Good Friday

What a truly surreal evening I've had.

Tonight was the job I'd snapped at my dad about earlier this week. We didn't have to be in Queens until 5:30 but were picking up a trumpet player at a train station on the South shore. I probably should have gone in to work and asked to leave early, with all the work that's been piling up lately, but I felt it would be less stressful to stay home and use a vacation day. After working late for four days(and still not getting ahead), it would be nice to sleep in and relax. My brain had other ideas. First I dreamt I was walking to some restaurant I'd never been to, and meeting all my college friends there. For some reason I had booked a table for four but there were more than twice that number, and some of my college friends morphed into former co-workers who've left for various reasons. When the hostess objected, I watched a me that wasn't me boldly argue back and threaten to take my business elsewhere. More astounding was the fact that I won the argument. At some point the restaurant morphed into a sweet office with dim lighting and a stained wood finish; it was like an elegant cabin. I had an outer office for my receptionist, and glass tinted doors leading to my inner sanctum and large oak desk. I had her put my boss on hold, and started playing video games since my monitor faced away from my (now closed) door. Of course, e-mails about the two clubs I work on soon interrupted my game play and I frantically became aware of the time and sat bolt upright in bed, reached for my watch, and saw that it was 7AM. Only I would take the day off, dream about work, and wake up even earlier.

I went back to sleep for a few hours, and spent my day relaxing, watching DVDs, and surfing. My dad and I left around 3:30, and met the trumpet player by 4:15. I had estimated an hour's ride, but there was surprisingly little traffic despite my dad's fear of people being let out of work early for the holiday, and we got there in a half hour and found plenty of parking. It was a beautiful church, and I'd actually played another job there for the trumpet player's band about four or five years ago. My dad didn't remember the church until the second time he used the men's room(I'm SO not looking forward to my “golden” years).

It was COLD. Clouds threatened rain and some players mentioned the possibility of snow, but neither came to pass. I sat in the car for as long as I could, and finally we lined up in formation around 6:00. The temperature continued to drop and the wind made it feel like far less than 30 degrees. I tried to walk around and keep moving, and despite many layers of clothing and a thick jacket over my suit, I could still feel my limbs stiffening. At one point my dad offered the bizarre speculation that “Jesus died, and now he's getting us back by making us suffer.” I couldn't find the time or the right starting point to show him the flaws in that argument, and my jaw was frozen shut. I barely managed to shake my head. The services inside ran exceptionally long, and it was 7:30 before throngs of people made their way outside.

I watched as the priest spoke to the crowd from a small stage with a lfe-sized crucifix behind him. Many people held candles, and it reminded me of Easter services at our church. Usually a few words are said then we go back inside where our candles are the only light through several readings. It's a very nice vigil. This job tonight boasted something I've NEVER seen before. I watched with a mix of horror and curiosity as several men took a step ladder, and began taking apart the crucifix. As the first plastic arm fell limp, I realized it was a Detachable Jesus, something that felt a little sacrilegious to me. I considered that they were reenacting biblical events as we began playing a hymn from a book of funeral marches. However, when we finished the first song I saw that the “body” had been placed in a glass coffin, not unlike Snow White. We then proceeded to walk through the streets playing funeral songs, following the coffin, while people crowded us. It was nearly impossible to stay in line and I bumped in to quite a few people who gave me dirty looks despite my offerings of “excuse me, sorry, pardon me, excuse me please”. Between the crowd and the candles they carried, I soon forgot the cold and suspected a few times that I'd caught fire. I don't know what it is about some processions. Most of the time people stay on the sidewalk and if they are in the street, they give the band room. At parades, police barricades enforce this. But this job, like another one I do every year in Hoboken, attracted a selfish mob that despite the solemnity of the occasion, lacked simple courtesy and surged forward like schoolchildren at recess. I really, REALLY hate the crowd mentality. I'm usually polite and wave people on ahead of me when there are lines and stuff. Putting others before myself is something I took from my religious upbringing, so it was painfully surprising to see no one else there had gotten the same message.

After nearly three hours of being shoved, and my arms feeling like lead whenever I had to hold up my instrument, I was seriously considering looking for another line of work. I was exhausted and hadn't eaten in over eight hours, but it was dark and my dad has trouble seeing at night. Actually, he drove us to the job while it was still light and argued with me as usual about his inclination to drift to the right, even when people in the right lane were blowing their horns in fear. I had that numb cold-air and tingly low-blood-sugar feeling, but I was still the best candidate to drive. I just wanted to get the trumpet player to his train and get back home to open my envelope and see if the job was worth it(it wasn't), and get to a warm bed. My dad began making strong hints that we should drive the guy to his home out on Eastern Long Island, which meant an extra hour of non-stop driving for me. “Are you taking this parkway or this one?” And when I took the one he implied, I got, “Oh, you're going this way?” I was fuming. It wasn't until after we dropped the man off that he clarified that the hints weren't for my benefit, but for our passenger to respond with, “Oh no, you guys don't have to take me home. The train station is fine.” Of course, he didn't say a word and silently sat there while we went out of our way to get him home a little after 11. It was a little before midnight when we arrived home, and my mom was horrified to see I'd picked up some fast food, meat on this of all Friday's. I told her it had to be after midnight somewhere, and in five minutes it would be here as well.

What a night. There was also a full moon, which fits with everything that happened to me yesterday. I'm exhausted and achy. TGIF.