Muret and a colleague chat next to the faculty mailboxes. The colleague speaks of her inability to finish any new projects. Like a watercolor painting barely touched on an easel in her garage.
“Doesn’t that make you mad?” Muret says. “A lot of our work is a waste of time.” Then he adds, “The students don’t care.”
His colleague looks puzzled, and says, “They care.” She seems to mull over Muret’s comment as she pulls another interdepartmental envelope from her mail slot. “No, of course I’m not mad. Too many people are angry over ridiculous things these days. That’s more of a waste of time, I believe.”
Muret nods and feels his face prickle. He grimaces and backs away from her.
In his office, Muret does not appreciate how his colleague gawked at him. Or how she inferred he is one of those people getting mad over ridiculous things. She sounds like his wife. But he doesn’t consider himself an angry person, at all. He stares at the stack of essays on his desk in need of grading. Sure, he grows irritated, like everyone, now and then. Muret decides to avoid the essays and head home early. This decision makes him feel better, relaxes the muscles in his face.
A card stating his office hours is taped to the door. He pulls a pen from his satchel and marks through the times on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He revises the hours he’ll be in his office, only on Friday afternoons throughout the remainder of the semester. He knows students won’t bother him then, their headspace and bodies already gearing up for the weekend, all the bars and parties. Muret lets out a small laugh. What a wonderful idea, and this slight change alters his mood even more so. He won’t give his colleague’s affront another thought. And he is determined to make further changes to avoid any more instances that might irritate him. Not make him necessarily mad, but things that create a bit of ridiculousness in his own life. He strolls down the hallway and swings his satchel like a child at play.
In his car, Muret knows the Loop on the north side of the city loads up with horrific traffic during the afternoons. He decides to take a different, longer route. A boulevard that merges into a two-lane road, traversing a beautiful desert preserve that spans right up to the edge of his subdivision. A scenic drive, dotted with majestic saguaros and surrounding verdant mountains, due to an especially wet winter. He’ll be sure to inform his wife that he enjoyed the drive, despite her complaints he never slowed down long enough to appreciate the scenery. She claims to avoid driving with him because of his reckless speeding. However, Muret remains within the speed limit and finds himself at ease, contemplative in a way he hasn’t felt in years.
The air filter, high up in the ceiling with that infuriating latch. Instead of Muret fooling with it, from now on the air condition guy can change it during his annual visit. He will instruct his landscaper to fill in his small lawn with gravel. No more irksome letters from the HOA about dead grass, weeds, times for seeding. Then there is the annoying mailbox. His wife complains that Muret’s impatience will break the key off in the lock. She can check the mailbox from now on. He imagines handing her an umbrella on 110° days before sending her out. He grins at the rearview mirror.
Muret pulls into his driveway. Outside his open car window the soft notes of the piano drift in from his front room. The pianist is obviously talented, undoubtedly an accomplished musician. Not like his wife. She tried lessons years ago and is mediocre at best, occasionally tapping out show tunes. And his daughter took lessons as a child, too. But she banged the keys, never able to execute a lucid melody. Her playing tortured Muret to no end. He had to cut short her practice many times, for sanity’s sake. Fortunately, his daughter gave up the piano. She turned to other interests besides music and now studies global finance at a university in the northern part of the state.
Muret stands on the front porch and recognizes the piece. Chopin’s “Raindrop” prelude, the performance free of all imperfections. He figures this house guest is a virtuoso. The sound of the tender raindrops, the building of a storm, moves him. Tears well in his eyes.
Muret enters through the front door in an excited flurry, almost tripping over a duffle bag on the tile. His daughter bolts up from the piano, knocking the bench seat backwards. Sheet music from inside the storage cubby pours across the carpet like a bucket full of spilled milk. Muret stands frozen in the entryway.
“Hello, Daddy. I’m sorry, Daddy.” Muret is startled by the expression on his daughter’s face. “I didn’t know you’d be home so early…. I didn’t mean to…play.” She turns to the piano, looks behind her. “The mess I’ve made.”
His wife’s scowl appears in front of him.
“What did you say to her?” she wants to know. “She was playing beautifully. Rage, rage, rage. Is that all you know how to do?”
