“Again!” Mr. Sadowski beat his baton on the conductor’s stand. “Until it’s right! I don’t care if it takes all day!” We’d just mangled the Telemann Sinfonia for the third time.

Sadowski was bluffing. We had twenty minutes of Music left, before the bell rang, and we still had to work on Fiddler on the Roof, the centerpiece of this year’s spring concert, which was just a few weeks away.  

“I hate this freaking piece.” David closed his eyes, leaned back, and started banging his clarinet against his forehead.

I flipped back to the first page of the score. “It’s like half the orchestra is tripping down a broken sidewalk.” The Sinfonia was easy enough to play … for a string orchestra. When you added woodwinds and brass, it became a clunky mess. I was First clarinet and David Second, so we were in the clunky mess part.

“Why can’t we just play Fiddler?” David wondered. “Why do we need this stupid thing at the beginning?”

“It’s a Spring concert, not a Spring Fiddler.” My reed was dry, so I licked it. “There are always a bunch of different things on the program.” David knew this. He just liked to complain.

“Well I’m sick of it.” David straightened up in his chair. “Let’s mess it up so badly that Sadowski has a stroke.”

We started the Sinfonia again, and when the orchestra got to the tricky spot, David and I played our parts out of time so the music bucked and lurched like a car with a failing transmission. 

“NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!” Sadowski bashed the stand with his baton. He’d turned purple with rage. “No!” Smash! “No!” Smash! “Noooooooo!!!!!!!” David and I cracked up watching him.

Sadowski stopped hitting the poor baton and pointed it at me, but the abuse had left it hanging like a limp carrot. “That’s it! You’re off the lead on Fiddler!” He was referring to the beginning, which had a difficult clarinet part, due to several trills that needed to be executed perfectly.

“There’s no one else who can play it.” Sadowski had threatened me with this several times over the previous weeks, and I was bored of it.

“John will play it!” He meant John Marino, the worst clarinetist in the orchestra.

“And John will mess it up,” I replied. “He can’t play the part, and you know it.”

“Yes, I can!” John cried indignantly from two rows behind me. “You’re not so great.”

I smiled sweetly. “Ok, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Hrumph!” Sadowski’s face had returned to its usual bright pink. “Alright, the Sinfonia, one more time!”

“God, I hate that guy!” I was at home in my room, practicing scales with Sandy Sharoff, my clarinet tutor. I’d just filled him in on the situation. 

“Once a schmuck, always a schmuck.” Sandy had been Sadowski’s teacher back in the day. Indeed, it was Sadowski who recommended him to my mother, when we were looking for a private tutor.

“He gave it to John Marino. Can you believe it? I’ve been practicing the damned thing for months!”

Sandy made sympathetic noises. A sweet old gentleman, with a widow’s peak and a mane of white hair, he looked like an 18th century composer but talked like a Borscht-Belt comedian. He tutored both David and me, and we adored him.

“Sadowsky knows Marino sucks,” I grumbled.

“Enough with the scales. Let’s try something new.” Sandy rummaged around his bag which was full of sheet music. “Is the kid really that bad?”

“He’d screw up ‘Mary Has a Little Lamb.’” I hadn’t realized how bitter I was about the whole thing until we’d started talking about it. 

“Hmm.” Sandy’s voice was soothing.

“And Sadowski’s willing to blow the whole Spring concert…just to spite me.” I was at the stage of being mad where I was almost in tears. 

“Now, listen.” Sandy looked me in the eye. “Ron Sadowski is a jackass. He was a jackass as a student, he’s a jackass now, and he’ll be a jackass later. So, the next time you’re in class, tell him: ‘Sandy Sharoff says you’re a jackass.’”

“Sandy Sharoff says you’re a jackass”? I don’t know why I repeated what he’d said as a question.

“Yes!” Sandy beamed at me.

“I can do that.”

“Fiddler on the Roof, from the top!” It was the following week, and the Spring concert was nearly upon us.

Marino played the first few notes well enough, but when he got to the eighth and tried the trill, it came out as a noisy honk. David and I snickered.

Sadowsky looked annoyed but ignored us. “Give it another try, son.” I’d never heard him call anyone ‘son’ before.

John started again but went too fast, so when the trill came, he seemed surprised. There was a nervous pause, followed by another honking blast from his clarinet.

Sadowsky looked like he wanted to hit the conductor’s stand, but he could see David and me grinning and thought better of it. “Again.” His voice was unusually quiet.

Marino seemed unnerved, and several moments passed in silence. Then he started once more, haltingly. Soon, he reached the trill.

“Go on!” Sadowsky leaned forward.

There was no honking this time, but rather a long, reedy squeak. A groan went up from the orchestra.

“Told you he couldn’t do it.” I felt vindicated.

David chimed in. “You should have listened!”

Sadowski’s face turned a light mauve. “I don’t want to hear another word out of either of you!!! Or I’ll demote you both to triangle!” 

“Hey!” Sal Bono was offended. He was the triangle player.

Sadowski closed his eyes and counted silently to ten. “John, can you please try it again?” 

“Do I have to?” Marino looked desperate. “I mean, maybe you should just let him do it.” He gestured in my direction.

I stared at Sadowski’s fat face and imagined him trying to decide what was worse, Marino ruining the Spring Concert or giving the part back to me.  

“Just forget it.” Sadowski’s reply was short. I was getting the part back!

“I’m sure you’ll do fine when the time comes,” he made his way over to John and gave him a fatherly pat on the shoulder. “You’ve just psyched yourself out today.” I wasn’t getting the part back.

“Uh, Mr. Sadowski?” I raised my hand.

His eyes narrowed. “I told you, not another word. This better be good or it’s triangle time.” Sal Bono opened his mouth to protest again, but closed it when Sadowski threw him a murderous look.

“Sandy Sharoff says you’re a jackass.”

The bell rang, and David and I sprinted out before Sadowski could throw the conductor’s stand at us. Halfway down the hall, we could still hear him ranting and raving.

“I know you’re mad, but don’t make trouble at the concert.” My mother looked hard at me in the rear view mirror. We’d be at my school in a few minutes, and the 1980 Roslyn Junior High Spring concert would be underway.

I gave her a feeble smile.

“I mean, you’re already in trouble. You called Mr. Sadowski a jackass in front of the entire class.” 

“I said ‘Sandy Sharoff says you’re a jackass’. I expressed no personal opinion on the matter.” 

“Mr. Sadowski didn’t take it that way,” my mother said dryly. “And neither did the Principal. I had rather urgent calls from them after the incident.”

“I worked on that stupid part for months.” I was still bitter. “And he just handed the damned thing to Marino.”

“Language,” my mother murmured. I could tell from her tone that I was losing her. 

“The kid can’t play the part. He’ll mess up the whole thing.”

My mom was unmoved. “It’s a junior high spring concert, not Carnegie Hall.” She pulled into the parking lot and parked the car. Turned around and pointed at me. “You behave.” The conversation was officially over.

“Alright.” I climbed out and grabbed my clarinet case. “I’ll see you later.” I headed over to the orchestra entrance.

“I’ll be in the bleachers!” my mom called out to me. Translation: she’d be watching my every move.

Inside the gym, David was already seated and moistening his reed. We’d been relegated to the lowest ranks of the clarinetists, so we were several rows back. I plopped down next to him with a heavy sigh and started putting my clarinet together. The place was already full with parents, siblings, and a stray grandparent here and there.

“Are you ready for the shitshow?” David seemed cheerful. Of course, he wasn’t the one who’d practiced the opening to Fiddler since January only to have it snatched away from him.

“I guess.” Weeks of being angry had given way to a somewhat listless mood.

“Just think…” David attached his mouthpiece to the body of the clarinet. “Sadowski will be humiliated in front of everyone’s parents!” He was in high spirits.

Moira Kleinig sat down across the aisle from me in the flutist section. She was generally known among the students as a “hall monitor” type, even though we didn’t have hall monitors, and her favorite pastime was getting people in trouble. David and I had renamed her “Moron Klingon.”

“I hope you’ll accept the situation gracefully.” She put on her best grown-up voice and looked at me. “For the good of the orchestra and the reputation of our school.”  

I was about to unleash a flood of verbal abuse, when Sadowski stepped up to the conductor’s stand and addressed the audience.

“Hello everyone!” Sadowski’s girth gave his speaking voice a deep baritone. “And welcome to our annual Spring Concert!” There was weak applause.

“As you know from the program, our featured selection is a delightful medley of songs from Fiddler on the Roof!” One person clapped. Scanning the audience, I saw that it was Marino’s mom.

“Before we start, I want to recognize our soloist, John Marino, who has worked tirelessly on this beloved piece of music. Take a bow John!” Another weak smattering of clapping, as John stood up and bowed awkwardly, after which he quickly sat down. He looked like a trapped animal. 

“Tirelessly,” I marveled. “You’d think Marino was the one who’s been practicing this thing the whole semester. He only got the part last week!” 

“More like tiredly.” David straightened out the sheet music. “The stupid kid hasn’t played the piece correctly a single time.”

“Shhhhh!” Moron Klingon was still playing grown-up. David gave her the finger.

Everyone finally settled down, and John made his way up to the front of the stage. Sadowski raised his hands.

The first few notes were strained but competent as John started the opening solo. Then he tackled the trill.

“HONNNNKKKK….SKREEEEEE!!!!!!!” His clarinet erupted noisily. There was a horrified silence. 

Marino started again. Played the first seven notes, and then…

“CHZZKKKEEEE…CHZZZZ…CHEEEEEE!!!!” This time, in addition to the racket, a burst of spittle came out of the clarinet’s bell.

A gasp went through the gym, followed by a titter. David and I pointed at John and cackled loudly. Sadowski stood stone faced, but his purpling hue betrayed significant distress.

Pouring sweat, John made a third attempt. He played the opening notes more slowly this time, trying to establish a calm groove before hitting the trill.

“CHCHCHCH….CHONK! CHONK! CHONNNNNKKKK!” Kids in the audience were openly mocking Marino now, and there were shouts of “Loser!” and “You suck!” followed by boos. David and I crossed our eyes, stuck our tongues out, and pantomimed playing the clarinet. The entire thing was on the brink of chaos.

Sadowsky gave up and gestured to the rest of the orchestra to come in, which we did in a desultory fashion. John slunk off to his seat with a soggy resignation. He looked like he’d fallen into a swimming pool with his clothes on.

The rest of the concert, though terrible, commenced without further incident. When it was over, parents and kids alike fled the gym as if a duck-and-cover alarm had sounded and Soviet missiles were on the way. David and I put away our clarinets with visible glee.

“I hope you two are satisfied!” Moira hissed at us from across the aisle. “You spoiled it for everyone!”

“Screw yourself, Klingon. Marino blew it without any help from us.” Our merriment was not to be diminished by a self-appointed, twelve year old spring concert monitor.

As we reached the parking lot, David and I were still laughing. We’d known Marino was going to be a disaster, but had no idea what a complete trainwreck the whole thing would become. My pre-concert depression had been transformed into joy, and there was a spring in my step.

We’d barely made it two feet into the lot, when a voice came out of the darkness, short and biting, like a snake spitting venom. “David!!!!!” The tone and affect was unmistakable: it was David’s father. 

“Well, it was good while it lasted.” David drooped and shuffled off towards the family car. I felt bad for him but was still buoyed by the evening’s events.

Then there was a sharp pain, as I felt someone grab my right earlobe and twist. It was my mother.

“How dare you! Mocking that poor boy!” She began dragging me by the ear towards the car.

“But he deserved it!” I was walking bent over and sideways so it was hard to speak clearly. “He should never have gotten the part!”

“Do you know how embarrassing that was? Watching you two laughing and gaping and making rude gestures like a couple of baboons?” My mother twisted harder and walked faster, and it was hard to keep up. “Marcia Gross was furious.” Marcia was the mother of my other best friend, Ali, who was one of the kids yelling “Loser!” from the bleachers. “She called you a bad influence!”

“But mom!” We had reached the car, whereupon my mother opened the door and roughly shoved me into the back seat. “Sadowski screwed me over!” 

“You don’t know how screwed you are,” she growled, as she got into the driver’s seat. “You’re grounded for two weeks. No friends. No mall. No Atari. No TV. Nothing. You can stare at the walls.”

We drove home in silence. Though the sentence was harsh, I was happy. Justice had been served.