DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Shangri-LA, issue 4, January-February 1948

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Shangri-LA, issue 4, January-February 1948

Page 13

NO CALLING CARD
by 
C. R. McLEOD

There was nothing strange about the night, although it was colder than usual and the moon was luminous and disturbingly new. 

I was alone at the piano in the gymnasium of my school, a white wooden building of two floors on the Dakota prairie. The upper floor had four class-rooms, the principal's office, and a small bookstore without windows over the central chimney. On the ground floor was the gym, where I sat, and a couple of storerooms beyond and to the right.

I say that I was alone because I had made the customary circuit of all the rooms before coming to the gym, to assure myself that I would not be bothered by any outside influence. 

During this year I had spent many nights alone at the piano, letting my hands begin on a chord arrangement or a boogie rhythm---anything to be found easily in the dark--until the pattern of the music was the least important thing, I had to keep my hands busy and so keep my mind off the past. Some evenings, when I stayed a very long time, my hands would gradually stop reacting and I would sit in the darkness, listening to the old building creaking as it was now.

I tightened my shoelaces before beginning. This, I've been told, was like wanting tight belts so that you'll feel less empty or having strong locks so that you'll see only your own face in the mirror. 

As I gegan to play, I noticed that the piano seemed very loud, and I thought that the whole village would surely hear, althou it was almost a quarter-mile away. But every sound seemed loud, I noticed; I heard someone walk on the crusted snow in front of the school, then go on toward town. 

I don't know exactly when it was that I heard a step in the hall upstairs. But I did tell myself that the step couldn't be a step, because I had looked everywhere and tested each door before sitting down to play.

Nevertheless, I listened.

I knew the number of steps on the stair -- there were fourteen to the concrete at the bottom, then four paces more and you were at the door. I knew the distance to the postoffice, to the store, and to the town's one bar. I counted everything. The trees in the yard. The hangers in the cloakroom. My heartbeats. The days until I could leave for some big city,

My hands still were forming chords, my mind still playing on numbers, when I found that I was counting the sounds on the stairs. 

TRANSCRIBED BY:
Jenna

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NO CALLING CARD by C. R. McLEOD There was nothing strange about the night, although it was colder than usual and the moon was luminous and disturbingly new. I was alone at the piano in the gymnasium of my school, a white wooden building of two floors on the Dakota prairie. The upper floor had four class-rooms, the principal's office, and a small bookstore without windows over the central chimney. On the ground floor was the gym, where I sat, and a couple of storerooms beyond and to the right. I say that I was alone because I had made the customary circuit of all the rooms before coming to the gym, to assure myself that I would not be bothered by any outside influence. During this year I had spent many nights alone at the piano, letting my hands begin on a chord arrangement or a boogie rhythm---anything to be found easily in the dark--until the pattern of the music was the least important thing, I had to keep my hands busy and so keep my mind off the past. Some evenings, when I stayed a very long time, my hands would gradually stop reacting and I would sit in the darkness, listening to the old building creaking as it was now. I tightened my shoelaces before beginning. This, I've been told, was like wanting tight belts so that you'll feel less empty or having strong locks so that you'll see only your own face in the mirror. As I gegan to play, I noticed that the piano seemed very loud, and I thought that the whole village would surely hear, althou it was almost a quarter-mile away. But every sound seemed loud, I noticed; I heard someone walk on the crusted snow in front of the school, then go on toward town. I don't know exactly when it was that I heard a step in the hall upstairs. But I did tell myself that the step couldn't be a step, because I had looked everywhere and tested each door before sitting down to play. Nevertheless, I listened. I knew the number of steps on the stair -- there were fourteen to the concrete at the bottom, then four paces more and you were at the door. I knew the distance to the postoffice, to the store, and to the town's one bar. I counted everything. The trees in the yard. The hangers in the cloakroom. My heartbeats. The days until I could leave for some big city, My hands still were forming chords, my mind still playing on numbers, when I found that I was counting the sounds on the stairs. TRANSCRIBED BY: Jenna