What do You do with the Mad that You Feel
I almost punched something last night.
It had been awhile since all the girls of the family had taken off a night together. Linnea had strep, so Carrie took her ticket to the organ concert Rose had discovered during the week.
“How long is this thing going to last?” Carrie asked on the drive in.
It’s also been awhile since I’ve been to the Basilica. Fifteen dollars apiece paid our way on a cold night somewhere under the sparkling 41.5 million pieces of red and gold ethereal dome of one of the finest pieces of art to grace this old globe.
We found our short pew halfway up and settled into the 90 degree angles of sharp, hard wood. It had been more or less a long day, and I was looking forward to the eccentrics that I was convinced were in short order. An 82 year-old Frenchman acclaimed as one of the best organists in the world has to be somewhat eccentric, I think. Everything was peaceful… calming… quiet… And then.
Trapped.
There is one thing in the world, one huge thing, that drives me insane.
Pretty much every time with no exception. And while there is no scientific term or description, of which I am aware for this disastrous capability of mankind, I have long termed this vice of all vices in my fellow beings as…
“Smacking”.
Bless his heart, the gentleman who sat beside me could certainly not have been aware in any part the extent of this unforgivable dilemma. But he smacked.
So bad.
So bad, he smacked. And not because of any… “item”… housed within the oral cavity. There was no chewing gum involved, no. Nothing edible. Just lips. And not an occasional smack. But every four seconds.
Every.
Four.
Seconds.
He could have been a cuckoo clock. And by the 4,418 pipes of the organ — or whatever — above my head, I knew I was going to implode into…
Well… I thought to myself. Just wait a few more minutes. Just a few more minutes. If there’s anything in the world that can silence a smack, it’s a pipe organ…
No.
No, and no.
At first I was encouraged. This brilliant musician of a man walked lively across the stage – a French Samuel Clemens, blue suit coat, black string tie, ships’ sails of white hair. He might as well have materialized out of an 1830’s photograph. This was promising. Soon his fingers and shoes were running all over the keys. Up and down, around and around. Belting out, to his credit, a voluminous echoing paranoia of sound. But… For some inexplicable reason, though every other sound in the world was mitigated…
The smack,
was not.
In fact, the timing was now two seconds apart.
I pictured my eyes as rays of red-hot lasers, cutting the holy air, shattering through antique layers of gleaming glass and stone into explosions rivaling the best action films I could think of. And then I thought maybe that was a little too sacrilegious. But I couldn’t help it anyway.
The first piece evoked appropriate applause, ending like sudden thunder in the mountains.
Smack…
Smack…
Smack…
My skin crawled, tiny tickling creatures crawling up my spine.
As the magnificent Jean Guillou raced into his second feature, I braced myself. Volcanoes erupting ominously aside abandoned theme parks. My mind scratched out new ideas from the music as I tried to ignore the talking peanut butter sandwich beside me.
He’s just recording sounds for a movie, I told myself. He’s a foley artist. Cave creatures. Wellies sucking up mud walking through a swamp…
It wasn’t working. It just wasn’t working.
Heaven above and hell below. The perfect blend of celestial and sinister.
By the time my eyes were about to pop out of my skull, Mom rescued me at intermission, switching seats, while Carrie and Rose offered further pennies to the conversation. Fortunately, I did not follow Carrie’s interpretation on the situation…
“Collette, when life smacks you in the face, you just gotta smack it right back.”
And when fantastic Mr. Guillou ended his fabulous near two-hour blend of fantasies with an improvisation on a St. Louis hymn, in the final notes of the rapturous thunder… the pipes stuck.
All of them.
Jean covered both ears, dramatically fleeing the beast, as the custodian pulled the plug and the deafening shout was silenced to the ovations, applause, and laughter of the 400-or-so enthusiastic witnesses. Jean laughed with them and encouraged applause for the organ as well. He would not forget St. Louis. And even Carrie seemed to be comically entertained.
Stopping by the “hook-up Schnucks” for gooey butter cookies and pomegranate juice soothed my spirits further, and I forgave the gentleman in question.
Perfect smackless being that I am.