Phone calls and bad jazz

It is painfully evident that he is not going to call tonight. So here I sit, trying again to teach myself to appreciate jazz, blaring Miles Davis if only to drown out the brother's friend who is currently receiving his weekly trumpet instruction. Jesse is no good at the trumpet. I knew this before I learned to appreciate jazz. Many times Mom has attempted to pull out of the agreement by which she subjected us all to the weekly half-hour torture session called the private music lesson. She has gone so far as to tell Jesse's family, who loves the low rates and flexibility of taking lessons from a friend and neighbor, that Jesse's future is in jazz, and that he deserves a teacher who specializes in it. This is hilarious. Jesse may have a slim chance at a future in electric guitar (this inferred from his hair, not his actual playing), but the idea of him playing trumpet after high school is ridiculous.

Twice the phone has rung, igniting a terrible forest fire of hope, only to be immediately put out by the sound of some new enemy’s voice on the other side. The last call was from my great-aunt, wanting to talk to Dad about some computer problem. That would have been a long one, clogging up the phone line for a minimum of an hour, judging from past experience. I told her he wasn’t home, then sicced her on my uncle. After his display at Easter, he almost deserves it.