Chance

by Alexander Koutsopoulos

 

Chance raised his eyes from his desk and brushed his mop-like hair from his face.  A stack of CDs stood on the top left corner, once the red: Chopin, Mozart, Haydn, Bach all brilliant.  His normally brownish green desk was mostly white from all the papers scattered all over it, his only proof of about an hour’s worth of work.  His lamp cast a yellowish light over all of it, creating a musky environment in the dusk.

He took a moment to study his work, and he sighed.  Not so brilliant.  This work was flitting, basic, and quite frankly, predictable.  He considered for a moment how fitting it was that his works were lower on the desk, and in the world, then the CDs containing the work of the composers. 

“Chance!" he heard his mother cry.  He blinked twice from his reverie. Usually, his mother would not try to interrupt him, not on a normal day like this, and only would if there was a problem or if food was ready.  He guessed it to be the latter. 

His hamburger was waiting for him at the table.  His mom knew him well enough; no mustard, no soda.  He did not like mustard, and soda was unhealthy, or so he thought, not because he was better than people who drank soda, but if he was going to be unhealthy, he would much rather have candy.

The table was quiet for most of dinner.  Mom never really spoke much when Dad was gone, and that's normal spot at the table was unsurprisingly empty.  He was probably in some foreign country with some troop of his, and he was in the military, and he never really told Chance or his mother much.  He never had, and Chance didn't know him that well at all.  But, he thought ruefully, the military was the reason that his mother had put him into piano lessons in the first place.  “I'm not allowing my child to grow up into some brainless profession like his father's," she had once said after they found out that he had been injured.  She had put him into piano lessons and it had all started from there.  For that, he was grateful.

After finishing his dinner, Chance went back to his room.  His mom allowed him to; he finished all of his chores and she didn't really have anything to say.  After all, today was a completely normal day.  Except for one assignment.

Chance had a piano teacher that expected a lot out of him.  She wanted them to write a composition (a written piano piece) and he just couldn't find inspiration.  He sat down at his desk and sighed.  What things had to happen for him to write good music?  He tried countless times to write something real, something beautiful. Something with feeling.  This was the very last day he could craft his piece until it was due.

He found his pen under the stack of mediocre papers, and closed his eyes.  He tried to think of an idea, a beautiful place, but nothing was there.  His thoughts wandered over to think of his father.  He never really paid much mind to his father.  His father, the distant one; his father, the mysterious.  Somewhere in some country miles away from home, his father was the filling his strong sense of duty and justice.  But what did he know of the man?  Only facts: militaristic, strong and silent, 38 years old.  And he was never there... never there for his mother and him.  Did he know that he forsook his family for his country?

The music!  Chance looked away and cursed himself.  Why was he thinking of his father?  He only had a night left to write his masterpiece.  His eyes shifted to the papers on his desk as he frantically called himself back to the present, and the papers accosted him: mediocre.  Not brilliant.  Whatever the great composers had in their heads, Chance did not have it.  He desired to move people, to show people the elegance of a leaf or a mountain range with the notes of his pen.

The phone rang outside.  It rang a few times, and Chance knew that his mother must be occupied.  He rolled his eyes.  Interrupted again.  He walked over to the phone, picked it up, and said, “Hello?"

A gruff voice answered him. “Hello son.  Is this the home of Lieutenant Ryan Schmidt?"

Chance paused. Lieutenant? “Umm... yeah, that would be my father.  May I ask who's calling?"

“This is General Barnes.  Is your mother home?"

As if on cue, Chance’s mother walked out of the hallway by the kitchen, and gave Chance a questioning glance.  Ignoring her, Chance asked, somewhat annoyed, “Is this about my father?"

No answer.  For some reason, Chance’s palms began to sweat, and his heart beat faster.  Was something wrong?  His DAD couldn't have... died, could he?  He was stone-hard, untouchable, unreachable.  After what seemed like an hour, the gruff voice came back on, sympathetic.

“Son, just let me talk to your mother."

Wordlessly, he handed his mother the phone.  Something was wrong, so he got some milk out of the refrigerator to busy himself.  His mother sat down on the couch, and didn't speak.  She just listened, frozen.  Chance's hands shook.  His mother didn't scare easily.  The living room was silent.  Chance watched the life in his mother's eyes leave. He watched as his mother's trembling hands gripped the couch.  He finally saw his mother hang up the phone, and with eyes of stone, leave silently back up the hallway to her room.

Chance looked down, and realized he hadn't drunk his milk at all.  His father was dead.  His father had left. Could someone that was never there leave?  He had no tears for his father, but still... his father was gone.  The untouchable had been violated, and brought down.  Amazed, Chance returned to his room.

He walked slowly across the room.  The night was totally and unusually silent, perfect for music.  A picture of his father in a frame lay on his windowsill, his father's face and chest in uniform, set as if in stone.  He picked up the frame and stared at it, mesmerized that this man was mortal.  Without thought, he threw it across the room.  He didn't need to be reminded of how cold his father was even before he died.  Not now.

He walked over to his desk wearily, and closed his eyes.  He saw his father the  last time that he’d seen him.  He saw his father in uniform, the silly epitome of justice.  He saw his father fall.  The wrongness of it all, the war, his father, and his dad's stupid commitment to the big picture.  But he felt different, older, and something was a part of him that didn't used to be there.  An idea: he should write a song.  So he picked up a pen and began to write.