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August 29, 2005 at 11:45 PM

I sighed and collected myself before crossing the threshold of the local music store today. We have rocky a history, the employees and I, and I’m certain my face reflected it. The past two years in dealing with them has shown me that their service was 100% unreliable. I had never been able to trust my students to get their books through them without some sort of hangup that lasted no less than a month. Occasionally, I would pay a visit in order to confirm my suspicions. Yes, they didn’t even have a copy of “Jesu” somewhere on their bare shelves. I felt secretly vindicated each time I was able to leave in disgust, knowing that I was right in referring all my clients to the much more helpful and well-stocked store in Anchorage.

Today I needed staff paper. Against my pledge to boycott any further patronage to the music store, I returned. The owner stood behind the counter, and I sensed his readiness. Avoiding eye contact so as not to betray my grudge, I made my request. He began his ritual speech about how the latest shipment was at the post office as we speak, that he would be happy to give me spiral bound later in the day, but there was some loose leaf available, and also this half-sheet booklet right here. His rambling (or shall we say, groveling) made me squirm. He continued his pandering behind the counter as I dug for my credit card, flourishing the latest in metronomes and music composition programs. “I can even let you take home a demo to try out. See, I’ve been gone and I just got back, and I know some orders may have gotten a bit screwy this summer, and we’re going to be trying our hardest to keep things in stock, so you just let us know whatever you need.”

If I could just avoid looking at him, I could get out unscathed. No, I looked up. Something about eyes, and I soften. Smiling, I thanked him as I turned to the door.

He just wants to change. Don’t we all want another chance? Although his name represents a business with demands and expectations hung about like the signs on the window, he’s just a person like me. I relate to him in knowing that my name has all kinds of titles added, and each one brings with it all sorts of obligations to perform and excel and be blameless. Word gets around. I get pretty tired of it, myself. After all, I’m still just Emily, and I forget to write it down sometimes, and my home might not be clean when you drop by for a visit. If you see me cutting you off in traffic or catch me letting out an unkind word or two when I smash my finger in the mixer, don’t be so surprised. My businesses aren’t perfect, either.

I’m preparing for my first day back in the studio tomorrow, teaching ten back-to-back lessons. I’m nervous that I might forget something or step on a toe or two. I’ve got a bagful of apologies just in case.

I think I’ll forgive the debts of the music store in town again and see if giving them a second chance doesn’t pay off after all.

Forgive our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. You could also add "Lord deliver me from the guitar-playing hippies."
Emily, you are soo sweet! I love reading your blogs. What nice positive contributions you make.
Now....if I could only get you to drive to the end of the road and play string quartets with me. If you bring the violist I'll cook dinner.
How did you know he was a guitar playing hippie?

Michael, I've heard rumors of your cooking! I see a quartet forming...

Emily, I think you're very generous in your assessment of the man at your local music store. Why do you think that he is trying to change or even that he believes that what he's doing is wrong? I don't think that you should feel bad about saying unkind things about people when you hurt your finger. I sometimes say unkind things about people even when I haven't injured myself. What's more, some of the unkind things I say are, unfortunately, true.
I saw sincerity in his eyes. And no, all the sincerity in the world won't make the Great Pumpkin rise, but sometimes I still want to believe, anyway.
What do you mean the Great Pumpkin won't rise?

It's actually rather frightening that Jim knew the guy was a guitar playing hippie.

Perhaps there are many music stores out there run by guitar playing hippies.....

PS: I too have heard rumors of Michael's cooking.

Perhaps I'll dust off the old viola...

It's always either guitar playing hippie or 35 year old former marching band guy.