What happens when you play a duff note

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU PLAY A DUFF NOTE.

They found Jim Gubby face down on a pile of rocks at the foot of a high
cliff. It seemed unlikely that he was studying the shingle beach. A
bright brass trumpet rested beside him. The tide was out and the sun
was shining.
They searched his pockets then called for help
Charlotte Pearce sat alone in her newly decorated kitchen, all fresh
pine cupboards and surfaces, highly polished, suffocated. A heavy knock
on the front door startled her from her daydream. For a brief drifting
moment she had forgotten about his unusual lateness. She'd give him
hell.
"Where the hell ha??." She began as she pulled the front door open to
a nervous looking young police officer. The officer jumped, startled by
her shrill, angry voice. "Erm, sorry to disturb you." He stuttered
trying to regain his composure. "Do you know a Jim Gubby?" He
asked.
"Yes I do, he's my partner." She said studying the officers
expressionless face. "What is wrong? Where is he?"
Jim Gubby worked as a courier, very good at his job, efficient and
thorough as he was in everything he did. He regularly finished his
rounds by midday, he knew all the short cuts, back streets that could
cut five minutes off here and there. They all added up.
Charlotte prepared lunch for them each day. During these summer days
they would eat outside, at the picnic table that sheltered in the shade
of a ripe apple tree. Today she had loaded the table with a large
salad, fresh lettuce, carrots, tomatoes and peppers, all rich in
flavour and rich in colour. They always adopted healthy ways during the
summer months.
Two hours later the salad still waited in the garden, softer and
slightly duller than earlier. Charlotte sat in the kitchen and fretted,
he had never been so much as five minutes late let alone two
hours.
"I'm afraid we had to take him to the hospital, he had some kind of
accident down on the beach." The young officer explained.
"Down on the beach?" Charlotte quizzed. "Why was he down on the
beach?" She asked. The officers expression gave her no answer.
"It seems he may have suffered a blow to the head." He told her. "We
are waiting to question him." This statement panicked Charlotte more.
"What do you mean waiting, why haven't you asked him already." She
asked.
"I'm afraid he's in a coma, you should go to the hospital, they will be
able to tell you more."
Charlotte felt her stomach turn. The young officer continued.
"I have a couple of his things that were found at the scene." He told
her. "He was holding this bag of shells." He handed them to her. "And
also his trumpet." "His trumpet?" Charlotte said confused as the
officer bent down to pick up the bright shiny instrument. She had
failed to notice this lying at his feet.
"Maybe someone took offence to his playing." He offered, forgetting
the subtlety and compassion needed at such times.
She took the items from him and stared at them, neither made any
sense.
He turned to leave. "Do you have anyone who can take you to the
hospital?" He asked. Charlotte was bemused, dazed. "I'll get a taxi."
She replied.
The sun sat low in the sky burning through the taxi windscreen. Inside
Charlotte and the driver, Charles Doherty, squinted to get a view of
the road.
As they travelled Charlotte thought of the shells and remembered her
wish to cover their bathroom wall with them. Jim hadn't really taken to
the idea but it was typical of his nature to collect some
nonetheless.
They travelled down a long terraced street, tall brick houses with
broad gardens on either side. As they neared the end of the street an
object fell from the sky, landing with a flat thump on the bonnet. The
driver performed a driving test quality emergency stop. He got out and
studied the front of his car, on the bonnet rested a green plastic
Frisbee. One hundred yards away two young faces peered nervously over a
garden fence. Charles was in a good mood today, he threw the Frisbee
back. The frisbee flew in the way he imagined they should and landed
not too far from the children. He was pleased with his effort he'd
never thrown one before. Despite this success though, he realised that
it could never replace cab driving
Behind the two children a group of adults were gathered, above them
hung a banner that read, 'Happy 50th birthday, Milos.'
Milos Schenka had gathered his closest friends and family for a
celebration barbecue, beer flowed freely and a pig roasted on an open
spit, it was not a day for the faint hearted.
Milos liked to talk.
"I tell you that guy made the saxophone sound as though he was blowing
silk sheets out of it, Pure, unadulterated perfection." He smiled at
his recollection of the previous night at the jazz club. Then as his
group of friends smiled with him he changed his expression.
"But that trumpet player, damn him. No silk sheets there, more like
sand paper scratching and scraping its way from the poor instrument."
He told them. "Did you give him a hard time, Milos." One of them asked.
"What do you think Jack." He answered. They all laughed again. Milos
fed them the details of the previous evening.
"Every time that fool blew a duff note I made a noise like a hooting
owl, sure threw him, I was hooting as much as him in the end. I
should've got his wages." He laughed.
Milos had a deep appreciation of jazz, a head full of technicalities
that bored even the most committed of players. His analytical approach
detached him from the sensitive nature of the music and the sensitive
nature of the musicians.
"Mind you I did feel bad at the end and the band looked none to
pleased either. I went to find him to apologise, but he'd sulked off
pretty quick. Maybe I'll catch him next time." Just then his son
arrived put an arm around him and said. "Happy birthday dad, you're the
best."
The day drifted on, conversations floated in the afternoon breeze
blowing around randomly, their logic diluted with alcohol. Pretty soon
Milos Schenka had forgotten about the inadequacies of the trumpet
player and the way his ears had been tormented. For others though, it
hadn't been so easy.
As the band finished its first and only encore that night Manny Bridge
slung his trumpet into it's case, he was pissed off. He'd needed this
gig to get his career rolling, truth be told he'd only just scraped his
audition, lucky there were few trumpeters on offer. Despite this he was
determined. During the first couple of numbers he'd felt nervous and
clumsy, spilling too many notes, but slowly he was coming round,
warming to the night. He might well have succeeded if it hadn't been
for that oaf hollering at him all the time, but he didn't.
The gig finished, the band packed their instruments away and returned
to the bar to discuss their night, Manny was not with them. He sloped
off down the empty night street, despondent and hurt, there was only
place he could be right now.
Charlotte arrived at the hospital uncertain of what she might find, a
kindly nurse with a rounded, unfamiliar accent directed her to Jim's
ward.
There were six beds, three each side of the room. Two were hidden by
curtains, two more surrounded by visitors, one was empty and the last
one had a bandaged head peering out from the sheets, she guessed this
was Jim.
As she walked nearer to him she heard the regular, reassuring beep of
the monitor, this though, was his only sign of life. She sat beside him
and held his hand.
Her eyes welled up, loaded with salty tears as she asked him in a
whisper what had happened. She felt guilty for cursing him earlier, for
worrying about the ruined salad, as if such things really
mattered.
The nurse arrived and altered the tubes that fed him, she was
sympathetic toward Charlotte, she said her talking was good for Jim,
that her voice might just provoke some reaction in him. She stayed for
three hours talking endlessly, Jim just lay there, silent.
For four and a half weeks Charlotte followed the same routine,
breakfast, hospital visit, talk to Jim, dinner, hospital visit, talk to
Jim, no response, go home to sleep. Her regular days activities
arrested, their release only possible with Jim's.
Manny awoke on the cliff walk, damp with dew, the sun staring rudely
into his eyes, hindering his view of the sea. His trumpet lay beside
him, resting in its case, he considered it for a moment. Opening the
case he picked up the instrument and put it to his lips, the notes he
played came out bright and true but they were hardly the sharp and
refined sound he was after. He wondered if they ever would be. In that
moment he decided. Casually he tossed the shiny trumpet over the edge,
'Not now they won't.' He thought as it plummeted toward the
beach.
Manny Bridge turned and walked away, he wondered for a moment why he
hadn't heard the trumpet crack on the rocks, 'Must be the wind.' He
thought, then made his way home.
Five weeks later Jim Gubby escaped his coma, he decided almost
immediately not to go looking for shells. And as for jazz, well.