Continuation to the series from section The Story Of Me
Because what would be a more suitable topic to talk about on Easter Sunday than me? Nothing. Jesus would approve. Probably.
When I was about 6 years old, I used to love the sound of piano. I was also convinced I’m a medieval vampire, and liked to creep behind people in my little nightgown, while whispering ‘FATHER’. This second part is not true. But piano music I did like. To the point where I would pretend I’m a pianist, and sit at home banging my hands on random surfaces, thinking this shit is easy. Arguably the scene was hilarious, or disturbing. I’m not sure which. And so I begged my mom to sign me up for piano lessons. But she was busy with work, and house chores, and other adult people nonsense, and just kept saying ‘we need to check if you have a musical ear first.’ And I was like: ‘fine, take me to the doctor let him check my ears’. Because that’s just logic. And she would just laugh and leave it at that.
Until one day in school, this lady showed up and made an announcement that she’s enrolling people for piano lessons. To her astonishingly surprised face, I was the volunteer, probably the only one in the school too. I showed up after class, and was sad to inform her that I’m not completely sure about the musical status of my ears. To which she said we can check on it then and there. And here’s how you check for a musical ear: she took a pencil and just tapped some random melody with it, and asked me to repeat it. We went back and forth with her for a while, and I was declared to be in possession of a musical ear. And I went that’s it? And so my pianist careers started.
I went there for two years, was one of the best students, but was forced to resign eventually because I couldn’t read notes. Seriously. I have a really good photographic memory. So whenever we learned a new composition she would open the notes and play a song one time first. And I would remember the whole thing and just repeat it. I had no use for them squiggles; one may refer to as notes. She thought I was a genius, which I probably was, but not in a piano world. Because after a while she asked me to break up a song all by myself. And I couldn’t do it because I couldn’t read the goddamn notes. So I quit. And I took away an important life lesson from this, if you don’t know how to do something – quit.
At the age of 8, I invented my own business. I was a pretty good drawer and I had this whole notebook of cartoon character replicas. Like popular cartoons, I didn’t make any of them up. Because frankly what I don’t lack in skill, I lack in imagination. So I came up with an idea to show these pictures to my school mates and offer them a copy, on a slightly larger sheet, for a small fee of 10 cents. It made perfect sense in my head that people would want copies of my copies of somebody else’s drawings. Crazy right? I made 60 cents. Which means 6 people requested my services and I delivered. I was going to be rich. But our head teacher suspected something fishy in my activity. Maybe she was baffled by my profits and just jealous. In any case, she ordered me to stop. And that’s how my one and only venture ended.
When I was about 13, my mom and I were walking on the street and this awesome looking biker passed us by. And I just thought he looked cool. So I figured it’d be fun to say ‘when I grow up, I want to be a biker, I will start putting away a quarter every day from now on, and soon enough I’ll have my own bike.’ To which my mom just sort of went pale in the face, and of all the things to say she went ‘that would have to be a lot of quarters, you won’t get enough of those till you probably die.’ Childhood dream crushed and all I decided that ‘fine, I’ll just become an accountant.’ And I did. So one for mom: zero for biker.
Were you weird as a child?