Musicality

This post is in response to the 100 Days of Writing challenge I’m doing with the L.A. Writer’s group, where I will try to write 200 words (minimum) a day to get back into the writing groove.

The prompt was a picture of a lemur blowing on a trumpet.

——

“You did what?”

Ugh, I thought. Why couldn’t Dr. Petersen be bothered to trim his nose hairs? It’s all well and good that the man was a genius in his field and all, but does that mean that geniuses are exempt from basic hygiene?

“I spliced sample 45B with 87C, as was in the lab order.” I was a bit annoyed that this old man, who only showed up twice a week here at the lab, was getting in my face over routine lab work.

The old man looked at me for the better part of a minute, like he was expecting me to say it was a joke or something. When it became apparent by my silence that there was nothing more to say he reached up and removed his glasses, thick in their black rims, and pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes.

“That’s not a B.” He whispered. His voice was tired. For a moment he stopped being the award-winning scientist that ran the genetics institute in Vienna, and looked for all intents and purposes like just another old man, frustrated with something.

I glanced at the lab order, just to be sure. It wasn’t just that I felt I had to cover my own ass. The old man had gotten to me, despite myself. I didn’t want to have fucked up a whole sample run. The handwritten lab order clearly said 45B, I was relieved to see.

Before I could defend myself, Dr. Petersen put his glasses back on and stomped out of the office. I took a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding in. It didn’t seem that I was going to be in trouble, but I was deathly curious to see who would be.

During lunch, I heard Gladys, one of the senior assistants, was fired. Gladys wore incredibly thick glasses and was getting up there in age. Apparently, she should’ve retired years earlier but nostalgia had made Dr. Petersen keep her around.

A week later I was summoned to the animal lab and found myself sitting with Dr. Petersen and a couple of more board members. They’d been whispering furiously but had stopped when I walked in. Dr. Petersen motioned me forwards and pointed through the window into the animal pen.

He had a wry grin on his face, which made me relax a little. He’d finally trimmed his nose hairs, too, so it wasn’t too gross to stand next to him.

“It was an eight, if you were curious. It was supposed to be sample 458.” His voice was cheerful in spite of the mistake, though. He gave a chuckle and I finally looked through the window at the animals that were arrayed across a series of branches that hung inside a large play area.

They were lemurs—cloned, of course, since Madagascar had ceased to be habitable thirty years earlier—grey and white with their striped tails. A funny looking group that all seemed intent on one particular animal that was holding something in its furry hands.

A trumpet.

The lemurs were chattering away and the one with the trumped chattered back before raising the instrument to its mouth.

I couldn’t help but snort as the first notes of “La vie en rose” reached me.

Dr. Petersen laughed out loud.

“Just in time for Christmas,” he cackled.