Walter Mitty Alternate Ending

“I’m back. I couldn’t find what I was looking for.” “What?” The firing squad vanished and Walter Mitty found himself on the sidewalk, drenched in rain, and the ashy remnants of his cigarette in hand. Mrs. Mitty stood in front of him, umbrella in hand, with a suspicious scowl on her face. “Look at you, your suit is drenched! It will take hours to dry and we are attending that concert tonight.” Mrs. Mitty flailed her arms as she spoke, almost hitting passersby with her umbrella. “Come on, let’s go home, I need to have to time to prepare before we go.” Mitty threw the butt of his cigarette down, stepped on it with his heel, and followed his wife begrudgingly. He so wished if he stepped slower, that somehow he would not have to go to the concert. These concerts were bland, without life. It was music to fall asleep by. He got in the car and turned the ignition
All eyes were turned to the conductor; audience and orchestra alike. Sweat slowly trickled down his face as Mitty pulled the choking collar away from his neck. He flipped a page with grace and everyone held their breath. He picked up his baton from the stand and looked at the orchestra, making eye contact with each player, purposely procrastinating. Then, in a sudden sweeping motion, he brought his arms up and the tubas growled out a note that sent a shiver through the seats. Next came the slow tapping of a snare drum, playing a steady but invigorating rhythm: ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. Another cue and the full orchestra started the melody. Strings scratched and plucked with artful skill, brass bellowed out menacingly grand chords, and the woodwinds played their light, fluttering runs that seemed almost playful. The piece was violent and loud, but lovely and full of vigor, a wonderful cacophony that swept those listening off their feet. And then, with a flourish of his hand, the room was silent once again, but for a strangely familiar thumping echoing in Mitty’s