Mr. Walker
by Lisa Myers

In fourth grade I played the flute in the school band for one reason: I was in love with Mr. Walker, the band instructor. I had no special interest in music or any natural talent for it. I went to the school cafeteria on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons only to see Mr. Walker.

Mr. Walker wasn’t classically handsome, in fact, his looks were fairly average. His black hair always seemed to be in need of a cut, and he often brushed it out of his eyes and then ran his hand straight over the top of his head and back to the nape of his neck. That gesture made my heart flop over. His eyes were deep brown like my own, and they were kind. And his teeth were a little crooked…I thought it gave character to his smile. He smiled often, too—with encouragement and praise for this group of squeaky and squawky and rhythmically challenged musicians. What I thought was the most attractive thing about Mr. Walker was his hands. He had really big hands with just a few freckles sprinkled here and there. His hands were smooth yet sturdy at the same time, and I wanted nothing more than to put my own hand in his or for him to put one of his hands on my shoulder.

I didn’t have the sort of crush on Mr. Walker where I imagined we would go out on a date and eat spaghetti “Lady and the Tramp” style. What I imagined was that Mr. Walker might become my father. I wanted him to come find me like Pa Ingalls always did when Laura ran off crying and upset. I wanted to go out for ice cream—just the two of us—in his red pick-up truck. I wanted him to tuck me into bed at night and read me a chapter or two from Where the Red Fern Grows even though I was perfectly capable of reading to myself. I longed for him to be my father even though I knew it was unrealistic considering he was at least a decade younger than my mother, and he wore a wedding ring on one of those fingers I so often admired.

At first I made an attempt to learn to play the flute (even though my instrument of choice had been the snare drums…but my older sister, Karen had played the flute and my mother said I could play the flute or I could not be in the band). I forced myself to practice in an effort to gain approval and praise from Mr. Walker despite the fact it made me dizzy to blow into that stupid flute. It soon got to the point where I only went to band on Tuesdays and Thursdays to be close to Mr. Walker. I stopped practicing, and I paid no attention to the music part of band—I only learned one song called “The Crusaders” and that was by accident. Of course I couldn’t just sit there with my instrument in my lap, and I’m ashamed to admit I resorted to “flute-syncing.”

This went on for several months. I went to band to be with Mr. Walker and pretended to play my flute. I probably should’ve known I would be punished for my dishonesty, but I was completely surprised when it happened. One Thursday afternoon during band Mr. Walker pointed to me and he said, “You…would you please play the first six measures on top of page 47?” My face got hot and I could suddenly hear my heart pounding louder than the bass drum Mike Hachigian played badly. And then everything went into slow motion. I wanted to be delivered from the fact that I couldn’t any more play the first six measures on the top of page 47 than I could fly to the moon. I prayed there would be a fire drill. I tried to think of a stall tactic that would cover until band was over in…twelve minutes. I wished the cafeteria floor would open right up and swallow me.

None of those things happened, though, so I did the only thing I possibly could. I avoided eye contact with Mr. Walker, I unscrewed my flute and put the pieces in its blue velvet lined case, I stood up, and I ran out of the band room. My music stand tipped over in the process, and as I looked back over my shoulder, I saw several pieces of sheet music flutter to the floor. I ran to the girl’s bathroom and bawled—partly from embarrassment at having been discovered as a fraud. But even more than that because I realized Mr. Walker didn’t even know my name.

Sending Signals
by Tony

Years ago I worked for a professional service as an event disc jockey. I had just spent a week with an actor friend in D.C. and watched in astonishment as he got a different lovely young woman's phone number each and every night. I had NEVER been given anyone's phone number in my life. Watching him in action, I decided that somehow I was sending out the wrong vibe. I had been in a couple of serial long term relationships and now something about me was not broadcasting my availability. I resolved to turn my "available" signal to "ON".

The following weekend, I was assigned to DJ a corporate holiday party. There was a DJ booth at the balcony level of the club, but set out on a floating platform about 3 feet from the balcony rail. You had to climb out to the platform, straddling the rails.
At the beginning of the party, I told my assistant Evan about my resolve to fix my signal. He thought it was funny and we began surveying the crowd to see where I might broadcast it, but unfortunately there wasn't much to look at.

Then midway through the evening, a woman walked in who blew my mind. I pointed her out to Evan. "She must be at the wrong party," I said. "Because she sure doesn't look like she belongs with this crew!" He nodded appreciatively. But there wasn't much I could do at that point; I was isolated on my DJ platform. I made a mental note that I needed to make sure my "available signal" was turned to "ON" before my next break.

As I was thinking about how I might approach her, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Evan said, "Turn around." Suddenly, she was standing behind me on the balcony, gesturing for my attention. "Why don't you come up here for a while?" she said. I turned to my assistant and asked him to hold down the fort. My whole body was thrumming between the music and my nerves. Next thing I knew, we were sitting in the empty balcony together. I couldn't help myself. She was simply stunning. I stared. "What?" she asked. I couldn't even begin to play it cool. Words stumbled out. „I'm sorry. You're so beautiful. I can't stop staring at you." She looked at me intently for a minute, scanning my face. I'm sure she'd heard the same words delivered as a pickup before, but I guess it was pretty clear from my face that I was too floored by my luck to be anything but sincere. She blushed in response. We sat and chatted for a while and then she said she had to go soon. She had just dropped in to make an appearance. And then she started to do something no one had ever done before-write down her phone number! My heart was now pounding. I was truly in shock.

As I watched her write down her name and phone number, an alarm went off in the back of my head. Something was not right. It took me a few seconds to figure it out. Something was winking at me in the low light of the balcony as she wrote. Something on her finger. An engagement ring. Suddenly, I stopped staring at her and found myself staring at a large diamond. She followed my gaze and quickly withdrew that hand from view. Our eyes met again. "What?" she asked again.
"You have a ring," I said weakly.
"Are you going to call me?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I'm not sure I can do that." Inside one part of me was screaming, 'You're going to get your ass kicked' and another part of me was screaming, 'It would be worth it! No one would ever know.'
"That's too bad," she said as she leaned in and gave me a long, and unexpectedly French, kiss. "Cause when I'm good, I'm good. But when I'm bad, I'm even better." She gave me a long look. And then another kiss. "Call me!" she said as she stood up.

I watched her go with a kaleidoscope of feelings careening around my chest. My assistant was facing me from the balcony. He gave me the thumbs up and a huge grin. I got up on wobbly legs and walked back to the booth. Gingerly, I climbed back out to the platform.
"Wow!" he said. "I guess you fixed that signal problem!"
"I guess so," I said. "But it still needs some tweaking. She's wearing a ring."

I kept that phone number in my wallet until I got married. It's the only one I ever received.