New Idea: Hap

October 27, 2006

I met Hap last night in a dream.

Standing on broad concrete stairs leading up the hill to the city library, and enjoying the still warm autumn air and the view of the streets below, I looked down across the street and saw him standing next to the kiosk in front of the opera house. He was holding a newspaper in his hands. A young boy, early teens maybe, stood attentive, listening to Hap read aloud the selections the city symphony would play later that evening. After reading each title, Hap would hum the opening few notes, I thought more for himself than the boy; but the boy eyes were glued on Hap.

Older, probably mid to late fifties, with a slight paunch, and long, straight, brown hair that extended in all directions once it escaped the boundaries of the old, blue stocking cap pulled down over his ears, Hap was enjoying himself. A comfortably worn, blue denim jacket over an old plaid shirt would keep him warm in the soon-to-be cool, evening air; and an equally worn pair of blue Levis with a brown belt rounded the man many would have thought ‘homeless.’

“Mahler’s First,” he said, reading to the boy, then he looked into the sky, closed his eyes and hummed the gentle beginning of the piece. “Listen, here come the trumpets…To-to-To-to-To-to. It’s the awakening of nature at early dawn.”

“What is?”

“The music. That’s what the master himself said, you know.”

“Who?” the boy asked.

“Gustav Mahler. He said the opening is about the 'awakening of nature at early dawn.'”

The boy looked up at Hap, and smiled. “That's weird. Do another one.”

Haps eyes scrolled down the list. “Do you know Frere Jacques?”

“Fair a what?”

“Ferair a jock a,” Hap said, teaching the boy the correct pronunciation. “It’s an old song they used to teach in the school when we were small children.” He held his head back and mimicked the tune as Mahler had written it for the third movement of his symphony. “Can you sing along?” he asked, forgetting there would be someone who didn’t know the tune, then answering his own question, said, “Of course not, they didn’t teach it to you, did they.”

“No.”

Hap folded the newspaper and leaned against the old brick façade of the opera house. “No boy should go without knowing this song,” he said, and soon they were singing, in the round, as ‘Frere Jacques’ was intended. People hurrying along on the sidewalk smiled at the old man and the boy.

I stood spellbound by this man. How did I know his name, and who was he? How did he get this knowledge? Where does he live? What has happened in his life to get him here in front of the grand opera house this morning with this young boy. I decided to follow him, but first I had to call my boss and tell her I wouldn’t be back in this afternoon. “My cold has taken a turn for the worse,” I said, wiping my nose with a handkerchief in a weak attempt to make the lie real.