And here I stand, waiting for the lunch time drama that is my life. Counting the seconds until the instrumental torture ends and I am forced to run with this burden of a talent back to a different form of torment that we pretend is better then the one in which we find ourselves. The hunger of the other natives occupying the muddy field is becoming very obvious, and is magnified in my own stomach by the shouts of the other drummers and the few low brass players who are brave enough to mimic us. We all stare at the modern day Hitler, who stands in front of us, each cry weakening her spirits. We are all waiting for her to crumble, to literally break apart and fall to pieces in front of us. Perhaps we would all run out and grab a piece, put it in our pocket, and show them off to each other, comparing pieces to see who hold the biggest or most important, gaining bragging rights on something that was never really ours. Or maybe we would all bow our heads, listen mournfully as the bell player gave an impromptu eulogy, and try to hold in the guilt we felt for causing her untimely demise. Perchance we would all cheer! Have a festival to mark how proud we are to be free, burn our instruments and sing old folk songs around our illuminated bondages. Maybe we would all fear we would be blamed and would dig a small hole and burry the pieces, creating a modern day “Tell Tale Heart” anytime we set foot on the field, eventually leading to out insanity or possible suicide.
And then I hear the familiar, mind shattering screeching of that megaphone, the one that has made so many enemies for merely serving its purpose. I snap back into reality and step over the broken wire that lines the cow pasture.