Trumpet Coat

My coat began to smell.  To be fair it had for some time.  I hadn’t washed it in God knows how long.  The rain pouring down in sheets wasn’t doing it any favors.

I walked to class and thought over just ditching the old rag.  But it was cold.  An acrid smell was still preferable to hypothermia.  I began playing a game to distract myself.  What did the scent remind me of?  I knew I had smelled something similar before.

My trumpet… from the Middle School band!  Somehow it smelled exactly like that mix of brass and key oil.  My mind drifted and I remembered different concerts.  I was never very good and one time had forgotten my sheet music entirely.  I was forced to play by memory, making up a great deal of it.  No one noticed.  Luckily.

I woke up from daydreaming to see my coat sleeve changed.  The slick red of the windbreaker now had roundish pegs grown on it.  They were keys!  What was happening?  My arms were turning brass.  The zipper was a mouthpiece.  Sleeves valve casings.  A bell had grown out from my coat collar!  I couldn’t see as rainwater was collecting.  It seemed very likely I would drown.

I felt myself picked up.  Water drained as some enormous figure blew air into what was formerly my zipper.  The sound was excruciatingly loud.

I tried to cover up my ears but my fingers were now valve pistons.  They wouldn’t fit inside the bell encompassing my head.  The musician frequently restrained me.  My legs, now tubes, were forced into position.  I couldn’t move.  A cup mute covered up my only source of air.  I gasped as it went on and off repeatedly.

Being fondled, blown, harassed lasted a good hour.  Then, I was disassembled.  My mouthpiece was taken off and I was shoved into a box.  It felt like a coffin.  And perhaps… it was.