Manager of Graphic Design within the Marketing department. Too much visual clutter would have made it difficult to focus.