[ WP ] Every person in the world is a musical instrument .

*Inspired by the couch gag as well* 
 
 Trom had never known his father. Having father was n't someone he often *missed*, just as someone with blue eyes never *misses* brown eyes, but he had always been curious as to the whereabouts of the second instrument involved in his creation. This was always a bit awkward for him, as his appearance and instrument shape was that of a trombone, while his mother was a bassoon. He had two younger step-siblings by his step-father who were bassoons, and he always loved them dearly but could never bring himself to like their tasteless music. It was dry, wooden, and it was written for someone with nimble fingers and a patient eye to watch the conductor. 
 
 Eventually, Trom's father decided that it was time that the two of them form a relationship, and he offered to take Trom out for the day on town. Trom agreed, but did n't act overly zealous so as not to upset his mother. He spent all morning polishing his silver plating and oiling his slide to look presentable, and when his father finally arrived, Trom knew it was time. 
 
 `` Hello,'' Trom muttered shyly. He and his father looked very nearly identical. Their F-wraps had grown in differently, but altogether they looked very much like father and son. 
 
 `` Hi,'' Trom's father said back. He seemed just as timid. Trom kissed his mother goodbye and left with his father for a night out on the town. 
 
 There was much conversation to be made: whether or not Trom liked orchestra, whether he had good marks, whether he practiced enough. Trom reluctantly admitted that he found orchestra quite boring. `` I mean,'' he said with a shrug, `` I'm not a violin, so what place do I even have in orchestra?'' 
 
 `` Hey, you're important,'' his father assured, glancing at him from the passenger seat. Trom shrugged. 
 
 They arrived at a small building that seemed to be almost a mix between a shack and a nightclub. Trom's father pulled the car up near it and motioned for him to climb out. 
 
 There was music floating out of the club, but nothing like he had ever heard before. It had texture; it was smooth and soft and squeaky all at the same time; it was loud and rough and full of emotion. `` What piece is that?'' Trom asked in awe as they walked in. 
 
 `` I'm not certain,'' his father responded. `` Do you like jazz?'' 
 
 `` Jazz?'' Trom asked. The music was floating over from an ensemble playing in the corner. It consisted of trumpets, many trombones, saxophones of all types, a few clarinets, a drum set, a keyboard, and a bass. `` Is that what that is?'' 
 
 Trom watched as a trumpet's valves began flying. It seemed effortless, but wild, as if the music had lept from the page and began to sprint away. Up, and down an around, no melodies or chord resolutions, just a thick and passionate sound. `` You've never heard jazz?'' Trom's father asked. `` Do n't tell me you've never heard *jazz*! It's what trombones were *made* for!'' 
 
 A trombone stood up from his seat. He began to play loudly, dragging his slide around like all of Trom's orchestra teachers had told him not to, and his sound began to blare. But somehow it was just right. It was passionate. And Trom could see it in his eyes how happy the music made him. 
 
 Once the song ended, Trom's father hopped in with the other trombones. `` Sorry I'm late,'' he said. `` This is my son. He'll be playing with us tonight.'' 
 
 *Playing? * Trom looked around anxiously. `` If I'm playing, could I have some sheet music? It'll take me about five minutes, that's the normal window I have to sightread.'' 
 
 `` Ah, no, just take this, jump in whenever you'd like,'' a trombone said, handing Trom a sheet of music. It was littered with odd notes and symbols he'd never seen before, and weird instruction on how to play things were written in the margins. And, towards the end, a note that said *open for solos*. 
 
 `` Where's the solo written?'' Trom asked his father quietly. 
 
 `` Just play from the heart,'' he said with a shrug. `` It is n't written.'' 
 
 Trom's eyes widened. `` I can play whatever I want? How will I know?'' 
 
 `` You'll feel it,'' his father responded. `` Trust me.'' 
 
 Trom sat in the ensemble nervously for the first half of the piece, unsure of he should play or wait until he was certain of the rhythms, but then he slowly began to come in. He followed each odd instruction: lean into the stand, place something over bell, squelch the ends of the notes. And then came the *open for solos*. `` Hey, new trombone,'' a trumpet called. `` You take this.'' 
 
 Trom sat there waiting for a moment, unsure if he was supposed to actually play, but then he took a deep breath and began to play straight from the bottom of his heart. A whirlwind of music exploded around him; all the years of being told no, do n't play that way, be quiet and stay underneath the violins, but now he *could* play that way, and there was nobody there but him and a soft drumset accompaniment. He ripped up the air around him and sucked it up, and after all 20 measures he was breathing heavily. He'd never experienced real music until that moment, and for the first time, Trom felt like he really belonged. 
 
 `` That was incredible,'' Trom's father exclaimed afterwards. 
 
 `` Hey kid, you should come back sometime,'' the drum set hollered. 
 
 `` Do n't worry,'' Trom shouted back, `` I will.''
