Posted in Stories

57: The World’s Greatest Composer

18-year old Amadeus Chandler gingerly removed his cherished Yankees cap and settled it on his bed, opening the window curtains. For 18 months, he had been living in a decrepit dormitory in California. It was built on high ground, giving Amadeus a majestic view of the sparkling Pacific Ocean. He was obliged to stay in the western state for his thorough geological research on the San Andreas Fault. The work was difficult – setting up seismometers, taking readings every now and then, and gathering and analyzing the day-to-day data. Truth to be told, his heart really wasn’t in it.

The sunlight shone into his room, brightening the gloomy indoors. The morning rays lit up the picture of his family resting on the desk next to his bed. He moved over and picked up the photo gingerly. It was a shot of his family back at New York City. His grinning father was wearing a tuxedo with coattails, while his stern mother was wearing a glamorous red dress that went all the way down to the polished hardwood floor of the mansion. And there he was, little Amadeus, pointing his father’s baton at the cameraman as if it was a magician’s wand. Behind them, there rested the apple of his eye – the majestic grand piano that his father had bought years ago. The memory of the grand piano made his shoulders sag. It had been a year and a half since his fingers last danced on the ivory keys of the piano. Then a few hours alter, with his meager belongings packed in a traveling suitcase, he had left for California at his mother’s urging. Mercedita Chandler wanted her son to become a world-renowned geologist, much like her father.

The teenager wanted so bad to feel those smooth keys under his grasp again. His ears yearned for each of the lovely tunes yielded by the piano. His eyes wanted to rest on the shiny instrument and find that little scratch he made with the baton.

“I cannot go back… I cannot disappoint my mama.” Amadeus hung his head. But looking at the grand piano in the picture once again, he remembered an old memory that his father had told him.

“You are a musician. That is why I named you Amadeus, after the world’s greatest composer. Our family had always been musicians. Never forget, my son. Follow your heart. Seek what will make you happy, not what will make others happy.” Beethoven had pushed his favorite Yankees cap into little Amadeus’ hands and left for Europe. Later that day, Beethoven Chandler’s plane crashed into the Atlantic Ocean.

Amadeus picked up the Yankees cap. He decided that he wanted to enjoy his life, not being a slave to his mother’s wishes. He called his roommates camping at San Andreas Fault to tell them that he was going to leave for New York. He was going to return to his old friend and resume his true nature. After all, he is Amadeus Chandler.



With my pen, the world sits in the palm of my hand.

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