After we returned from the junior high where we performed the final performance of Music Man, Mr. Proilet invited me to a late afternoon at Vaughn’s.
“Jim, I’m quite amazed at the amount you were able to accomplish for the musical,” my music teacher told me.
I brushed off the compliment. “This isn’t my first performance at the school. However, I now know what the other students went through to put on Guys and Dolls and Annie Get Your Gun.”
Mr. Proilet shook his head. “You don’t understand, Jim. Nobody has bit off as much as you did for the musical. This year has been more of a cakewalk for me than it was in any year past.”
“Huh? I saw you working with Seventy Six Trombones and its final reprise, and that took a lot of hard work.”
“And while I was doing that, you were doing Lida Rose, Wells Fargo Wagon, Till There Was You, Marian the Librarian, the square dance number, and most of the others! The bit of side business that you added for the train number was classic.”
I laughed. “Actually, the Rock Island bits were added by Roy…”
“You suggested Roy, who nobody actually considered, as he was a sophomore just as you, and he worked wonderfully! In addition, every one of the numbers you were responsible for were nearly showstoppers, not just the ones that were supposed to be showstoppers,” Mr. Proilet interrupted. ”Trouble got an ovation, but just about anybody could make that song get one—it was written as an ovation piece. You made the Lida Rose/Will I Ever Tell You duet an ovation piece! Almost all of the parts you put your effort into were showstoppers, Jim.”
I shook my head.
“Jim, you couldn’t have put your own personal mark on this play any more if you managed to stick Hooked on a Feeling into it, somewhere. In fact, I was waiting to hear the barbershop sing that on their offstage walk instead of Good Night Ladies!”
I laughed. Roy actually suggested that—jokingly, of course—at one point.
“Jim, you have more talent as a sixteen year old than I see in professional conductors of major symphonies. I don’t think Lenny Bernstein will be looking over his shoulder at you—at least, not until you graduate—but he’s a fucking minority!”
I never heard my music teacher use profanity before. He was really impassioned.
“Have you thought of Julliard?” Mr. Proilet asked, seriously.
I shook my head. “Kristen has her heart set on Harvard, and she’s going to wait two years for me to be there with her. New York and Boston are five hours away by car, but on a college student’s schedule…”
“How about Berklee? That’s in Boston.”
I heard of that school. A bit different than Julliard, but almost as prestigious. I hadn’t really considered actually attending college. I thought I’d find a job somewhere in Cambridge as a trumpet or piano player…
Mr. Proilet saw the uncertainty in my eyes. “Jim, you have a magical gift. When I first saw you in seventh grade, I thought, ‘another damned prima-donna.’ Thurd said that you were exceptional, but he says that a lot. This was one time when he delivered. If anything, he understated your ability!”
Mr. Thurd was my music teacher in Junior High. I remember Mr. Proilet didn’t take me seriously the first year I did the musical, but by the time the show went to performance, the relationship between Mr. Proilet and I completely changed. We were no longer adversarial, and he kept pushing me to try more and more things. I was singled out as a soloist as well, which didn’t make me very popular with the older students.
“Mr. Proilet, I mean no offense, but I’m quite aware that there are two ways to spell the word ‘musician,’” I said. “The most common way is B-R-O-K-E. Maybe if Kris and I get married, money won’t be a problem. If that happens, I’ll be able to play just for the fun of it. I don’t want to…”
Mr. Proilet wouldn’t hear it. “If you have money, you’re ahead of the game. You need to consider this: Bernstein isn’t hurting for money, neither is Fiedler. You have the potential to dwarf either one. You might not do the Pops every year, or you might not get the opportunity to rewrite Romeo and Juliet as a musical, but you’ll do your own thing. I know it, Jim.”
“I still have a couple of years in school,” I said. “I’ll continue to work at what I’m doing. I think it’s fun, and while it continues to be fun, I’ll continue doing it.”
Mr. Proilet sighed. “You give me a couple of years, and don’t slack off. I’ll get you a scholarship so that Kristen doesn’t need to be an issue. Marry her—she’s your muse and just the two of you together spurs you on to astronomical heights. I’ve seen you grow this year more than you have in any other previous year, and this year, whenever you did something wonderful, Kristen was right there. However, even if anything happens with the two of you, I can probably get you a scholarship to Julliard, Berklee, or anywhere else that has a realistic music program.”
I never saw Mr. Proilet so animated. It was embarrassing. I don’t consider myself to be as good as any of the people the Mr. Proilet was saying, but I figured he was just trying to hammer the point home.
“I’ll make you this promise, Mr. Proilet.”
“Jean.” He pronounced it the French way, like “John.”
“Jean?”
“My first name. You are more than my equal. Call me Jean. If you wish to call me Mister in class, feel free. Between us, we’re friends. Soon I’ll be calling you Mister.”
“If you say so,” I said, feeling strange. “I’ll make you this promise, Jean: When music becomes work, I will stop working. Until then, I’ll continue working hard at it. All right?”
My music teacher furrowed his brow trying to make sense of what I said. Finally, he smiled. “The day that music becomes work to you, we’ll have a real American Pie… it will definitely be the day the music dies.”
I laughed at the reference. It was difficult to consider this man that I’ve called Mr. Proilet as ‘Jean,’ but I’d try to remember. As long as music continued to be fun, it would be what I liked to do. Doing it with Mr. Proilet was always fun.
Mr. Proilet paid the tab and he drove me back to the High School. Kristen was waiting by her Camaro.
“Sorry for stealing Jim for so long, Kristen,” Mr. Proilet said.
“That’s all right. I just got out from doing some planning with some friends a few minutes ago.”
In the car, and back at the apartment, Kristen and I talked about what Mr. Proilet said. I told her my big fear: a school such as Julliard might be so focused on turning me into their idea of a musician that I might never become my own idea of a musician.
“Why didn’t you tell that to your teacher?” Kristen asked.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “My idea of a musician is difficult to imagine, Kristen. If you’re with me, then it’s easy.”
“I’ll be with you, Jim.”
I looked at the seriousness in Kristen’s eyes. “I know you will. Would you really like to live a musician’s life?”
Kristen shrugged. “I’d be a musician’s wife. It’s not the same.”