Harry James

He was a lanky, crew-cut kid of 13, with a late-afternoon appointment to get refills for his asthma and acne medications. I had known him for a few years, so it was easy to pick up where we had left off 3 months before. After asking how he'd been since his last appointment, I briefly examined him, and wrote the prescriptions. Noticing his leather case on the floor, I asked, “Jesse, how long have you been playing the trumpet?”

“Two years now,” he said, looking up. “The asthma doesn't bother me much.”

“Do you take lessons?” I was interested.

“Yeah. It's tough finding time for everything, though. Next year I really want to learn how to play jazz.” His eyes brightened.

“Do you play in the high school band?”

“Yep, the marching band. I wasn't good enough for the concert orchestra. Maybe next year,” he smiled, his braces shining.

“You know, I used to play trumpet when I was your age. Pretty good, but not great,” I said. “Have you ever …