Play For Us!

March 14, 2006

Nearly all my life, relatives have asked me to play the guitar at family gatherings. My father's birthday party was no different. I rarely do, but that doesn't keep everyone from asking. "Aren't you going to play something, James?" my uncle asked. (My uncle has always refused to call me Jamie and will only call me either Jim or James.)

"Hmm. No."

"C'mon," added my mother, "Just a little something. All those years of guitar lessons and we never get to hear you play."

'Yeah," my aunt joined in. "Strum a tune." Then she started bouncing her legs, clapping her hands, and singing a song I couldn't recognize.

"Sing us a song," said my uncle.

"But I don't sing."

"Well what do you do?"

"Nothing much. Sit around. Watch T.V—"

"Do you still have the band, wiseguy?" asked my aunt.

"No. The band broke up a long time ago."

"All those years, and never once did your uncle and I get a phone call inviting us to a show."

If I'd invited her to CBGB's to see my band play at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday morning, I doubt she would've come, but I wish I'd called her bluff while I had the chance.

"Better you than me, is all I can say," my cousin added from across the table. "My mother used to bug me the same way everyone's bugging you. 'Play the piano for your aunt Florence' or 'Our neighbor is coming over, and I want you to play the piano for them.' It didn't matter who it was, anyone that came over to our house had to hear me play. I hated it."

"She played the flute, too," said my uncle, proudly. "She was in the school orchestra."

"Do you still have your flute?" I asked. "Do you ever play?"

"It's in my closet. I pull it out once a year, play The Star Spangled Banner, and then put it back."

My cousin is ten years older than me, but I'm not sure that's enough of an excuse as to why she doesn't get hounded into performing anymore. She may have left her flute at home in the closet, but my father's piano was right there next to us. "Believe me, you don't want to hear me play," she said, anticipating my question. "I don't even remember how."

"She used to be in the marching band," my uncle said, reminiscing about seeing her on the football field. "Then she became a cheerleader. No, wait, not a cheerleader, a whatchacallit, with the hat and the stick. A majorette."

"She transformed herself," my mother said.

"Yeah, I transformed myself, all right. I'm still transforming myself. Transforming myself into an old lady. How'm I doin'?"