Jeffrey
Jeffrey had always loved to sing. When he had been born the doctors looked at the shriveled little baby, his crooked eyebrow’s giving him a permanent grimace. They spoke softly under their breath. “Poor thing…” they murmured, handing the baby from nurse to nurse, moving it quickly through hospital towards the nursery. They put him in the back of the room, tucking his little blue blanket directly under his chin to hide his grotesque face. He sat close to the nurses’ station where the older women would sit and knit, singing old gospels that would lull him into peaceful sleeps. They always said he was the most well behaved newborn.
Years down the road he begged his parents to enroll him in the children’s choir, little hands clasped together. They loved the grimace he brought to them every day, caterpillar type eyebrows furrowing together in concentration. So when he asked, they gave in and enrolled him at their local church children’s choir. For the next six years he sang his little heart out although the music came out in high pitched squeals. The choir director would sit him in one of the fold out chairs beside the piano, hoping that the clang of the ivory’s to wire would drown out the nasal voice.
High school was hard. Rejection was everywhere. He was always an extra in the school play or assigned props, stage crew. The only picture he ever found of himself in the yearbook was his yearbook photo, his crooked smile and glaring eyes scowling across the page. And when he tried out for chorus, his raspy voice drilling holes into the instructors ear drums, he was denied a spot. Girls? Don’t even ask him about girls. They walked past him, eyes seeing through him. He was invisible in high school. Just the ugly face in the crowd, wooly worm eyebrows permanently scrunched together in contortion. Sometimes he cried at home alone when his parents were working late. He grabbed the whiskey sometime drinking just enough to forget. To say he had a drinking problem in high school was an understatement.
He was an understatement, but today, fifty five years after his birth he finally discovered karaoke. Jeffrey was going to sing. His family tried to convince him not to. “Don’t embarrass yourself Jeffrey. You’ll only get hurt.” He ignored them. Each wobbly step of nervousness up to the stage convinced him of certain failure but each time his feet held firm he gained momentum towards an uncertain but much awaited future. His song choice was not something that a grown man would not/should not normally choose but he felt right singing it. And when the music started Jeffrey smiled, opened his mouth, and belted out the lyrics to ‘Before He Cheats’ loud as he could, proving to the world that he was more than just never ending frown.
Jeffrey lived his dream.
Years down the road he begged his parents to enroll him in the children’s choir, little hands clasped together. They loved the grimace he brought to them every day, caterpillar type eyebrows furrowing together in concentration. So when he asked, they gave in and enrolled him at their local church children’s choir. For the next six years he sang his little heart out although the music came out in high pitched squeals. The choir director would sit him in one of the fold out chairs beside the piano, hoping that the clang of the ivory’s to wire would drown out the nasal voice.
High school was hard. Rejection was everywhere. He was always an extra in the school play or assigned props, stage crew. The only picture he ever found of himself in the yearbook was his yearbook photo, his crooked smile and glaring eyes scowling across the page. And when he tried out for chorus, his raspy voice drilling holes into the instructors ear drums, he was denied a spot. Girls? Don’t even ask him about girls. They walked past him, eyes seeing through him. He was invisible in high school. Just the ugly face in the crowd, wooly worm eyebrows permanently scrunched together in contortion. Sometimes he cried at home alone when his parents were working late. He grabbed the whiskey sometime drinking just enough to forget. To say he had a drinking problem in high school was an understatement.
He was an understatement, but today, fifty five years after his birth he finally discovered karaoke. Jeffrey was going to sing. His family tried to convince him not to. “Don’t embarrass yourself Jeffrey. You’ll only get hurt.” He ignored them. Each wobbly step of nervousness up to the stage convinced him of certain failure but each time his feet held firm he gained momentum towards an uncertain but much awaited future. His song choice was not something that a grown man would not/should not normally choose but he felt right singing it. And when the music started Jeffrey smiled, opened his mouth, and belted out the lyrics to ‘Before He Cheats’ loud as he could, proving to the world that he was more than just never ending frown.
Jeffrey lived his dream.
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