Oh no, how could I be so stupid?I thought as I was walking down the uncomforting hallway with my bassoon, locked out of the band room. Alone. The door refused to forgive me of my lapse in thought, bearing nothing but its glossy green rejection. The restroom, the destination my bowels required, was only steps away. But in the flickering light of the white hallway, my bassoon was still in my hands. I did not have long before my body gave in.

The thing about bassoons is that they cannot lie on their sides. If they are not being held, they need a stand or a case to be properly secured. As I left the room from which I had been practicing, I had given no thought that the room was locked or that I still had my bassoon. I searched for someone in the gym but could find nobody to hold Gerald the bassoon. It seemed as if hours and hours had gone by, my bladder quickening time in spite of the clock.

After checking the boiler room, the lunch room, the chapel, and the locker room, I stood bereft of ideas. Could I leave my beloved on the cracked cement floor? Would somebody finally come into the gymnasium while I was emptying myself and damage or steal the modern wonder of the musical world? Could I damage the pads which, when closed properly, enabled the instrument to make resonant sounds? I was trapped in this dilemma, this prison. I had just bought Gerald, you see, so I was extra careful with him. I knew I could not leave her unattended on those motley floors. So I took the plunge and walked into the noisome chamber where men go when their body forces them to. The Bathroom.

Each step, each echo in the valley of troubles, was one of apprehension. How would I do this? The long, awkward nature of the bassoon would make it difficult to accomplish. The bassoon is a collection of several wooden tubes connected to each other, being about four feet tall. I looked back to the hallway, desperate for deliverance. But I was forsaken under the weight of my world. I groaned like Atlas in my demise. Finally, I walked through the antechamber with the sinks and crossed into the main room which contained two toilets and two stalls. I walked, carrying my bassoon on the top of my right foot, balancing it with my right hand. As I pushed the door to the stall, I pushed out all of my self-respect. I shimmied around and closed the door, and locked it as well as my fate. The grey doors matched my mood. At this point, I balanced the bell of the bassoon on my chin and unbuckled my jeans uneasily. As they fell down, I fell onto the porcelain throne and emptied myself in a natural but seemingly unholy manner.

During this, my bassoon still pegged on my right foot, I heard somebody walking down the hallway. Great, I could have waited a couple more minutes and my salvation would have come. But no, now I am stuck balancing a large wooden stick between my thighs. As I finished and began to wipe, I had to balance my bassoon between my shoulder and neck so I could use my hands. Finally, I stand and repeat my balancing act and walk out of my great tribulation. I washed my hands and sanitized my bassoon later.

The band director was in the room, milling about with a sandwich in his mouth as if he did not have a care in the world. I packed up my bassoon and left the school, swearing that never again would I leave myself susceptible to that type of situation ever again. Little did I know that with my clumsy self, it would happen two more times in the next year. Life is beautiful, is it not? But it was ok, Gerald was worth it. Life decided to teach me to plan ahead in a cruel manner.