Over the weekend, I decided to celebrate my German heritage by participating in an Oktoberfest with my fellow Army of Awesome People writer Jim and some other friends at a German bar in Detroit.
“More tuba!” I shouted.
The band just kind of looked at one another and continued to play.
“Tuba solo!” I shouted.
Again, my demands were unmet.
Finally, the song wrapped up.
“Does anyone have any requests?” the band leader asked.
“TUBA SOLO!” I reiterated.
“Anyone have any songs they want to hear?” he asked.
“Something that heavily features the tuba!” I yelled.
The band leader kind of looked back at the rest of the band and said ‘play a little something fellas, I’ll be back.’ He then made his way over to my table and sat down.
“Listen, we don’t have a tuba,” the band leader said, his stare not breaking away from me. “You’ve got to stop requesting tuba songs.”
“No problem,” I replied.
The band’s leader rejoined the rest of the band and the song finally wrapped up.
“Okay,” the band leader said as the applause died down, “who has a request?”
“Play a song that sounds like the music that would be playing if a hippopotamus just walked into the room!” I yelled.
The band leader looked back to the drummer, confused.
“We would need a tuba to play something like that,” the drummer informed the lead singer.
“Umm, play a little something fellas, I’ll be right back,” the band leader left the stage and walked back to my table and sat down right next to me.
“Now you listen to me you stupid, insensitive son of a….” he said intensely, “our tuba player was lost one year ago on this very night!”
“He was killed?” I asked.
“How should I know?” he answered. “He was supposed to show up to this gig and he texted to say he was lost. Then, he texted to say his battery was dying. Then, we didn’t hear from him again.”
“And you never bothered to investigate to see if he was alright?” I asked.
“Silence!” he shouted. “No more tuba requests! That’s your final warning!”
The band leader then rejoined the rest of the band.
“Okay, alright, ladies and gentlemen,” he said with artificial cheeriness, “once again, does anyone have a German tune they would like to hear?”
“Play Adelvice!” I shouted.
“Ah! Now there you go!” the band leader said smiling, “now there’s a German tune.”
“Play it in the lowest octave!” I yelled.
“You son of a….” The band leader erupted. “Only tuba can reach that low.”
The band leader charged off the stage towards me.
Suddenly, the door to the bar burst open. Standing there was a gentleman dressed in Oktoberfest clothing, carrying a tuba. The band was stunned.
“Klaus?” The band leader said, stunned.
“What year is it?” Klaus replied.
“Klaus!” The band leader was overjoyed. “You’re alive! It’s an Oktoberfest miracle!”
The band leader led Klaus to the stage.
“Alright, okay, you wanted a tuba solo?” he said to me, “prepare to feast your ears on the sweetest tuba music you’ve ever heard.”
“Wait!” Klaus said. “I forgot how to play.”
“Play that one Sad Trombone song that plays when someone comedically fails!” I yelled.
The rest of the night was kind of a blur, but I think I was attacked. Also, I think Jim ate one of my breadsticks.