Ghost Stories

            Every year, for a few days at the end of October children morph into sugar hungry zombies, chocolate powered superheroes, and candy bar princesses. It is a transformation that renders them unproductive in their music lessons and a lot of fun to talk to.

            In classrooms decorated with cardboard witches and paper ghouls I’ve begun each lesson with a question: Do you believe in ghosts? The answers sparked lively debates that were a wonderful waste of our time together. Several students even claimed to have seen or heard a ghost up close.

            Reader beware. The following stories are true.

            Queens:

           

            A. 7^th grade: There’s this house near my street that is supposed to be haunted and so my friend and I went to see how close we could get, and I was like ‘did you hear that?’ because I heard what sounded like high heels walking right behind us but there was no one there. He didn’t hear it but then I let him go first and then he heard the high heels and I couldn’t.

            Me: So it was only in that one place you could hear it? What did you do?

            A: We got out of there.

            Bronx:

           

            T. 5^th grade: This one time I was sitting in the car and I saw a reflection of my friend in the windshield like he was walking by. I turned to wave at him and there was no one there.

           

            M. 5^th grade: I don’t believe in ghosts but I know aliens are real because my uncle is in the military and he says there are three places that are secret that have aliens and people can’t go there.

            Staten Island:

            R: 7^th grade: I was walking home and I saw my neighbor, this old man walking down the sidewalk. When I went inside my mom told me he had died earlier that day.

           

            Queens:

           

            L. 3^rd grade: I know ghosts are real. Her eyes widen. Because once last year, in second grade, a ghost stole my phonics book. I took it home and then when I got there it wasn’t in my bag. Then the next day, it was back in my desk.

            Me: So the ghost took your book out of your bag and put it right back into your desk as if you’d never taken it?

            L: Says nothing and nods.

            And now a ghost story from Eastern Europe. One of my all time favorites.

The Devil's Wedding

            Tallinn, Estonia. 1488

         

            The old man stood outside the empty boarding house at 16 Rataskaevu St. on a dark afternoon and pulled the rough, stiff cloth of his cloak close under his beard.           

            Winter crept closer.

            Pointed houses huddled shoulder to shoulder as if for warmth.

            Golden slabs of light poured from slender windows.

            Chimneys exhaled black smoke into the graying sky.

            The old man considered death.            

            He was broke, lonely and without prospects. Brashness in youth had squandered a fortune, impoverished his soul and somehow left his miserable body perfectly in tact. A miss-justice he was intent on remedying that very night.

            Turning inside to cement his demise over a final bowl of gamey elk soup, the old man found himself suddenly face to face with a stranger; a man well kept, young, and dressed in clothes that suggested his station was much higher than that of a disgraced boarding house proprietor.

            Later, when asked, the old man would not be able to recall one detail of the stranger’s face. Only that the stranger spoke perfectly with a slight accent and smelled like peaches. The old man had tried a peach once in his youth and never forgot the smell.

            “Are you the owner of this fine establishment?” the stranger asked.

            “I am, are you in need of a room? Or meal?” the old man asked, smiling inwardly that the stranger had called his ill kept house a ‘fine establishment’.

            “I am,” the stranger said, reaching into his coat. “I wish to reserve your entire top floor for a private event. One night only. Tonight in fact. I realize this may be an inconvenience, but I am prepared to compensate you adequately for your troubles.” The stranger produced a billfold and held it in front of the old man.

            “Good sir,” the old man said, taking the billfold in his greasy hand, “this is more than adequate. It is in fact too much...” the old man stopped himself, forgetting his planned self-extermination and realizing that the amount he held in his hands would not only pay all of his taxes this year, but the next as well.

            “You may take it all,” the stranger said, “but it comes with a ah... stipulation, if you will. A rather delicate one that requires desecration on the part of you and your houe. There is to be no record of my stay here. Not in your books. And you may speak to no one of my presence here. I require complete anonymity. Once I arrive tonight, you and any servants you have are to stay downstairs, away from the top floor no matter what you might hear. I will be having a great number of... callers tonight, but I will be gone in the morning and your home will be left as found. Is that agreeable, sir?”

            The old man nodded, not taking his gaze from the wad of bills clutched in his hand.

            His salvation.

            “Good, then make ready,” the stranger said.  “I will return shortly.” The stranger turned and left, walking east into the growing shadows and taking the smell of peaches with him.           

            The old man ran inside and roused the only other inhabitant of the boarding house. The servant was a man as old and broke as his master. Pure habit and lack of better opportunities bonded the two men together, although neither one could claim to really enjoy the company of the other. But for the next hour the two men worked together, preparing the top floor with a vigor and sense of duty that was uncomfortable to both of them.

           They had only just finished when the stranger entered the house.

            “The upstairs is ready for you, good sir,” the old man called as melodiously as his worn vocal chords would allow. The stranger walked to the stairs without so much as turning. The stranger ascended the stairs, his shoes sharp and noisy on the wood. The old man and the servant could tell by the sound the stranger had chosen the room on the right. The larger of the two.

            The old man and the servant took positions in the foyer to receive the stranger’s guests.

            None came.

            Yet the party started. The sounds began quietly at first, then much louder.  

            Music.

            Feet banging hard on the floors, dancing.

            A women’s laughter.                       

            “How the devil did those people get in there?” the servant asked.
            “I do not know, nor do I care, as long as they all leave tomorrow.” The old man was content only to ponder his new good fortune, and not the mysterious designs and workings of the stranger who’d bestowed it upon him.

            “I want to peak into the keyhole,” the servant said.

            “Do not, old fool!” the old man scolded. “It was a condition. He said not to go upstairs. Content yourself with the means to live he has provided us. Now off to your chambers!”

            The servant grumbled but went off to his room.

            The old man, tired from the activity of the day lay in bed himself and listened to the muffled sound of the party.

            At exactly 1:00 am the noise stopped.

            The old man feel asleep making note that he’d heard no footsteps exit the front door.

            The next morning he woke early to prepare the stranger a breakfast of toast and eggs. The old man moved around the house with the fuzzy feeling of a poor night’s sleep. The servant, not known as an earlier riser, had not yet emerged from his chambers.

            His patience quickly exhausted, the old man went to wake the servant. The old man entered the servant’s room and immediately became overwhelmed with the foul stench of perspiration and urine. The servant was in bed, staring at the ceiling, sweating profusely as if from fever but his skin was cold to the touch. The servant’s fingers were drawn in towards his palms like a claw, and he seemed incapable of moving them. The servant turned his head with great effort and looked at the old man.

            “I saw it,” the servant rasped, his voice foreign and strange. “I looked, through the keyhole, just to see.” The servant coughed once. “It was the Devil. The Devil was having a wedding party. It was the Devil.”

            The servant convulsed and died.

            News of the servant’s mysterious death spread through the town. The old man closed his boarding house for good and died shortly afterwards. Whether by nature or his own hand no one cared to investigate. The old man was buried with little ceremony and the boarding house was sold.

            Almost immediately the complaints began.

            The new tenants heard noises late in the night. Noises of a party in the room at the top of the stairs.

            Music.

            Feet banging hard on the floors, dancing.

            A women’s laughter.           

            And always stopping at exactly 1 am.           

            The new tenant took his complaint to the Town Council. In Tallinn, such complaints were common. New owners unsatisfied with their purchase but unable to renege on the terms of their contract would frequently describe supernatural activity as latent defect and demand their money back - with damages - for having not been so informed that the place was infested with spirits. It happened with such regularity that the Council was forced to make provisions in the Charter. After much debate it was decided that ghosts and other paranormal activity would not be recognized as basis for lawful termination of a contract. The new tenant in 16 Rataskaevu St. did not receive their money back, but they did receive several complaints from neighbors.

            The noise from the party was so loud that it began to disturb neighbors, passerbys, and anyone within earshot.  Several complaints were recorded in town meetings.

            Finally, in frustration the new tenant boarded up the window and painted on a fake window so it would not mar the façade of the house. He locked the door the room at the top of the stairs on the right and forbid anyone from entering it.

            The noise stopped immediately. No more reports or complaints were heard.

            A hundred years ago a renovation was done to the building, but the window wasn’t touched.  In the walls and in the floorboards were found a ladies parasol, a gentleman’s watch, a strange collection of coins and a shoe, items one might expect to find left behind carelessly after a lively party.

            The window remains sealed.

            The room on the right at the top of the stairs remains unused toady in the building at 16 Rataskaevu St. where over five hundred years ago, in the very old city of Tallinn, the Devil had his wedding. 

Below: 16 Rataskaevu St. today. The window on the top left is the fake window, boarded up hundreds of years ago to keep quiet the the Devil's party.

Getting Better

Tuesday, A Phone Conversation

Me: Yes, hi. This is the Band Director, returning your call.

         The woman left her number but no name. Only that she had a question.           

Parent: Yes, hello. Thank you. How are you?

         Her accent is difficult to place. Middle Eastern, maybe.

Me: Very good, thank you. What can I do for you?

Parent: Ah, yes. I am B’s mom. 

           I recognize her son’s name. He’s the only B I had last year.

Parent: I just wanted to let you know we are all very happy to know that you will be returning this year.  All the parents think you did such a good job. The concert was just wonderful.  And B likes you very much.

                       

Me: Aw, you just made my day. Thank you so much, of course I’m coming back. I’m so glad B had a great time in band and I’m glad he’ll be returning.              

           B is a quiet kid. Said three words all year and I never got a good read on him in class. Couldn’t tell if he enjoyed it or not. But for some kids, especially the quiet kids, it’s the concert that gets them. Performing is like a drug that coaxes them out of their shell. All I have to do is give them a taste of it. They’ll never outgrow it.

            I never did.

Parent: But I have a question for you about B’s lesson time...

            Ah crap. Here it is. Every parent at this school wants their kid to have a lesson at the same time.

Parent: I was wondering if maybe he could go in the first group?  Because if he could go right after school it would be much easier.

             Right. For you. I’ll be stuck teaching a class of forty kids ranging in ages from eight to thirteen, playing all different instruments at completely different levels. That won’t be fun for anybody.

             Especially me.

Me: Well, I’m putting the schedule together soon. I have several parents already requesting early times so I’ll do my best to try to accommodate everyone.

              They’ve been calling me since August.           

Parent: I see.

Me: I can tell you that B will be in one of the first two groups. The returning students will go earliest.

              Sorry first timers, got to pay your dues.

Parent: That is good. I hope he can be in the first group.  But if it can not be that way, I understand.

Me: Thank you I’ll do my best.

Parent: And thank you, because B likes to play. He is very interested in the saxophone and is excited for the lessons. Last year he got it out many times to practice on his own.

               Really? I wonder how much “many times” is. The prescribed four or five times a week? Not likely. I mean B was alright. He kept up, I never had to call home or anything, he just didn’t seem like a big practicer. But I’ll play along.

Me: Well I guess that explains how he was getting so good at it!

Parent: Yes, but this year I’m hoping he gets better.

               Me too, lady. Me too.

Hi, I'm Steve

Wednesday Morning, North of the City

             

            In a dull, earth tone colored office that looks like a hundred others the principal greets me without leaving her chair. There’s a silver walker next to her desk and a large black brace on her left ankle. I remember the conversation we had nearly three months ago and tell her I hope her foot is feeling better, and that she looks terrific.

            “Oh thank you, Steve!” she says with a smile.

            My name is not Steve.  I let it go because she is old and has always been kind and supportive of the program I bring into her school. Besides, I’ve been called worse.  For an entire year at a school in Brooklyn the secretary never even bothered to attempt my name (it’s an easy one) or commit it to memory when I told her. Instead, she referred to me as “oh, it’s the band guy”.  I’d smile because I had to and then wonder how she might react if I greeted her as “the phone lady”, or “the big sittin’ down gal”.

            Sometimes I get “the music man.” This usually from strangers on the street, watching me carry instrument shaped boxes awkwardly over my shoulder and on my hip. Again I’ll smile, and try to look like carrying a trombone, a snare drum, a saxophone, and a couple of clarinets all at the same time is not only effortless, but a joy. 

            It’d be nice to hear “Hey look! It’s the guy who boosts the self-confidence of children!” or “Here comes mister cognitive function enhancer man!” But today I’ll settle for Steve. And actually the principal gets my name right after a minute.

            I leave the registration forms and head down to the monochrome cafeteria/gym/auditorium where two of my colleagues are waiting for me. We set up the instruments and slowly the room fills up. Eighth grade sits disembodied from the rest of the students in the far back of the room.  They look instantly bored but it doesn’t bother me. That’s how eighth graders are supposed to look. Like one of the requirements for entering high school is a well-cultivated expression of apathy. These kids have it down. I focus instead on the wide-eyed and excitable third graders sitting in the front.

            I introduce myself they way I want the students and faculty to think of me. I am The Band Director. Not a program director from a far away company, or a guy who just pops by every once and a while to play a little music, but The Band Director. A permanent fixture in the school. Like the water fountains. The third grade looks impressed. They’ve heard of me, but this is the first time they’ve seen my pitch.

            And a pitch it becomes. I’m The Salesman. Willy Loman peddling music. The Salesman talks about how much fun it is to play an instrument, and how high schools like to see applicants who play music. The Salesman tells them that unless they’ve ever tried to play an instrument, they’ll never know if they can do it or not. All of that is true but I don’t like The Salesman.

            I like The Teacher.

             The Teacher illustrates the difference between the woodwind, brass, and percussion families and demonstrates their various roles in the band. The Teacher holds up the saxophone.

            “This is the most modern instrument up here,” The Teacher says, “ invented a mere 200 plus years ago by a guy named Adolf Sax.”

            Then The Teacher explains that each instrument presents a very specific set of challenges and therefore there is no such thing as an easy instrument to learn. Despite this, most kids will still think the drum is the easiest.

            Their attention begins to wander so I became The Entertainer. My colleagues and I play familiar melodies on each individual instrument to a smattering of underwhelming applause. Some schools explode in uproarious excitement the moment they recognize a melody. Not here.

            No big deal. I’ve learned there is very little correlation between excitement during my presentation and actual interest in the program. Sometimes kids are just hungry for a show.

            The presentation ends with a cute arrangement of current pop songs and old swing and march tunes. Again a polite applause as The Salesman returns to remind them when the band registration forms are due and urges them to sign up.

            "We call it playing music for a reason," The Salesman says before the children return to their interrupted day. 

            I stop by the main office on my way out to let the secretary know when to expect me back to retrieve the registration forms.

            “No problem, dear. Have a good day,” she says. She always calls me ‘dear’. I hurry out the door and jam the instruments into the back of my small car.

            Two hours to go before I do it again at a different school and I’ve got some ground to cover.

Thursday Evening, East of the City

           

            Polyurethane fumes drift off the freshly lacquered hardwood floor. Lightening flashes beyond the dark tinted windows but there’s no rain yet. If it waits until I get home before it pours the drive might only take me forty-five minutes. And that would be nice. I’ve logged three hours in the car so far today.

            Most of the brown folding chairs in the gymnasium are still empty. I grab a spot in the front row. The teachers are seated to my left in order of the grade they teach. Parents slouch, locked in staring contests with their phones. Sweat sticks to my neck. I fan myself and gaze at the analog clock on the wall like it can offer relief from the Indian summer heat.

            I’m beginning to wonder if this is worth it as I run through my speech in my head. I never write anything down.

            Finally the principal steps up to the podium and the Open House begins.

            He’s a really good guy. We hit it off immediately when he took over the school a couple of years ago. Big Levon Helm fan. Good public speaker too. The heat doesn’t bother him. He invites the latecomers to take a seat as they sheepishly wonder in.  After a general welcome he introduces the teachers. Two of them are new and come fully loaded with numerous certifications I’ve never even heard of. Each teacher stands up and after the last one is acknowledged the principal turns back to his audience.

            And then it happens. My reward for enduring the traffic, the stifling air, and lack of dinner. 

            “You forgot a teacher!” The eighth grade teacher calls out. His husky voice fits his ample body and I look around wondering what teacher he’s talking about. Gym? Art? Computer?

            He’s pointing a meaty finger at me and he says it again. “You forgot someone!”

            The principal smiles and playfully chides my defender for jumping the gun. “Now if you wait a minute and let me finish, I’m getting to him!” the principal says.

            And suddenly I’m not only a teacher, but a teacher with his very own special introduction. It comes with a slight qualifier.

            “Now, as you know, the budget for this school as well as many others like it does not include a band program. But I’m happy to say that music can still be a big part of your child’s education here. And while this next teacher actually comes to us from an outside service, we consider him part of our faculty.”

            I walk to the podium when he says my name and he shakes my hand firmly. Parents clap lightly, but sincerely. Most of my speech gets thrown out right then and there. The Salesman, The Entertainer, and even The Band Director have all left the building.

            Only The Teacher remains.

            The Teacher lets the parents know when classes start, and what their kid will be learning if they decide to enroll in the band. It’s a short talk. The principal thanks me and I leave the podium to a short arpeggio of applause.

            When it’s time for the parents to meet with their child’s classroom teacher I slip out the door feeling good. Ten minutes into my drive home the sky opens up. Traffic thickens. An hour and a half passes and I’m in a crappy mood. Partially because I’m still in the car, and partially because I know tomorrow I’ll have to go back to being The Salesman, The Entertainer, “the band guy”, “music man”, or Steve.  Close to the two-hour mark I’m miserable, but almost home. Lower Manhattan looms in front of me.

            Then a massive bolt of lightening strikes One World Trade Center and all at once the tallest building in the western hemisphere is bathed in metallic blue light. Electricity sprays from the spire. It looks like He-Man’s sword at the moment he transforms from a strangely ripped servant boy to a, well... He-Man. The whole building is alight with power. Then it’s gone. Other than the blue image burned onto the back of my eyelids it’s like it never happened.

            Without a doubt, the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen in eleven years on the roads in New York. It took hours of sitting in antagonizing traffic but I’ll never forget that.

            My job works the same way. Mostly, it sucks. But then every once and a while a lightening bolt comes out of nowhere and reminds me how worthwhile it can all be.

            I work for an educational service that imports music programs into elementary schools.

            I live in New York City.

            And among many things, I am a teacher.