Free Banjo of Destiny by Cary Fagan Page A

Instead, he sat on a bench near the cart and ate his hotdog by himself.
    One day Albert felt something caught between his teeth. He tried to work it out with his tongue and then, hoping nobody was watching, with his finger.
    When he looked up, he saw the woman from the hotdog cart standing in front of him. She was holding out a little container of dental floss.
    Albert said thank you and tore off a piece of floss.
    â€œI’ve taken more than I need. What a waste, I’m so sorry,” he said.
    â€œThat’s all right, I do it all the time,” said Abigail. “There ought to be a dispenser that gives you just the right amount, don’t you think?”
    And that’s when Albert’s eyes lit up.
    Jeremiah had heard the story many times about how his parents had come up with the idea for their invention. How his parents’ courtship was spent designing the dispenser. Abigail did the research on laser calculation, computer miniaturization, as well as the dispensing mechanics. Albert learned how to set up a manufacturing operation and distribution network.
    Jeremiah understood that his parents had grown up with so little that they wanted only the best for him. But he didn’t see why he had to be a “gentleman,” as his father called it. Why he had to know how to shake hands and call people “Sir” and “Ma’am.” Why he had to wait until everyone else was seated before sitting down himself at the dining table.
    â€œYou have to know how to behave around rich and powerful people,” his father said. “They expect a certain standard. Especially from children. Your mother and I never learned these things but you will. It’s why we insist you take all those lessons. So you will be an accomplished and impressive young man.”
    Jeremiah certainly did have a busy after-school program. Every day at four o’clock one teacher or another rang the doorbell. For ballroom dancing. Etiquette. Watercolor painting. Golf. And, of course, piano.
    Ballroom dancing made Jeremiah feel queasy. He had to wear a suit with tails and a bow tie. He had to dance around the empty ballroom with a woman old enough to be his grandmother.
    â€œHead up! More manly! Feel the music!” she would snap at him.
    Painting lessons were a little better, not that he was very good at it. He tried to copy a self-portrait by Rembrandt but it came out cross-eyed. His imitation of a landscape by Van Gogh looked like somebody’s plate after a spaghetti dinner.
    Etiquette was merely boring. He had to pretend to eat a meal without putting his elbows on the table and say, “These snails are delicious.” He got double points off for yawning or rocking his chair back and forth. Playing golf, he broke three windows and clipped Wilson the gardener’s ear. Wilson yelped and dropped the garden hose, spraying Jeremiah’s father who was bending over to smell a flower.
    Worst of all were the piano lessons. Because Jeremiah actually liked music. He listened to his satellite radio all the time — pop, jazz, rap, heavy metal, classic rock. But Jeremiah’s piano teacher and his parents insisted that he learn only classical music.
    There was nothing wrong with classical music, except that it didn’t interest Jeremiah. Maybe if his parents hadn’t forced him to appreciate it, he would have liked it more. But instead of going out to play he would have to sit up straight and listen to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony while his mother exclaimed, “Do you hear it, Jeremiah? It’s genius, genius!”
    Naturally they insisted on piano lessons.
    â€œWhat do well-bred people do in their spare time?” said his father. “They play classical music on the piano. Isn’t that right, Abigail?”
    â€œAbsolutely,” said his mother. “It’s the sign of a good family. We can’t wait to see you in the next school talent night. We’re going to be so