P.i.t.A. Syndrome and the Surprise

Everybody cannot like everybody. There are people that won't get along with other people, and personalities that will eventually clash. Each of us has a tolerance factor, a length of time we can bear a certain personality or behavior. And each of us has a point where our own personality or behavior may annoy others. I learned of my own “pain in the ass” syndrome at an early age. My mouth was constantly going, often out-racing my brain and getting me in trouble at school. Teachers had to separate me from other kids so I wouldn't disrupt the class with my talking. One of my uncles, suffering from a headache and watching me while my mom ran into a supermarket, once offered me a nickel for every minute I could stay quiet. The chatter began again 20 seconds later with an inquiry as to how many minutes had elapsed, likely followed by some summary of a cartoon I'd seen or list of toys I wanted. And of course over the years there were many friends who simply stopped calling me or inviting me to things. They'd had enough. I'd like to think my experience as a major P.i.t.A. has made me more tolerant of others, and of the rare individuals I've encountered whom I suspect may be more annoying than myself. Every now and then I find I'm only human, and have my limits.

I spent six hours in Brooklyn yesterday morning for a feast that's celebrated every year on August the 5th. In a fire department parade, we'd walk a mile or two, play 5-10 marches, and be done, but the first time I played a feast when I was younger, the hours seemed intolerable. I've been doing this for so long that the days now go quickly and I can practically play in my sleep. A trumpet player yesterday offered the best theory I've heard on accelerated time perception. When we're five, one year is long because it's one-fifth of the time we've been in existence, but when we're twenty a year is a mere twentieth of our time. Each year is a smaller fraction of the time we've been alive, which is why our perception of a year gets smaller and smaller. At any rate, six hours is not only bearable but enjoyable, especially with temperatures finally down from the triple digits we endured during the week prior. This is where the new saxophone player enters the picture.

I'd estimate him to be in his 70s, around the age of my dad and one or two other older guys in the band. He played a few other jobs with us this year, including another long one during which he'd make a general inquiry every 15 minutes or so about when we would get a break or a drink of water. But he seemed nice enough, and though his complaining annoyed me, my anti-intolerance empathy kicked in and muted those feelings of irritation. I expected I'd hear more of the same yesterday. Our band leader set up the formation as the procession began. He'd be in the front row as always, leading from the front right corner with three other trumpets to his left. The second row would consist of my dad on the left, the saxophone player in the middle, and I on the right. Behind us three drummers would carry a bass drum, a cymbal, and a snare drum. The plan seemed simple enough, flawed only by the fact that this saxophone player seemed incapable of walking in a straight line.

I was determine to maintain formation and stay behind the band leader, even as the sax player crowded me and drifted to his right. Sometimes we'd collide but I'd hold my ground. Other times I'd drop back and let him wander in front of me, forming his own row. He didn't know most of the songs by memory and needed a book to read, one he occasionally would drop and have to fall back to retrieve once someone informed him his music was a few rows back in the procession. I thought maybe reading this book kept his eyes off the road and the people in front of him, but he drifted even when we weren't playing. At one point between songs he was explaining to me how the drummers should be a fraction of a second faster, and as he spoke I had to keep moving to the right until I nearly collided with a parked car. At another point the drummers asked us to move up a bit to keep up with the front row. My dad and I had no problem with the request but the sax player dropped back to their row and scolded them for “tailgating”, telling them that if we walked slow they had to walk slow too. Meanwhile, the first row of course got a few paces ahead. Eventually, I dropped back, let him meander to the right, and I shifted to the far left letting my dad get the middle spot. The bass drummer stepped forward and commented to me, “That guys a real d*****bag, isn't he? I'd like to crack him over the head with my mallet!” When the gig was over, the sax player proceeded to scold the snare drummer for not listening to his “years of experience” and playing drums a certain way. I should point out that this particular drummer teaches drums at a university professionally. All of our P.i.t.A. tolerances were tested that day.

After the job, we dropped off our friend Bill and returned home. I had about two hours to catch a quick nap and go to mass before we had to pick up Bill again and head out for an evening gig with another band. I was tired even after laying down for an hour before church, so my tolerance level was lower. Bill's a few years old than my dad, and while I normally like hearing his stories about the old days I found myself responding with terse “uh-huh's” as I attempted difficult lane changes navigating the Southern State and Belt parkways. Hearing about riding on the Belt in a Rumble seat when it was first built and had no traffic, an interesting tale any other time, was a Grampa Simpson level distraction as a van cut me off and a pair of motorcycles weaved and crossed my path from either side. When we finally got to the catering hall, the stress increased as a woman ran screaming at us in the parking lot. “YOU DON'T PARK HERE!” was all I could make out as I tried to explain we were with the band. Eventually I discerned amid her ramblings that the parking lot we were in was for a neighboring diner. She continued waving her arms and yelling the entire time I turned around to pull back out on to the boulevard. Next door, I asked one of the valets if we could park there since we were with the band, to which he responded, “Actually, you can't.” When it comes to Long Island, the further West you go, the worse parking gets.

We got a spot across the street a few blocks into a residential area. Inside the hall, we met up with the band but our boss wasn't there yet. None of us knew why we were there really, but normally his jobs range from wedding receptions to anniversaries to political shindigs. The manager of the catering hall came out, accompanied by the band leader's girlfriend. They revealed that while he thought he had been hired to play for someone's anniversary, the real reason we were there was for a surprise 60th birthday party for him. Suddenly, the job was much more entertaining. The ladies explained that his daughter, friends, and other family members were inside, staying out of sight, and that we needed to act like nothing was out of the ordinary. A few minutes later, one of the drummers arrived and told us he was waiting across the street to pass out hats and band t-shirts. Suppressing mile-wide grins, we headed out.

He was glad to see all of us, and assured us that it was some kind of anniversary and we just had to walk around the tables, play a few songs, and we'd be done in under an hour. As a conversational aside he mentioned that his birthday was the day before, but it really didn't seem as if he suspected anything. I turned my back to the busy street and swiftly changed in to the band shirt. When my head popped back out I saw a security guard in the window of a very-much open clothing store giving me and the rest of the guys a dirty look. Whoops. I glanced across the street at the catering hall and saw a curtain move aside as the guests peeked to see. The band leader took his time since we weren't booked to start until 8 PM and still had about 15 minutes, but they sent a waitress out to tell him they saw us all out there and wanted us inside. He grumbled a bit, but waved us across the street. Meanwhile, we'd all conferred that we'd switch to the “appropriate song” at the appropriate time, no matter what he called out.

“Here we go!” he waved, leading us in to the room. We started playing one song even as a DJ announced him, and he didn't seem to register what he'd walked in to right away. His playing trailed off as he started recognizing faces, and when he stopped we cut into a rendition of “Happy birthday!” This guy's a pretty cool character, and as his girlfriend kissed him and pulled him to walk around the tables, he told us to “do whatever you gotta do.” We played more songs, people danced around, and a good time was had by all. Then we got a break to rest and sample the buffet and I got a surprise of my own, unfortunately in the bathroom.

When I walked in, two things struck me. First, it was very ornate, with toilets in their own closet space with fancy slatted doors. Secondly, one of the employees in a bow tie and vest sat waiting in one of these stalls for a “customer”. I hesitated for a moment, but it seemed rude to just walk out, and I did need to go. I turned and walked out of his line of sight toward the bank of urinals, suddenly aware that from his vantage point, he could still see me in the mirror. I stood as close as I could, even as he started mumbling lyrics. Realizing the words he was singing were snippets of ”Everything I Do” didn't help with the stage fright. When I stepped over to the sink, he practically teleported to my side and squirted liquid soap on my hands. “Um, thanks.” I muttered, washing my hands quickly. I turned to leave and there he was holding out paper towels. Thankfully he just handed them to me instead of drying my hands for me. I muttered a second thanks as he launched into some small talk about the sound of the bands between the Italian birthday party in one room and the Indian wedding in the other. I know he was looking for a tip and that's customary in that situation, but the whole thing just made me feel really uncomfortable. I found I liked bathroom attendants even less than valet service. There are some things I'm perfectly capable of doing myself. Once more, my P.i.t.A. tolerance was tested.

After getting up at 6 AM, driving to Brooklyn and back, then later to Queens and back, I was exhausted. I crashed around midnight, which is why today's post is up so late. As I scrambled to get my thoughts down in some cohesive form this morning, my parents tested my tolerance levels as my dad asked for help with the Jumble and my mom told some painfully long tale about giving the cats dog food by accident and thinking one of our cats was part dog because he actually ate it. I was terse and grumpy in response to these interruptions, because I have a headache, I'm still tired, I haven't had breakfast yet and I needed to concentrate. Sometimes those closest to us can be P.i.t.A.s too, and we can't dismiss them as easily as we could a stranger. You have to listen to your family and friends and don't always have the luxury of the time and space needed to get your emotions in check. As for meandering old grumpy musicians and overly helpful bathroom attendants, we can just walk away from those guys.