Anecdote

I: (I'D LIKE TO GET YOU) ON A SLOW BOAT TO CHINA

I'D LIKE TO GET YOU ON A SLOW BOAT TO CHINA (ALL TO MYSELF, ALONE)

a slightly incompetent jazz band, a locket, and a gross of plastic dinosaurs

"NO, NO, no! How many times do I have to tell you to wait for the upbeat!"

Sawyer winces to herself. She can see the other two saxes next to her do the same.

"I don't know how anyone expects us to be getting anywhere when someone can't even count!" Montgomery lets out, voice a slight screech. Sawyer watches as the line of trumpeters in front of her try to wipe off the thin coating of spit they've just received as a result with as much discretion as possible.

"You," Montgomery lets out, pointing a thin, quivering finger at Duke, who looks like he wants nothing more than to disappear behind his trombone. "Who was your namesake?"

Duke clears his throat. "Uh, Duke Ellington. Sir."

"And, Duke, who composed this piece?"

"Duke Ellington. Sir."

"Do we all know who Duke Ellington is, at least?" Montgomery says to the rest of the band, voice booming. Sawyer resists the urge to roll her eyes. Like anyone who plays in a jazz band wouldn't know who Duke Ellington is.

Although, when it comes to George, the third trumpeter who, a lot of the time, doesn't seem to even be able to read music, sometimes she isn't sure.

"You're here because, for some reason, you supposedly enjoy music, and are reasonably good at making it," Montgomery says with a dangerous smile. "Jazz music in particular. And why am I here?"

There is a pause.

"Well, it's not to hear you fuck up some Duke Ellington, is it?!" he yells. "Go from the top. And Rashida, I swear to God, if I hear you miss your entrance one more time, I will personally decapitate that double bass with my own hands. String. By. String. Let's all try and remember we're in double time. On my count. Five, six, seven, eight."

The thing with Montgomery is he's probably the least terrifying person Sawyer has ever met or seen in her life, despite his consistent attempts to channel a persona very much like that of JK Simmons in Whiplash. He isn't painfully short, but he isn't tall, either. An average of around every other word in his sentences is an expletive. His voice has the uncanny ability to reach pitches that she's pretty sure only dogs can hear when he's angry, which is surprisingly un-terrifying. And in picking someone to continually victimise, he also messed up, because Rashida doesn't just have probably the only decent amount of talent in the whole room, she is also in possession of the thickest skin on Earth.

("He loves me really," she'd say with a laugh, throwing her head back. "And if he doesn't, somehow I'm not losing too much sleep.")

Rashida doesn't miss her entrance (not that Sawyer thinks she did in the first place, but it's the kind of thing that Montgomery would either make up or Rashida would do on purpose just to piss him off), and they stumble through the piece with relatively little incident. Still, Sawyer can't say it's the most rousing rendition of Hit Me With A Hot Note that she's ever heard. It never is, when it comes to the band. Their whole sound...leaves something to be desired.

Montgomery looks tired. She doesn't blame him. Just the sound of the trumpets alone is enough to exhaust even the hardiest of listeners.

"Okay, you know what, I don't fucking know, just leave," he says on a sigh, waving one hand whilst using the other to melodramatically cover his face. "This is embarrassing. I can't even look at you. Especially you, Rashida, you motherfucker. Can you not play anything in time? Why the hell are you playing a rhythm instrument?"