Truth in Advertising

I'd like to tell you all a tale about a boy who I once new. He was a smart boy, taking lots of honors classes in his high school. He was almost 16, so he couldn't drive anywhere himself. He had long, sort of ridiculous looking hair that he thought was kind of cool (though he would not have known cool if it came up behind him and punched him in the face). And most importantly, he was in the school band.

High school band means a lot of things to a lot of different people. To some, it means the only way to have social interaction. These people are affectionately known as band geeks. The boy in our story was not one of those. He was one of the small group of anti-band geeks. They are the few people in any high school band for whom playing an instrument is enough reward to put up with all of the crap that must accompany being in the band. It is the idea of the music, not "the band" that is important to these select few, and being in the minority, this group naturally defines itself apophatically. That is, they define themselves by what they are not. They are not band geeks. Our long-haired, baby-faced, self-righteous, intelligent protagonist was one of those.

There is another thing that being in the high school band means: practicing for parades and/or football game half-time shows. Both require dedication and determination to do at least half correctly. Though our boy did not give even half, so he would tell himself to retain that non-geek demeanor, for some strange reason he found himself dedicated to doing it right. There was a certain pride in doing it better than those whose self-identities were completely wrapped up in doing it. A passive-aggressive statement which served no purpose other than to say "I am better than you." A way to define himself as "not one of them, better than them."

After days of practice came the "drill down." It is a rather fruitless excercise in which the band, standing in rank and file, executes commands at the behest of the drum majors. "About face," they would say, and as one, the band would place each right foot, toe down, behind each left heel and proceed to spin 180 degrees clockwise. At least that was the plan. However, the point of the exercise is to slowly eliminate members for performing the moves incorrectly. Typically, our hero would intentionally eliminate himself, based on the honor system, approximately half-way through the competition. It didn't look stupid, but it didn't look like he was trying to hard. Besides, the extra few minutes for a water break was quite nice in the 100 degree weather.

Only the last day of this pre-school starting "band camp" came the ultimate drill down. So ultimate was this drill down that not only was it truly ultimate, but there were prizes involved for the winners. The first place prize was a $20 gift certificate to the local record store. Strange feelings of desire started to emerge in our boy. "Wow," he thought, "$20 would be enough to by that Presidents of the United States of America CD. That song Lump is really cool." Later, he would insist that he had been a fan of the Presidents since long before Peaches came out. He was no poseur. These thoughts of desire turned into something new: interest and determination. He would win one of these three prizes. Indeed, it would be so. As the drill down commenced, his plan was firmly in place and his dignity had a new price. Twenty US dollars.

After several minutes, there were only a few people, perhaps a dozen, left standing. By now, our boy had cheated at least 4 times. He hadn't been caught by any of the authorities, and he wasn't going to let his own honesty stand in the way of $20. Soon, there were only three. Then two. Cheating was no longer an option, since every eye was now on him. Back and forth those two went, matching step for step until, finally, our hero deferred. He missed a command, and just like that, it was over.

He had done it. He had managed to win a prize. Slowly and majestically the obese band director came down from the bleachers toward the track, which lay just in front of the longjump pit. He came, bearing the prizes, to distribute the spoils of battle to the victorious gladiators. The gift certificate went to the top finisher. Our boy was excited. He would get a prize, a wonderful prize. When the rolls of fat masquerading as a man handed him a nice little box, delicately tied with a bow, he knew he was in for something great. He untied the bow, and slowly lifted the lid to reveal........a chintzy, spring-loaded, gold-plated, red and green embossed Tree Top juice key chain. This for a boy who had not one key, let alone many keys that would necessitate their own chain.

The shame was real and tangible. He cheated for this. He tainted his honor for this prize, and it wasn't even worth the the sweat that was dripping down his back. He could no longer pretend to not care, it was too late for that. He had sacrificed his own self-image, and for what? An unusable, ugly, trite peice of garbage. He really wanted that CD.

He was never the same afterward. Everyone has a price, and he now knew that his was exceedingly low.