Me Talk Pretty One Day Read Online Free PDF

on my guitar since our last get-together. I told him that Joan was my cousin’s name
     and that I had no idea how stacked she was.
    “That’s okay,” Mister Mancini said. “You can call your guitar whatever you want, just as long as you practice.”
    My voice shaking, I told him that I had absolutely no interest in mastering the guitar. What I really wanted was to sing in
     the voice of Billie Holiday. “Mainly commercials, but not for any banks or car dealerships, because those are usually choral
     arrangements.”
    The color ebbed from my teacher’s face.
    I told him I’d been working up an act and could use a little accompaniment. Did he know the jingle for the new Sara Lee campaign?
    “You want me to do what?” He wasn’t angry, just confused.
    I felt certain he was lying when he denied knowing the tune. Doublemint gum, Ritz crackers, the theme songs for Alka-Seltzer
     and Kenmore appliances: he claimed ignorance on all counts. I knew that it was queer to sing in front of someone, but greater
     than my discomfort was the hope that he might recognize what I thought of as my great talent, the one musical trick I was
     able to pull off. I started in on an a cappella version of the latest Oscar Mayer commercial, hoping he might join in once
     the spirit moved him. It looked bad, I knew, but in order to sustain the proper mood, I needed to disregard his company and
     sing the way I did at home alone in my bedroom, my eyes shut tight and my hands dangling like pointless, empty gloves.
    I sang that my bologna had a first name.
    I added that my bologna had a second name.
    And concluded: Oh,
I love to eat it every day
    And if you ask me why, I’ll say
    Thaaaat Os-carrr May-errr has a way, with B-Oooo-L-Oooo-G-N-A
    I reached the end of my tune thinking he might take this as an opportunity to applaud or maybe even apologize for underestimating
     me. Mild amusement would have been an acceptable response. But instead, he held up his hands, as if to stop an advancing car.
     “
Hey, guy
,” he said. “You can hold it right there. I’m not into that scene.”
    A scene? What scene? I thought I was being original.
    “There were plenty of screwballs like you back in Atlanta, but me, I don’t swing that way — you got it? This might be your
     ‘thing’ or whatever, but you can definitely count me out.” He reached for his conch shell and stubbed out his cigarette. “I
     mean, come on now. For God’s sake, kid, pull yourself together.”
    I knew then why I’d never before sung in front of anyone, and why I shouldn’t have done it in front of Mister Mancini. He’d
     used the word screwball, but I knew what he really meant. He meant I should have named my guitar Doug or Brian, or better
     yet, taken up the flute. He meant that if we’re defined by our desires, I was in for a lifetime of trouble.
    The remainder of the hour was spent awkwardly watching the clock as we silently pretended to tune our guitars.
    My father was disappointed when I told him I wouldn’t be returning for any more lessons. “He told me not to come back,” I
     said. “He told me I have the wrong kind of fingers.”
    Seeing that it had worked for me, my sisters invented similar stories, and together we announced that the Sedaris Trio had
     officially disbanded. Our father offered to find us better teachers, adding that if we were unhappy with our instruments,
     we could trade them in for something more suitable. “The trumpet or the saxophone, or hey, how about the vibes?” He reached
     for a Lionel Hampton album, saying, “I want you to sit down and give this a good listen. Just get a load of this cat and tell
     me he’s not an inspiration.”
    There was a time when I could listen to such a record and imagine myself as the headline act at some magnificent New York
     nightclub, but that’s what fantasies are for: they allow you to skip the degradation and head straight to the top. I’d done
     my solo and would now move on to pursue other