The Musical Motivation of a Melancholy Man

By E.M.S.

Calvin Plinker tried so desperately to wash the blood off his hands, but it seemed that it was quite stained. He grabbed the ivory soap bar and scrubbed his fingers as he watched the red swirl with the water down the drain. He paused to look down at his fine dinner jacket, which was now splattered with blood.

“Damn,” He uttered. He had hoped not to saturate his clothes in the blood of his beloved sextet, which he had murdered so coolly just one hour earlier.

“And such a fine jacket at that,” He mumbled, removing it to the water and soap filled bathtub.

As he let the warm water course over his hands he let his thoughts wonder to the earlier evening. He wasn’t sure what actually had triggered the mass murder of five people, but come to think of it, he was sure. The first one to go had been Amy, which was appropriately so since she was the first violinist. As the group of a half dozen began to play, Calvin could only hear the screeching of Amy’s bow as it unevenly hit the strings on her violin. Again and again she faltered off key. Her tempo slowed down when the others picked up and vice versa. Finally, Calvin decided that he could take it no longer.

“Amy,” He yelled, which was hardly a yell since he was only speaking a little bit louder than his normal quiet voice. “Would you please? The beat is four. Not three, not three and a half, but four. Why don’t we try and keep it that way?”

“What is your problem Calvin?” Amy took her chin away from her violin. “This is the first time we’ve played this song altogether. You know I never get it right the first time.”

“Well, perhaps you should start.”

Amy only continued to give him odd looks until Calvin could burst with her stupidity. Yes, she was the first one to go. He bounded up from his usual seat, third from the left, and in two strides was on the other side of the stage where Amy sat. He grabbed the violin right out of her petite hands and proceeded to smash it over her head in a steady beat of a four tempo. 1, 2, 3, 4. The rest of the sextet could only stare as he continued with his violent rampage. So shocked with his sudden outburst the others could only look on as they were glued to their chairs. 1, 2, 3, 4.

Calvin could still hear the beat in his head as he began to wash his arms. The beat that would forever haunt him lingered in his head like the echo of a ringing bell.

As he scrubbed his arms in a frenzy, Calvin tried to recall why he had done exactly what he had done. Maybe it was because of Thomas, the bassist. Thomas was exceedingly sure of himself, as so many bassists were. Everyday when Calvin would attend rehearsal Thomas would meet him at the door with a plastic, “What’s up Cal?”

Calvin, with teeth gritted, would respond, “Please Thomas, how many times do I have to tell you that it’s Calvin, not Cal, Calvin.”

Thomas would then proceed to laugh, pat Calvin roughly on the back, and say, “Oh, you just woke up on the wrong side of the bed Cal.”

Calvin wasn’t sure how much longer he could take Thomas’s ill-humored sarcasm and on the day of the infamous rehearsal he decided that he would take it no longer.

As soon as Calvin had finished smashing Amy’s head he heard Thomas cut the silence.

“My God Cal! What have you done?” Thomas sat in horror staring at the blood soaked stage.

Turning his head with eyes a blazing, Calvin slowly made his way over to the petrified Thomas. In one swift movement Calvin grabbed Thomas by the collar and flung him off the stage where he proceeded to fall eight feet to the ground, hit his head on a chair, break his neck, and die instantly.

There lay Thomas with his neck at an awkward angle and there stood Calvin looking over the edge maliciously as the others sat with terrified looks on their faces, too panicked to move.

“It’s Calvin . . . Tom,” Calvin said with an evil smirk.

Calvin snapped back to reality as the water on his arms turned an icy cold. He quickly shut off the faucet and treaded wearily to his master bedroom, complete with a queen-sized bed. Of course he had no use for such a large bed anymore, not since his wife had killed herself. Perhaps that was what had been the onset of his murderous rampage. Ever since she had done herself in Calvin had been so depressed. What a terrible incident that had been!

She had never been too happy since she married Calvin, even though he had loved her with his whole being. No, she had not been happy at all. Every day she would come home and say the same things.

“How was your day Calvin?” “Can I fix you a drink Calvin?” “Good night Calvin.”

The same dreary thing every day. She was a dull, monotonous woman and apparently a suicidal one at that. Calvin found this out the day he came home and saw that his wife had placed her head in the oven, which was turned on to about 400 degrees Fahrenheit. I will not get technical about what graphic details he saw after he pulled her head out of the oven. All I can tell you is that Calvin no longer needed the queen-sized bed. And this depressed him a great deal.

He plopped down onto his overly sized bed with thoughts of his melancholy wife. What a sad situation. He wondered if it was as sad a situation as the murder of his sextet was. Of course he only remembered the actually killing of Amy and Thomas, the rest were a mere blur of silky blood and silent screams. As Calvin reached over to turn on his radio he decided that they were both equally as sad.

“Coming up next will be Liszt’s Piano Concerto no. 1 in E-flat Minor. This will be performed by the infamous . . .” The BBC announcer spoke softly over the radio. The music soon started and Calvin shut his eyes as it did. The eerie tune floated through the air as it caressed Calvin in its breezy aria. His hands rose slowly before him and he envisioned himself playing a phantom piano. As the music rose to a crescendo his fingers ran laps down the imaginary keyboard. He plinked away furiously at the keys as tears began to stream down his face. The majestic piece slowly descended and was soon over all together.

The BBC announcer’s voice came on once again. “That was Franz Liszt’s Piano Concerto no. 1 in E-flat minor. This beautiful piece was performed by the infamous Westminster East London Sextet at Royal Albert Hall with the well-known Calvin Plinker on the piano.”

Calvin pitifully dropped his arms to his side in a heap. His mind was a blank as were his emotions. He had no thoughts of guilt or of what was to come when the bobbies came knocking at his door ready to take him away. He had only thoughts of grief. His grief was so deep that he did not even notice when the next song came on . . . a song that was performed by only him this time.

Without opening his eyes Calvin moved his hand to his drawer and felt the small, metallic object inside. Slowly pulling the 9 mm. out, he placed it against his head as his last thoughts were, “Why?” He deftly wondered what his motivation was. What was his incentive for life? And just as he pulled the trigger one word came to his mind – music. Yes, his motivation was that of a musical one. Oh, if only it had been a different way.

4