Peck, peck. The sound of bones on wood, knuckles on a hollow case barely bounce off the car windows. The phone that he drove here on had nothing on it. A black screen he glanced at after each tap and every pluck. The man’s sigh fogged his damp windows that much more as he shifted attention to the dull skies for inspiration. Ain’t no sunshine where he was going anyhow, yet he still looked on high for something. Peck, peck, slap! His hand pounded on the instrument's edge,

“23 cut, what am I doing here?” A work of pure limitation was what. His reflection in the teary glass showed a lack of concern bestowed with a dark sliver of hairs across his lip and chin, a black that mirror his eyes and lost stare. Why was he thinking so hard about this? His brows furrowed, his breath hitched, and his back straightened against the always uncomfortable car seats while his fingers locked.

Ready but afraid-or tried-the harsh pitter-patter of his oppressors beat into him for a while, and for that while; he told himself he was ready.

Again, he convinced himself to move, this time summoning a collection of notes that paralleled a part of him he grew passed. Conveniently, he couldn’t outgrown it in some mediums, and music was the essential one where the rules of cultured compositions moved his fingers without permission; they had no respect for his time or situation. A couple more strums came, stumbling up through the letters-the chords- until he reached a fine one. Something from the east? That’s what he needed, a custom melody that sounded so familiar; a departure from what he was tailored to in those days. For a second or three, he worked through the stuffy vehicle as he strung the notes in his head, knowing what he needed and repeating it over and over with such a heavy latch he almost missed the rhythm on his window.

Bink, Bink, Bink.

There was a woman bent over with spotted, loose fingers, and fiery-red hair. Her crimson lips parted when she caught his attention, a cut of shadow hugged her body.

“ Hey, sweetheart~”

His lips smoothed over one another as he opened the door, carefully, opened the door. The woman did not bother moving until that metal was about to hit her, stepping a tad out the way when he emerged from the vehicle.
“Here,” He took the umbrella from her rough hands and held it, while she took his guitar-loosely dangling out his spare hand- in both her hands.

Clunk! Beep!

Shut and locked, he too was infected with the darkness; A cool new style that imposed on his puke green jacket and baby blue shirt. Too bad he could not take it in, nor could he walk to the building with his steps masked by the rhythm of the rain. No, that was too much for this woman; she wasn’t one for nature, less for silence.

“Had a long drive, huh?” She said behind the click clacking of her heels on the cement, “ are you wet anywhere (I’m fine).”
He didn’t look her way throughout the walk, but he could feel her amber hues burning the side of his face, more than the mist of water collected by the whistling wind.
“I told you to bring an umbrella just in case. Y’all just don’t listen to anything, but know everything,” She unfortunately continued, “ I’ll let you keep this one since I have a spare up there. I knew you would bring this thing.”
“Thanks,” he sighed, “ but I left everything else in the car. I’ll have to get my phone when I come back (What do y’all be thinkin’ about?) I got it memorized, it’s not perfect, but I finally saw a video that explains it.”

For the first time he turned to the woman, their gazes mirrored one another, though his was slightly brighter. She decided to look forward when they reached the sidewalk, the dredge of the low-priority parking lot was over, and now they were half-way to see through double doors.

“Well,” she nudged him, “that’s good. Long as it doesn’t interrupt with work or school.”

“What?”

“ You’re lazy, you forget? I know what you do.”

“Really?” He scoffed

“ L-A-Z-Y!” She smirked, “ you haven’t called anyone and I know your friends. Everybody nee—(I’m fine. Just chill for one second. )”
He knew those words weren’t right but said them anyhow; a heat in his skull formed above his eye. It seemed to stay there when she spoke, loud and driven, as if she were trying to sell not only him words of wisdom. As if there was no specificity to his perceived dilemma.

Automatically, the doors split when they came near, entering a small white hallway that lead to other hallways. There were stands with flowers on top, cushy black chairs to either side, and a stack of newspapers on the front desk near the other doors. Behind it was a young woman with a withdrawn gaze, animating before their eyes with mechanical motivation. She said something they told her to say, trained her to say, and did what they trained her to do upon hearing their situation. He caught bits and pieces as his uneven follicles twisted round his fingers.

An image of the woman next to him kept …fading in and out until it turned into an old man. Dark skinned with light blotches about his body; a grey mustache masked his upper lip; a smile rare to come across them. His frail hands bitterly plucked strings without direction. Sour notes to match a logically troubled melody that always changed, but typically sounded the same. When his head went empty, his notes froze in place…refusing to move, to change, for anyone, and most refused to follow along.

That man shook too oft to lament with music, sitting before the three of them with many more patches and a hairless aesthetic. A bed, a closed door to the rear, two uncomfortable hard chairs, and a dresser with a T.V. on top greeted them, the walls painted white and the stained carpet blue. Was this the same man? In truth, he did not know what kind of man he was, and neither did anyone else. The woman who knew him far longer blinked back something on her path through the vacant stare…no, the sort-of curious stare; she put on a tight-lipped smile.
“Hey, Mr. Welsh~!” She cheered, leaving the guitar in the youth’s care, “It’s good to see you.”
“…mmm”
There it went. The neurons grasping at straws; that twinkle in his black eyes. Eyes that looked passed her, locked to her dress instead of her face. Recalling the voice…slowly matching it to reknow it again.

“Charlie’s bringing the cake, you’re about to eat good today!”

“…Yeah, something like that” The boy muttered to himself. The woman paid no mind. The old man looked on, and the aid vanished. She was like a ninja in a way; the way the door tenderly shut without a glance in its direction…or concern. Before it did, the boy settled on the bed to settle his instrument over his lap to look over the chords and brush at the tiny nicks in the wood.

“I thought you seen him already,” He spoke up, his head raising with his brow to his mother. What an oddly familiar sight he saw, her treating him with fantastical kindness was unlike her, but it was when he was a child. He was surprised she could remember that woman let alone switch between them since the divorce, yet he figured all those years of teaching kept that silhouette intact. Rubbing, patting, smiling away, look at her, this was a wonder he rarely witnessed.

“Was thinking about it,” She replied, “would’ve been rude not to visit Miss Erma and Betty, and you just called me when I was about to come here.”
“Timing and me always never get along.”

“That’s because you procrastinate. All of us do, but the difference is I get things done. Tried to pass the baton, and it’s not too late to take.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

No advance matched it. A note widely spaced off between those to come silenced the two for a second, and in that silence, he acquired a death stare. This was time to talk and music would ruin it after all, but what was ruder? The fact that he was finding chords amongst a conversation void of rhythm, or that she forgot he came to do such. His back straightened under the glare, he sat-up firm and steadily moved down the line of notes roaming around his forebrain. Amassing different patterns, patterns that splintered off from gruff interjections of breath-annoyed- wishing that a melody would not form.

He heard it vividly. If-well-when he messed up, she’d say great, she’d mock him and continue her conversation with her dad with the possibility of bringing it up when the others got there. Since he saw it through the strums of his chipped fingertips, the uncalculated melody fluctuated between calm and tumultuous extremes, but somehow rang familiar to him. It was like they belonged with each other. Dim amber eyes into bright ones…one unsure, experimental, and the other hardened and steady in its way.

“Stop,” she calmly said, “I’ll give you till the count of three.”

His eyes softened, but his lips remained shut. An arithmetic taint meshed with the noise, turning it into…music?

“One”

It was all garbage to her. Everything he played was not worth playing, and one day he would realize that. When he grew up.

“Two”

She heard the roughness even; the façade finally fell and left a melancholic cadence. It was there the entire time and she knew it.

“Three”

She would not want to…did not want to hear this right now. The glass film over her eyes was strong enough to see herself through the man, yet frail enough to not see him as he was. She stood, she reached, she stopped when hearing:

“Mhm”

witnessing the old absent spectator bop his head and tap his feet in time. They smiled at each other then, one knowing the others was semi-permeable, and they nodded to the melody together.

Not all-

not together-

but not alone.

Caleb Marcelle

Hyperconscious Dweller

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